Page 4 of A Study in Scarlet

"Surely there is not 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 lazy devil 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 the whole matter, you may be sure that

  Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. will pocket 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; but he 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 my own 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  showed that an energetic fit had superseded the apathetic one.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 in a hansom, driving furiously for the Brixton Road.

  It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a dun-coloured veil hung

  over the house-tops, looking like the reflection of the

  mud-coloured streets beneath. My companion was in the best

  of spirits, and prattled away about Cremona fiddles, and the

  difference between a Stradivarius and an Amati. As for

  myself, I was silent, for the dull weather and the melancholy

  business upon which we were engaged, depressed my spirits.

  "You don't seem to give much thought to the matter in hand,"

  I said at last, interrupting Holmes' musical disquisition.

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

  before you 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 much mistaken."

  "So it is. Stop, driver, stop!" We were still a hundred yards

  or so from it, but he insisted upon our alighting, and we

  finished our journey upon foot.

  Number 3, Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and minatory look.

  It was one of four which stood back some little way from the

  street, two being occupied and two empty. The latter looked

  out with three tiers of vacant melancholy windows, which were

  blank and dreary, save that here and there a "To Let" card had

  developed like a cataract upon the bleared panes. A small garden

  sprinkled over with a scattered eruption of sickly plants

  separated each of these houses from the street, and was traversed

  by a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour, and consisting

  apparently of a mixture of clay and of gravel. The whole place

  was very sloppy from the rain which had fallen through the night.

  The garden was bounded by a three-foot brick wall with a fringe

  of wood rails upon the top, and against this wall was leaning a

  stalwart police constable, surrounded by a small knot of loafers,

  who craned their necks and strained their eyes in the vain hope

  of catching some glimpse of the proceedings within.

  I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have

  hurried into the house and plunged into a study of the

  mystery. Nothing appeared to be further from his intention.

  With an air of nonchalance which, under the circumstances,

  seemed to me to border upon affectation, he lounged up and

  down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the ground, the sky,

  the opposite houses and the line of railings. Having

  finished his scrutiny, he proceeded slowly down the path,

  or rather down the fringe of grass which flanked the path,

  keeping his eyes riveted upon the ground. Twice he stopped,

  and once I saw him smile, and heard him utter an exclamation

  of satisfaction. There were many marks of footsteps upon the

  wet clayey soil, but since the police had been coming and

  going over it, I was unable to see how my companion could

  hope to learn anything from it. Still I had had such

  extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his perceptive

  faculties, that I had no doubt that he could see a great deal

  which 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 and wrung my companion's hand with effusion.

  "It is indeed kind of you to come," he said, "I have had

  everything left untouched."

  "Except that!" my friend answered, pointing at the pathway.

  "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," the detective

  said evasively. "My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here.

  I had relied upon him to look after this."

  Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically.

  "With two such men as yourself and Lestrade upon the ground,

  there will not be much for a third party to find out," he said.

  Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way.

  "I think we have done all that can be done," he answered;

  "it's a queer case though, and I knew 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 he strode on into the house, followed by

  Gregson, whose features expressed his 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 these had obviously been closed for many

  weeks. The other belonged to the dining-room, which was the

  apartment in which the mysterious affair had occurred.

  Holmes walked in, and I followed him with that subdued

  feeling at my heart which the presence of death inspires.

  It was a large square room, looking all the larger from the

  absence of all furniture. A vulgar flaring paper adorned the

  walls, but it was blotched in places with mildew, and here

  and there great strips had become detached and hung down,

  exposing the yellow plaster beneath. Opposite the door was

  a showy fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece of imitation

  white marble. On one corner of this was stuck the stump of

  a red wax candle. The solitary window was so dirty that the

  light was hazy and uncertain, giving a dull grey tinge to

  everything, which was intensified by the thick layer of dust

  which coated the whole apartment.

  All these details I observed afterwards. At present my

  attention was centred upon the single grim motionless figure

  which lay stretched upon the boards, with vacant sightless

  eyes staring up at the discoloured ceiling. It was that of a

  man about forty-three or forty-four years of
age, 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. This malignant and terrible

  contortion, combined with the low forehead, blunt nose, and

  prognathous jaw gave the dead man a singularly simious and

  ape-like appearance, which was increased by his writhing,

  unnatural posture. I have seen death in many forms, but

  never has it appeared to me in a more fearsome aspect than

  in that dark grimy apartment, which looked out upon one of

  the main arteries of suburban London.

  Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was standing by the

  doorway, and greeted my companion and myself.

  "This case will make a stir, sir," he remarked.

