“There was no one else in the street at the time?”
“Not a soul, sir, nor as much as a dog.”
“Pray continue.”
“I went up the path and pushed the door open. I can tell you, my heart was fair bumpin’ inside my uniform. All seemed quiet inside, so I went into the room where the light was a-burnin’. There was a candle flickering on the mantelpiece — a red wax one — and by its light I saw...”
“Yes, yes, I know what you saw. You walked round the room several times, and you knelt by the body, and then you walked through and tried the kitchen door and then—”
John Rance shifted uneasily. “Where was you hid to see all this? It seems you know a great deal more of this matter than you should!”
Holmes smiled. “I am a detective, assisting Mr Gregson and Mr Lestrade. I am one of the hounds, not the fox.’ He leaned forward, and lowered his voice for emphasis. ‘I detected your actions. Now, please continue.”
Rance resumed his narrative, but retained his suspicious expression. “I went back to the gate and sounded my whistle. That brought three other constables to the spot.”
“Was the street still empty?”
“Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good goes.”
“What do you mean?”
The constable’s features broadened into a grin. “I’ve seen many a drunk chap in my time,” he said, “but never anyone so cryin’ drunk as that blighter. He was at the gate when I came out, a-leanin’ up ag’in the railings, and a-singin’ at the pitch o’ his lungs about Columbine’s Newfangled Banner, or some such stuff. He couldn’t stand, far less help.”
“What sort of a man was he?” asked Sherlock Holmes.
John Rance appeared to be somewhat irritated at this digression. “He was an uncommon drunk sort o’ man,” he said. “He’d have found himself in the station if we hadn’t been so took up.”
“His face — his dress — didn’t you notice them?” Holmes broke in impatiently.
“I should think I did notice them, seeing that I had to prop him up. He was a long chap, with a red face, the lower part was muffled round—”
“That will do!” cried Holmes. “What became of him?”
“We’d enough to do without looking after him,” the policeman said, in an aggrieved voice. “I’ll wager he found his way home eventually.”
“How was he dressed?”
“A brown overcoat.”
“Had he a whip in his hand?”
“A whip — no.”
“He must have left it behind,” muttered my companion. “You didn’t happen to see or hear a cab after that?”
“No.”
“There’s half a sovereign for you,” said Holmes with a sigh, standing up and taking his hat. “I am afraid, Rance, that you will never rise in the force. That head of yours should be for use as well as ornament. You might have gained your sergeant’s stripes last night, if you’d had your wits about you. The man you dismissed as an innocent drunkard is the man who holds the key to this mystery. The man we are seeking.”
“You mean the murderer?”
“The same. Come along, Doctor.”
We started off for the cab together, leaving our informant incredulous, but obviously uncomfortable.
“The blundering fool!” Holmes exclaimed bitterly, as we drove back to our lodgings.
I was still a little puzzled. I knew that the drunken man tallied with Holmes’ description of the murderer, but why had he returned to the house after committing his crime? My companion read my thoughts.
“It was to get the ring, of course. That was why our man came back. It obviously has great significance for him. So much so that he was prepared to risk capture to regain it. And it is by the ring we shall catch him.”
“How?”
“By using it as bait. You shall see.” And then he laughed at my mystified expression. “But, Doctor,” he added, patting my arm, a smile lighting his gaunt features, “I am so glad you came with me to share this business. It’s the finest study I ever came across: a study in scarlet, eh? Why not use a little art jargon? There’s a 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.”
Late that afternoon, Jefferson Hope rested his weary bones in The Turk’s Head while he sipped a tankard of ale and perused the newspaper in a lazy fashion. He was waiting for the night, the thick darkness when he could complete his mission. As his eyes ran over the small print, one advertisement in the Found column sent his pulse racing:
In Brixton Road this morning, a plain gold wedding-ring, found in the roadway between the White Hart Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Doctor Watson, 221B, Baker Street between seven and eight this evening.
Hope took a gulp of beer. This was his ring. Without a doubt. The one he risked all to retrieve the previous night. His grin faded a little as he considered the times stated. By eight o’clock it would be dark and Stangerson might well be making a move. Could he risk going to Baker Street before returning to Halliday’s Hotel? If he didn’t, he might lose the ring. Some chancer might convince this Doctor Watson that it was his. Surely Stangerson would wait until the streets were quiet before making his escape? He glanced once more at the advertisement. It was a risk he would have to take.
Fifteen
FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER
As we approached the city, after leaving Rance’s house, Holmes halted the cab.
“Enough brainwork for the moment, Watson,” he beamed, pulling on his gloves. “I feel the need to be soothed. Norman-Neruda is giving a concert this afternoon, and Ipromised myself Iwould see her again. Her attack and bowing are splendid. Iwill see you back at our rooms around six o’clock.” So saying, he gave me a cheery wave, hopped on to the pavement and was gone.
