Perhaps that is why we are so subtly influenced by it.
There are vague memories in our souls of those misty centuries
when the world was in its childhood."
"That's rather a broad idea," I remarked.
"One's ideas must be as broad as Nature if they are to
interpret Nature," he answered. "What's the matter?
You're not looking quite yourself. This Brixton Road affair
has upset you."
"To tell the truth, it has," I said. "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. Have you seen the evening paper?"
"No."
"It gives a fairly good account of the 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," he answered. "I had one sent
to every paper this morning immediately after the affair."
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," it ran, "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."
"Excuse my using your name," he said. "If I used my own some
of these dunderheads would recognize it, and want to meddle
in the affair."
"That is all right," I answered. "But supposing anyone
applies, I have no ring."
"Oh yes, you have," said he, handing me one. "This will do
very well. It is almost a facsimile."
"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. 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 hurried back, but found the police already in
possession, owing to his own folly in leaving the candle
burning. He had to pretend to be drunk in order to allay the
suspicions which might have been aroused by his appearance at
the gate. Now put yourself in that man's place. On thinking
the matter over, it must have occurred to him that it was
possible that he had lost the ring in the road after leaving
the house. What would he do, then? He would eagerly look
out for the evening papers in the hope of seeing it among the
articles found. His eye, of course, would light upon this.
He would be overjoyed. Why should he fear a trap?
There would be no reason in his eyes why the finding of the
ring should be connected with the murder. He would come.
He will come. You shall see him within an hour?"
"And then?" I asked.
"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 and followed his advice. When I
returned with the pistol the table had been cleared, and
Holmes was engaged in his favourite occupation of scraping
upon his violin.
"The plot thickens," he said, 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?" I asked eagerly.
"My fiddle would be the better for new strings," he remarked.
"Put your pistol in your pocket. When the fellow comes speak
to him in an ordinary way. Leave the rest to me.
Don't frighten him by looking at him too hard."
"It is eight o'clock now," I said, glancing at my watch.
"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! This is a queer old book I picked up at a stall
yesterday -- `De Jure inter Gentes' -- published in Latin at
Liege in the Lowlands, in 1642. Charles' head was still firm
on his shoulders when this little brown-backed volume was
struck off."
"Who is the printer?"
"Philippe de Croy, whoever he may have been. On the fly-leaf,
in very faded ink, is written `Ex libris Guliolmi Whyte.'
I wonder who William Whyte was. Some pragmatical seventeenth
century lawyer, I suppose. His writing has a legal twist
about it. Here comes our man, I think."
As he spoke there was a sharp ring at the bell. Sherlock Holmes
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. We could not hear the servant's reply, but the door
closed, and some one began to ascend the stairs.
The footfall was an uncertain and shuffling one. A look of
surprise passed over the face of my companion as he listened
to it. It came slowly along the passage, and there was a
feeble tap at the door.
"Come in," I cried.
At my summons, instead of the man of violence whom we
expected, a very old and wrinkled woman hobbled into the
apartment. She appeared to be dazzled by the sudden blaze of
light, and after dropping a curtsey, she stood blinking at us
with her bleared eyes and fumbling in her pocket with nervous,
shaky fingers. 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. "It's this as has brought me, good gentlemen,"
she said, dropping another curtsey; "a gold wedding ring in the
Brixton Road. It belongs to my girl Sally, as was married only
this time twelvemonth, which her husband is steward aboard
a Union boat, and what he'd say if he come 'ome and found her
without her ring is more than I can think, he being short enough
at the best o' times, but more especially when he has the drink.
If it please you, she went to the circus last night along with ----"
"Is that her ring?" I asked.
"The Lord be thanked!" cried the old woman; "Sally will be a
glad woman this night. That's the ring."
"And what may your address be?" I inquired, taking up a pencil.
"13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch. A weary way from here."
"The Brixton Road does not lie between any circus and
Houndsditch," said Sherlock Holmes sharply.
The old woman faced round and looked keenly at him from her little
red-rimmed eyes. "The gentleman asked me for _my_ address," she
said. "Sally lives in lodgings at 3, Mayfield Place, Peckham."
"And your name is ----?"
