Bab Bab 6 · Part I - Tobias Gregson Shows What He Can Do.

. Part I - 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 platform. 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.” 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. Bound for us, I know. Yes, he is stopping. There

he is!”

There was a violent peal at the bell, and in a few seconds the

fair-haired detective came up the stairs, three steps at a time, and

burst into our sitting-room.

“My dear fellow,” he cried, wringing Holmes’ unresponsive hand,

“congratulate me! I have made the whole thing as clear as day.”

A shade of anxiety seemed to me to cross my companion’s expressive

face.

“Do you mean that you are on the right track?” he asked.

“The right track! Why, sir, we have the man under lock and key.”

“And his name is?”

“Arthur Charpentier, sub-lieutenant in Her Majesty’s navy,” cried

Gregson, pompously, rubbing his fat hands and inflating his chest.

Sherlock Holmes gave a sigh of relief, and relaxed into a smile.

“Take a seat, and try one of these cigars,” he said. “We are anxious to

know how you managed it. Will you have some whiskey and water?”

“I don’t mind if I do,” the detective answered. “The tremendous

exertions which I have gone through during the last day or two have

worn me out. Not so much bodily exertion, you understand, as the strain

upon the mind. You will appreciate that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for we

are both brain-workers.”

“You do me too much honour,” said Holmes, gravely. “Let us hear how you

arrived at this most gratifying result.”

The detective seated himself in the arm-chair, and puffed complacently

at his cigar. Then suddenly he slapped his thigh in a paroxysm of

amusement.

“The fun of it is,” he cried, “that that fool Lestrade, who thinks

himself so smart, has gone off upon the wrong track altogether. He is

after the secretary Stangerson, who had no more to do with the crime

than the babe unborn. I have no doubt that he has caught him by this

time.”

The idea tickled Gregson so much that he laughed until he choked.

“And how did you get your clue?”

“Ah, I’ll tell you all about it. Of course, Doctor Watson, this is

strictly between ourselves. The first difficulty which we had to

contend with was the finding of this American’s antecedents. Some

people would have waited until their advertisements were answered, or

until parties came forward and volunteered information. That is not

Tobias Gregson’s way of going to work. You remember the hat beside the

dead man?”

“Yes,” said Holmes; “by John Underwood and Sons, 129, Camberwell Road.”

Gregson looked quite crest-fallen.

“I had no idea that you noticed that,” he said. “Have you been there?”

“No.”

“Ha!” cried Gregson, in a relieved voice; “you should never neglect a

chance, however small it may seem.”

“To a great mind, nothing is little,” remarked Holmes, sententiously.

“Well, I went to Underwood, and asked him if he had sold a hat of that

size and description. He looked over his books, and came on it at once.

He had sent the hat to a Mr. Drebber, residing at Charpentier’s

Boarding Establishment, Torquay Terrace. Thus I got at his address.”

“Smart—very smart!” murmured Sherlock Holmes.

“I next called upon Madame Charpentier,” continued the detective. “I

found her very pale and distressed. Her daughter was in the room,

too—an uncommonly fine girl she is, too; she was looking red about the

eyes and her lips trembled as I spoke to her. That didn’t escape my

notice. I began to smell a rat. You know the feeling, Mr. Sherlock

Holmes, when you come upon the right scent—a kind of thrill in your

nerves. ‘Have you heard of the mysterious death of your late boarder

Mr. Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland?’ I asked.

“The mother nodded. She didn’t seem able to get out a word. The

daughter burst into tears. I felt more than ever that these people knew

something of the matter.

“‘At what o’clock did Mr. Drebber leave your house for the train?’ I

asked.

“‘At eight o’clock,’ she said, gulping in her throat to keep down her

agitation. ‘His secretary, Mr. Stangerson, said that there were two

trains—one at 9.15 and one at 11. He was to catch the first.’

“‘And was that the last which you saw of him?’

“A terrible change came over the woman’s face as I asked the question.

Her features turned perfectly livid. It was some seconds before she

could get out the single word ‘Yes’—and when it did come it was in a

husky unnatural tone.

“There was silence for a moment, and then the daughter spoke in a calm

clear voice.

“‘No good can ever come of falsehood, mother,’ she said. ‘Let us be

frank with this gentleman. We _did_ see Mr. Drebber again.’

“‘God forgive you!’ cried Madame Charpentier, throwing up her hands and

sinking back in her chair. ‘You have murdered your brother.’

“‘Arthur would rather that we spoke the truth,’ the girl answered

firmly.

“‘You had best tell me all about it now,’ I said. ‘Half-confidences are

worse than none. Besides, you do not know how much we know of it.’

“‘On your head be it, Alice!’ cried her mother; and then, turning to

me, ‘I will tell you all, sir. Do not imagine that my agitation on

behalf of my son arises from any fear lest he should have had a hand in

this terrible affair. He is utterly innocent of it. My dread is,

however, that in your eyes and in the eyes of others he may appear to

be compromised. That however is surely impossible. His high character,

his profession, his antecedents would all forbid it.’

“‘Your best way is to make a clean breast of the facts,’ I answered.

‘Depend upon it, if your son is innocent he will be none the worse.’

“‘Perhaps, Alice, you had better leave us together,’ she said, and her

daughter withdrew. ‘Now, sir,’ she continued, ‘I had no intention of

telling you all this, but since my poor daughter has disclosed it I

have no alternative. Having once decided to speak, I will tell you all

without omitting any particular.’

“‘It is your wisest course,’ said I.

“‘Mr. Drebber has been with us nearly three weeks. He and his

secretary, Mr. Stangerson, had been travelling on the Continent. I

noticed a “Copenhagen” label upon each of their trunks, showing that

that had been their last stopping place. Stangerson was a quiet

reserved man, but his employer, I am sorry to say, was far otherwise.

