Chapter Chapter 3 · Part I - The Lauriston Gardens Mystery

. Part I - The Lauriston Gardens Mystery

I confess that I was considerably startled by this fresh proof of the

practical nature of my companion’s theories. My respect for his powers

of analysis increased wondrously. There still remained some lurking

suspicion in my mind, however, that the whole thing was a pre-arranged

episode, intended to dazzle me, though what earthly object he could

have in taking me in was past my comprehension. When I looked at him he

had finished reading the note, and his eyes had assumed the vacant,

lack-lustre expression which showed mental abstraction.

“How in the world did you deduce that?” I asked.

“Deduce what?” said he, petulantly.

“Why, that he was a retired sergeant of Marines.”

“I have no time for trifles,” he answered, brusquely; then with a

smile, “Excuse my rudeness. You broke the thread of my thoughts; but

perhaps it is as well. So you actually were not able to see that that

man was a sergeant of Marines?”

“No, indeed.”

“It was easier to know it than to explain why I knew it. If you were

asked to prove that two and two made four, you might find some

difficulty, and yet you are quite sure of the fact. Even across the

street I could see a great blue anchor tattooed on the back of the

fellow’s hand. That smacked of the sea. He had a military carriage,

however, and regulation side whiskers. There we have the marine. He was

a man with some amount of self-importance and a certain air of command.

You must have observed the way in which he held his head and swung his

cane. A steady, respectable, middle-aged man, too, on the face of

him—all facts which led me to believe that he had been a sergeant.”

“Wonderful!” I ejaculated.

“Commonplace,” said Holmes, though I thought from his expression that

he was pleased at my evident surprise and admiration. “I said just now

that there were no criminals. It appears that I am wrong—look at this!”

He threw me over the note which the commissionaire had brought.

“Why,” I cried, as I cast my eye over it, “this is terrible!”

“It does seem to be a little out of the common,” he remarked, calmly.

“Would you mind reading it to me aloud?”

This is the letter which I read to him—

“MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,—

“There has been a bad business during the night at 3, Lauriston

Gardens, off the Brixton Road. Our man on the beat saw a light there

about two in the morning, and as the house was an empty one, suspected

that something was amiss. He found the door open, and in the front

room, which is bare of furniture, discovered the body of a gentleman,

well dressed, and having cards in his pocket bearing the name of ‘Enoch

J. Drebber, Cleveland, Ohio, U.S.A.’ There had been no robbery, nor is

there any evidence as to how the man met his death. There are marks of

blood in the room, but there is no wound upon his person. We are at a

loss as to how he came into the empty house; indeed, the whole affair

is a puzzler. If you can come round to the house any time before

twelve, you will find me there. I have left everything _in statu quo_

until I hear from you. If you are unable to come I shall give you

fuller details, and would esteem it a great kindness if you would

favour me with your opinion.

Yours faithfully,

“TOBIAS GREGSON.”

“Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders,” my friend remarked;

“he and Lestrade are the pick of a bad lot. They are both quick and

energetic, but conventional—shockingly so. They have their knives into

one another, too. They are as jealous as a pair of professional

beauties. There will be some fun over this case if they are both put

upon the scent.”

I was amazed at the calm way in which he rippled on. “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—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 portion

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 manœuvres 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,” he continued, turning to

the two detectives. “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.”

Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with an incredulous smile.

“If this man was murdered, how was it done?” asked the former.

“Poison,” said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode off. “One other

thing, Lestrade,” he added, turning round at the door: “‘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.