I welcomed the opportunity for some time on my own. It would afford me the opportunity to write up my notes of the mornings events. And after a light lunch, this is what Idid. However, when it came to describing that gruesome dead body in the derelict house in Brixton, Iwas surprised to find that my hand was shaking as Iwrote. The vision of that pale, contorted face triggered off unwelcome memories in my subconscious. Unbidden thoughts and vivid images of my dead and dying comrades at Maiwand seeped into my mind. Iwas suddenly aware that my eyes were misting with tears. However strong the conscious will is, it cannot quell the powerful forces that lie within the psyche. I knew then that, try as I might, I would never succeed in blotting out that dreadful experience. With some effort and, God help me, a tot of brandy, I completed a rough draft of my notes, a version that I could present to Moriarty. I knew that my “romanticised version” would need a little extra effort, to gild both the prose and the detective in order to make both more attractive.
Holmes returned at the hour he stated, but I knew that the concert could not have detained him all that time. He had been at work again. And I needed to know all about it, but I was fairly certain that a direct question would not provide me with an answer. I would have to bide my time. He bustled in, flinging his coat over a chair, humming a snatch of Chopin.
“The concert was magnificent,” he cried. “What an artist! Do you remember what Darwin says about music? The power of producing and appreciating it existed among the human race long before it acquired the power of speech. It speaks to our simple, primitive nature. There are vague memories in our souls of those misty centuries when the world was in its childhood.”
“Well, that’s a rather broad idea,” I remarked.
“One’s ideas must be broad as Nature, if we are to interpret Nature.”
He sat opposite me and suddenly scrutinised my face. “But, Watson, how pale you look. Ah, I see. This Brixton Road affair has upset you.”
I shook my head, but I did not convince my companion, who smiled at my deceit.
“I should have thought of that before I dragged you along to see a dead body. It must have brought back memories
of Afghanistan. I apologise.”
“No apologies needed. I ought to be case-hardened now. I was just caught off my guard, that’s all.”
Holmes gave me a cool smile to indicate that he was closing the subject. “Did you get a chance to see the evening paper?”
“No.”
“It gives a fairly good account of the Brixton affair. However, fortunately for us it does not mention the fact that a wedding-ring was found at the scene of the crime. Those dunderheads, Lestrade and Gregson, no doubt haven’t realised how important it is.”
“Why is that fortunate for us?”
“Look at this advertisement. I had one sent to every paper this morning.”
He threw the paper across to me and I glanced at the place indicated. It was the first announcement in the Found column.
“In Brixton Road this morning,” I read aloud, “a plain gold wedding-ring, found in the roadway between the White Hart Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Doctor Watson, 221B, Baker Street between seven and eight this evening.”
“Excuse me using your name,” said Holmes casually. “If I used my own, Lestrade or Gregson would come blundering in here and want to meddle with my plans.”
“That is all right,” I answered, “but what if someone actually applies? I have no ring.”
“Oh yes you have,” he said, grinning as he handed me a shiny gold ring. “This will do as well. It is almost a facsimile.”
“And who do you think will answer this advertisement?”
Holmes held a finger up in admonishment. “You must avoid the habit of asking superfluous questions. Why, the murderer, of course, our florid-faced fellow with square toes. That ring meant a great deal to him. He was prepared to risk capture by returning for it last night. According to my notion, he dropped it while stooping over Drebber’s body, and did not miss it at the time. After leaving the house, he discovered his loss and retraced his steps in the desperate hope of finding the ring. When he reached the empty house, he discovered that the police were already there due to his own folly of leaving the candle burning. He had to pretend to be drunk in order to allay suspicions. Luckily for him he encountered the brilliant Constable Race.” Holmes chuckled.
“And you think that he will look in the paper this evening in the hope that someone has advertised its find.”
“Indeed I do. He will be so overjoyed that the fellow will never suspect a trap.”
“A trap,” I repeated, with some alarm.
“Why, yes. We’ll have him cornered and have the truth out of him in a jiffy.” He opened a drawer and withdrew a pistol. “Have you 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 and followed his advice, although I dreaded the idea of having to use the weapon. I had thought that I had left those days behind. But, I reasoned, if I was to be a close companion of a private detective, there would no doubt be moments of danger, and it was necessary that I should be prepared. With that thought in mind, I carried out my task with alacrity.
When I returned with my pistol, I found Holmes scraping upon his violin. He ignored me for some moments and then put his instrument aside.
“My fiddle would be much better for new strings,” he remarked. “Put the pistol in your pocket. When the fellow comes, speak to him in a normal fashion. Don’t frighten him by staring at him too much or acting oddly. Then leave the rest to me.”
“It is seven o’clock now,” I said, glancing at my watch.
“Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes. He will want to be certain to be the first to make the claim. Open the door slightly. That will do. Now put the key on the inside. Thank you.”
Holmes had begun speaking in a hushed staccato fashion and his face was slightly flushed. His cool reserve was evaporating as the excitement and potential danger we were about to face began to take hold. Nervously, he snatched a book up from the mantelpiece. ‘This is a queer old tome I picked up at a stall yesterday — De Jure inter Gentes— published in Latin at Liege in the Lowlands in 1642. Charles’s head was still firm on his shoulders when this little brown-backed volume was struck off.”