"My name is Sawyer -- her's is Dennis, which Tom Dennis married
her -- and a smart, clean lad, too, as long as he's at sea,
and no steward in the company more thought of; but when on shore,
what with the women and what with liquor shops ----"
"Here is your ring, Mrs. Sawyer," I interrupted, in obedience
to a sign from my companion; "it clearly belongs to your daughter,
and I am glad to be able to restore it to the rightful owner."
With many mumbled blessings and protestations of gratitude
the old crone packed it away in her pocket, and shuffled off
down the stairs. Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet the
moment that she was gone and rushed into his room.
He returned 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."
The hall door had hardly slammed behind our visitor before
Holmes had descended the stair. Looking through the window
I could see her walking feebly along the other side, while her
pursuer dogged her some little distance behind. "Either his
whole theory is incorrect," I thought to myself, "or else he
will be led now to the heart of the mystery." There was no
need for him to ask me to wait up for him, for I felt that
sleep was impossible until I heard the result of his adventure.
It was close upon nine when he set out. I had no idea how
long he might be, but I sat stolidly puffing at my pipe and
skipping over the pages of Henri Murger's "Vie de Boheme." {12}
Ten o'clock passed, and I heard the footsteps of the maid as
they pattered off to bed. Eleven, and the more stately tread
of the landlady passed my door, bound for the same destination.
It was close upon twelve before I heard the sharp sound of his
latch-key. The instant he entered I saw by his face that he
had not been successful. Amusement and chagrin seemed to be
struggling for the mastery, until the former suddenly carried
the day, and he burst into a hearty laugh.
"I wouldn't have the Scotland Yarders know it for the world,"
he cried, dropping into his chair; "I have chaffed them so
much that they would never have let me hear the end of it.
I can afford to laugh, because I know that I will be even with
them in the long run."
"What is it then?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't mind telling a story against myself. That
creature had gone a little way when she began to limp and
show every sign of being foot-sore. Presently she came to a
halt, and hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. I managed
to be close to her so as to hear the address, but I need not
have been so anxious, for she sang it out loud enough to be
heard at the other side of the street, `Drive to 13, Duncan
Street, Houndsditch,' she cried. This begins to look
genuine, I thought, and having seen her safely inside,
I perched myself behind. That's an art which every detective
should be an expert at. Well, away we rattled, and never
drew rein until we reached the street in question. I hopped
off before we came to the door, and strolled down the street
in an easy, lounging way. I saw the cab pull up. The driver
jumped down, and I saw him open the door and stand
expectantly. Nothing came out though. When I reached him he
was groping about frantically in the empty cab, and giving
vent to the finest assorted collection of oaths that ever
I listened to. There was no sign or trace of his passenger,
and I fear it will be some time before he gets his fare.
On inquiring at Number 13 we found that the house belonged to
a respectable paperhanger, named Keswick, and that no one of
the name either of Sawyer or Dennis had ever been heard of
there."
"You don't mean to say," I cried, in amazement, "that that
tottering, feeble old woman was able to get out of the cab
while it was in motion, without either you or the driver
seeing her?"
"Old woman be damned!" said Sherlock Holmes, sharply.
"We were the old women to be so taken in. It must have been
a young man, and an active one, too, besides being an
incomparable actor. The get-up was inimitable. He saw that
he was followed, no doubt, and used this means of giving me
the slip. It shows that the man we are after is not as
lonely as I imagined he was, but has friends who are ready to
risk something for him. Now, Doctor, you are looking done-up.
Take my advice and turn in."
I was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed his injunction.
I left Holmes seated in front of the smouldering fire, and long
into the watches of the night I heard the low, melancholy
wailings of his violin, and knew that he was still pondering
over the strange problem which he had set himself to unravel.
CHAPTER VI.
TOBIAS GREGSON SHOWS WHAT HE CAN DO.