  "It beats anything I have 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 it intently. "You are sure that there is no wound?"

  he asked, pointing to numerous 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 of the circumstances attendant on the death

  of Van Jansen, in Utrecht, in the year '34. Do you remember

  the case, Gregson?"

  "No, sir."

  "Read it up -- you really should. There is nothing new under

  the sun. It has 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 same far-away expression which I have

  already remarked upon. So swiftly was the examination made,

  that one would hardly have guessed the minuteness with 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 more to be learned."

  Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand. At his call

  they entered the room, and the stranger was lifted and

  carried out. As they raised him, a ring tinkled down and

  rolled across the floor. Lestrade grabbed it 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 gathered round him and gazed at it. There could be no

  doubt that that circlet of plain gold had once adorned the

  finger of a bride.

  "This complicates matters," said Gregson. "Heaven knows,

  they were complicated enough before."

  "You're sure it doesn't simplify them?" observed Holmes.

  "There's nothing to be learned by staring at it.

  What did you find in his pockets?"

  "We have it all here," said Gregson, pointing to a litter

  of objects upon one of the bottom steps of the stairs.

  "A gold watch, No. 97163, by Barraud, 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 loose money to the extent of seven pounds thirteen.

  Pocket edition of Boccaccio's `Decameron,' with name of

  Joseph Stangerson upon the fly-leaf. Two letters -- one

  addressed to E. J. Drebber and one to Joseph Stangerson."

  "At what address?"

  "American Exchange, Strand -- to be left till called for.

  They are both from the Guion Steamship Company, and refer to

  the sailing of their boats from Liverpool. It is clear that

  this unfortunate man was about to return to New York."

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

  "I did it at once, sir," said Gregson. "I have had advertisements

  sent to all the 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 inquiries?"

  "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 which appeared

  to you to be crucial?"

  "I asked about Stangerson."

  "Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which this whole

  case appears to 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 make some remark, when Lestrade, who had been in the front

  room while we were 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

  highest importance, and one which would have been overlooked

  had I not made a careful examination of the walls."

  The little man's eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was

  evidently in a state of suppressed exultation at having

  scored a point against his colleague.

  "Come here," he said, bustling back into the room,

  the atmosphere of which felt clearer since the removal

  of its ghastly inmate. "Now, stand there!"

  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 this particular corner of the room a large piece had peeled

  off, leaving a yellow square of coarse plastering. Across

  this bare space there was scrawled in blood-red letters a

  single word --

  RACHE.

  "What do you think of that?" cried the detective, with the

  air of a showman exhibiting his show. "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 po
rtion of the wall."

  "And what does it mean now that you _have_ found it?" asked

  Gregson in a depreciatory voice.

  "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. It's all very well for you to laugh,

  Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You may be very smart and clever,

  but the old hound is the best, when all is said and done."

  "I really beg your pardon!" said my companion, who had

  ruffled the little man's temper by bursting into an explosion

  of laughter. "You certainly 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 other participant in last

  night's mystery. I have not had time to examine this room

  yet, but with your permission I shall do so now."

  As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round

  magnifying glass from his pocket. With these two implements

  he trotted noiselessly about the room, sometimes stopping,

  occasionally kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face.

  So engrossed was he with his occupation that he appeared to

  have forgotten our presence, for he chattered away to himself

  under his breath the whole time, keeping up a running fire of

  exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive

  of encouragement and of hope. As I watched him I was

  irresistibly reminded of a pure-blooded well-trained foxhound

  as it dashes backwards and forwards through the covert,

  whining in its eagerness, until it comes across the lost

  scent. For twenty minutes or more he continued his

  researches, measuring with the most exact care the distance

  between marks which were entirely invisible to me, and

  occasionally applying 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

  packed it away in an envelope. Finally, he examined with his

  glass the word upon the wall, going over every letter of it

  with the most minute exactness. This done, he appeared to be

  satisfied, for he replaced his tape and his glass in his pocket.

  "They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking

  pains," he remarked with a smile. "It's a very bad

  definition, but it does apply to detective work."

  Gregson and Lestrade had watched the manoeuvres {9} of their

  amateur companion with considerable curiosity and some

  contempt. They evidently failed to appreciate the fact, which

  I had begun to realize, that Sherlock Holmes' smallest actions

  were all directed towards some definite 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 presume to help you," remarked my friend. "You are doing

  so well now that it would be a pity for anyone to interfere."

  There was a world of sarcasm in his voice as he spoke.

  "If you will let me know how your investigations go,"

  he continued, "I shall be happy to give you any help I can.

  In the meantime I should like to speak to the constable who

  found the body. Can you give me his name and address?"

  Lestrade glanced at his note-book. "John Rance," he said.

  "He is off duty 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 tell you one thing which may help you in the case,"