I nodded politely. I knew he was attempting to divert his mind with idle intellectual conversation, but the tone of his voice clearly indicated that he was failing.
“On the flyleaf, in very faded ink, is written ex libris Gulielmi Whyte. See?”
He held the book out for me to see, and his hand was shaking.
“I wonder who William Whyte was,” he continued, returning the book to the mantelpiece. “Some pragmatical seventeenth-century lawyer, I suppose. His writing has a legal twist about it.”
He was interrupted by a sudden jangling of our doorbell downstairs.
“I’ve instructed Mrs Hudson to send all callers up,” he whispered, moving to the door.
“Does Doctor Watson live here?” asked a clear voice from below.
We heard Mrs Hudson’s injunction to the stranger to come up to our rooms, and then heard his heavy tread upon the stair. Shortly after, there was a knock at our door.
“Come in,” I called.
At my summons, our visitor entered. I had to steel myself from giving a cry of surprise, for here standing before us was the man whom Sherlock Holmes had described to us in detail that morning in Lauriston Gardens. Dressed in the shabby garb of a cab-driver, our visitor was over six feet tall, with a florid visage and wearing scuffed and muddy square-toed boots.
Holmes flashed me a look of triumph.
The stranger glanced between the two of us.
“Which one of you is Watson — the one who found the ring?”
I stepped forward. “I am Doctor Watson.”
The man stepped towards me and shook my hand warmly. “I can’t thank you enough, sir. That ring means the world to me.”
I was somewhat taken aback by his effusion, and momentarily felt lost for words, but Holmes intervened.
“My name is Holmes and I am acting in conjunction with my friend here. And you are...?”
“Hawkins... Edward Hawkins.”
“Really?” said Holmes. “Well, Mr Hawkins, you must realise that we cannot just hand the ring over to any Tom, Dick or Hawkins who comes along to claim that it is his. We must have some proof of ownership.”
Hawkins eyes narrowed. “Proof? And how may I provide that?”
Holmes smiled. “Come, come. We do not doubt you, Mr... Hawkins, but perhaps you could describe the circumstances concerning the loss and to whom the ring really belongs?”
“Really belongs?”
“Well, it is a lady’s wedding-ring, after all... your wife’s?”
Hawkins nodded awkwardly. It was clear that he had not anticipated such an interrogation when retrieving the ring.
“Watson, be so good as to pour our visitor a sherry, and you, sir, take a seat by the fire while you tell us your tale.”
I did as I was bidden while Hawkins, with a shambling reluctance, sat where Holmes had indicated. Holmes passed the sherry to him, which he gulped down in one go.
“Now, sir, how did you come by your loss?”
“I don’t rightly know. I’d been drinking in the White Hart last night, and probably had too much for my own good, and I reckon as I was making my way home it must have fallen out of my pocket.”
“But why were you carrying your wife’s wedding-ring in the first place?” I asked, as Holmes manoeuvred his way behind our visitor’s chair.
Hawkins stared distractedly for a moment and then, heaving a sigh, he began to present his explanation.
“It is a keepsake, gentlemen. My wife is dead this many a year, and that ring is all I have to remind me of her.”
“Very good, very good!” crowed Holmes sarcastically. “Close to the truth — but I am afraid, not close enough.”
Hawkins bega
n to rise from the chair, but Holmes came up behind him and clapped the pistol to the side of his head.
“Sit down, sir,” he said. “Now, let’s do away with all these fairy-stories, shall we? Watson, let me introduce you to Mr Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber.”
Sixteen
FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER
“Who the devil are you?” Hope’s face was suffused with anger, but he remained seated, his hands grasping the edge of the chair until his knuckles shone white.
“My name is Sherlock Holmes. It will mean nothing to you.”
“Are you the police?”
“No. Iam an unofficial consulting detective. In this instance Iam working for the police, but above all Iam interested in justice.”
“Justice! Pah! There ain’t no justice in this world. If there was, I wouldn’t have had the need to come after Drebber and Stangerson.”
“You admit, then, that you murdered Enoch Drebber?” Iasked.
“I admit nothing. Fate saw to it that he died instead of me. That was a kind of justice, Isuppose.”
“Be so good as to tell us what happened last night,” said Holmes, moving around to face Hope, his gun still trained on him.
A strange smile lit upon our visitor’s face. There was no merriment in it, just a dark sardonic bitterness which unnerved me.
“It will be a pleasure,” he said. “I’ve kept so much pain bottled up inside me, gentlemen, it will do me good to spill some now. I’ve nothing to lose by it. I have been trailing Drebber and his associate, Stangerson, around this globe for many a year. They were rich, I was poor, so it was no easy matter for me to follow them. They always managed to keep one step ahead of me until they landed in London.”
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