THE papers next day were full of the "Brixton Mystery,"
as they termed it. Each had a long account of the affair,
and some had leaders upon it in addition. There was some
information in them which was new to me. I still retain in
my scrap-book numerous clippings and extracts bearing upon
the case. Here is a condensation of a few of them:--
The _Daily Telegraph_ remarked that in the history of crime
there had seldom been a tragedy which presented stranger
features. The German name of the victim, the absence of
all other motive, and the sinister inscription on the wall,
all pointed to its perpetration by political refugees and
revolutionists. The Socialists had many branches in America,
and the deceased had, no doubt, infringed their unwritten
laws, and been tracked down by them. After alluding airily
to the Vehmgericht, aqua tofana, Carbonari, the Marchioness
de Brinvilliers, the Darwinian theory, the principles of
Malthus, and the Ratcliff Highway murders, the article
concluded by admonishing the Government and advocating
a closer watch over foreigners in England.
The _Standard_ commented upon the fact that lawless outrages
of the sort usually occurred under a Liberal Administration.
They arose from the unsettling of the minds of the masses,
and the consequent weakening of all authority. The deceased
was an American gentleman who had been residing for some
weeks in the Metropolis. He had stayed at the boarding-house
of Madame Charpentier, in Torquay Terrace, Camberwell.
He was accompanied in his travels by his private secretary,
Mr. Joseph Stangerson. The two bade adieu to their landlady
upon Tuesday, the 4th inst., and departed to Euston Station
with the avowed intention of catching the Liverpool express.
They were afterwards seen together upon the platfo
rm.
Nothing more is known of them until Mr. Drebber's body was,
as recorded, discovered in an empty house in the Brixton Road,
many miles from Euston. How he came there, or how he met his
fate, are questions which are still involved in mystery.
Nothing is known of the whereabouts of Stangerson. We are
glad to learn that Mr. Lestrade and Mr. Gregson, of Scotland
Yard, are both engaged upon the case, and it is confidently
anticipated that these well-known officers will speedily
throw light upon the matter.
The _Daily News_ observed that there was no doubt as to the
crime being a political one. The despotism and hatred of
Liberalism which animated the Continental Governments had had
the effect of driving to our shores a number of men who might
have made excellent citizens were they not soured by the
recollection of all that they had undergone. Among these men
there was a stringent code of honour, any infringement of
which was punished by death. Every effort should be made to
find the secretary, Stangerson, and to ascertain some
particulars of the habits of the deceased. A great step had
been gained by the discovery of the address of the house at
which he had boarded -- a result which was entirely due to
the acuteness and energy of Mr. Gregson of Scotland Yard.
Sherlock Holmes and I read these notices over together at
breakfast, and they appeared to afford him considerable
amusement.
"I told you that, whatever happened, Lestrade and Gregson
would be sure to score."
"That depends on how it turns out."
"Oh, bless you, it doesn't matter in the least. If the man
is caught, it will be _on account_ of their exertions; if he
escapes, it will be _in spite_ of their exertions. It's heads
I win and tails you lose. Whatever they do, they will have
followers. `Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot qui l'admire.'"
"What on earth is this?" I cried, for at this moment there
came the pattering of many steps in the hall and on the
stairs, accompanied by audible expressions of disgust upon
the part of our landlady.
"It's the Baker Street division of the detective police
force," said my companion, gravely; and as he spoke there
rushed into the room half a dozen of the dirtiest and most
ragged street Arabs that ever I clapped eyes on.
"'Tention!" cried Holmes, in a sharp tone, and the six dirty
little scoundrels stood in a line like so many disreputable
statuettes. "In future you shall send up Wiggins alone to
report, and the rest of you must wait in the street.
Have you found it, Wiggins?"
"No, sir, we hain't," said one of the youths.
"I hardly expected you would. You must keep on until you do.
Here are your wages. {13} He handed each of them a shilling.
"Now, off you go, and come back with a better report next time."
He waved his hand, and they scampered away downstairs like so
many rats, and we heard their shrill voices next moment in
the street.
"There's more work to be got out of one of those little
beggars than out of a dozen of the force," Holmes remarked.
"The mere sight of an official-looking person seals men's
lips. These youngsters, however, go everywhere and hear
everything. They are as sharp as needles, too; all they want
is organisation."
"Is it on this Brixton case that you are employing them?" I asked.
"Yes; there is a point which I wish to ascertain. It is
merely a matter of time. Hullo! we are going to hear some
news now with a vengeance! Here is Gregson coming down the
road with beatitude written upon every feature of his face.