He was coarse in his habits and brutish in his ways. The very night of

his arrival he became very much the worse for drink, and, indeed, after

twelve o’clock in the day he could hardly ever be said to be sober. His

manners towards the maid-servants were disgustingly free and familiar.

Worst of all, he speedily assumed the same attitude towards my

daughter, Alice, and spoke to her more than once in a way which,

fortunately, she is too innocent to understand. On one occasion he

actually seized her in his arms and embraced her—an outrage which

caused his own secretary to reproach him for his unmanly conduct.’

“‘But why did you stand all this?’ I asked. ‘I suppose that you can get

rid of your boarders when you wish.’

“Mrs. Charpentier blushed at my pertinent question. ‘Would to God that

I had given him notice on the very day that he came,’ she said. ‘But it

was a sore temptation. They were paying a pound a day each—fourteen

pounds a week, and this is the slack season. I am a widow, and my boy

in the Navy has cost me much. I grudged to lose the money. I acted for

the best. This last was too much, however, and I gave him notice to

leave on account of it. That was the reason of his going.’

“‘Well?’

“‘My heart grew light when I saw him drive away. My son is on leave

just now, but I did not tell him anything of all this, for his temper

is violent, and he is passionately fond of his sister. When I closed

the door behind them a load seemed to be lifted from my mind. Alas, in

less than an hour there was a ring at the bell, and I learned that Mr.

Drebber had returned. He was much excited, and evidently the worse for

drink. He forced his way into the room, where I was sitting with my

daughter, and made some incoherent remark about having missed his

train. He then turned to Alice, and before my very face, proposed to

her that she should fly with him. “You are of age,” he said, “and there

is no law to stop you. I have money enough and to spare. Never mind the

old girl here, but come along with me now straight away. You shall live

like a princess.” Poor Alice was so frightened that she shrunk away

from him, but he caught her by the wrist and endeavoured to draw her

towards the door. I screamed, and at that moment my son Arthur came

into the room. What happened then I do not know. I heard oaths and the

confused sounds of a scuffle. I was too terrified to raise my head.

When I did look up I saw Arthur standing in the doorway laughing, with

a stick in his hand. “I don’t think that fine fellow will trouble us

again,” he said. “I will just go after him and see what he does with

himself.” With those words he took his hat and started off down the

street. The next morning we heard of Mr. Drebber’s mysterious death.’

“This statement came from Mrs. Charpentier’s lips with many gasps and

pauses. At times she spoke so low that I could hardly catch the words.

I made shorthand notes of all that she said, however, so that there

should be no possibility of a mistake.”

“It’s quite exciting,” said Sherlock Holmes, with a yawn. “What

happened next?”

“When Mrs. Charpentier paused,” the detective continued, “I saw that

the whole case hung upon one point. Fixing her with my eye in a way

which I always found effective with women, I asked her at what hour her

son returned.

“‘I do not know,’ she answered.

“‘Not know?’

“‘No; he has a latch-key, and he let himself in.’

“‘After you went to bed?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘When did you go to bed?’

“‘About eleven.’

“‘So your son was gone at least two hours?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘Possibly four or five?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘What was he doing during that time?’

“‘I do not know,’ she answered, turning white to her very lips.

“Of course after that there was nothing more to be done. I found out

where Lieutenant Charpentier was, took two officers with me, and

arrested him. When I touched him on the shoulder and warned him to come

quietly with us, he answered us as bold as brass, ‘I suppose you are

arresting me for being concerned in the death of that scoundrel

Drebber,’ he said. We had said nothing to him about it, so that his

alluding to it had a most suspicious aspect.”

“Very,” said Holmes.

“He still carried the heavy stick which the mother described him as

having with him when he followed Drebber. It was a stout oak cudgel.”

“What is your theory, then?”

“Well, my theory is that he followed Drebber as far as the Brixton

Road. When there, a fresh altercation arose between them, in the course

of which Drebber received a blow from the stick, in the pit of the

stomach, perhaps, which killed him without leaving any mark. The night

was so wet that no one was about, so Charpentier dragged the body of

his victim into the empty house. As to the candle, and the blood, and

the writing on the wall, and the ring, they may all be so many tricks

to throw the police on to the wrong scent.”

“Well done!” said Holmes in an encouraging voice. “Really, Gregson, you

are getting along. We shall make something of you yet.”

“I flatter myself that I have managed it rather neatly,” the detective

answered proudly. “The young man volunteered a statement, in which he

said that after following Drebber some time, the latter perceived him,

and took a cab in order to get away from him. On his way home he met an

old shipmate, and took a long walk with him. On being asked where this

old shipmate lived, he was unable to give any satisfactory reply. I

think the whole case fits together uncommonly well. What amuses me is

to think of Lestrade, who had started off upon the wrong scent. I am

afraid he won’t make much of it. Why, by Jove, here’s the very man

himself!”

It was indeed Lestrade, who had ascended the stairs while we were

talking, and who now entered the room. The assurance and jauntiness

which generally marked his demeanour and dress were, however, wanting.

His face was disturbed and troubled, while his clothes were disarranged

and untidy. He had evidently come with the intention of consulting with

Sherlock Holmes, for on perceiving his colleague he appeared to be

embarrassed and put out. He stood in the centre of the room, fumbling

nervously with his hat and uncertain what to do. “This is a most

extraordinary case,” he said at last—“a most incomprehensible affair.”

“Ah, you find it so, Mr. Lestrade!” cried Gregson, triumphantly. “I

thought you would come to that conclusion. Have you managed to find the

Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson?”

“The Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson,” said Lestrade gravely, “was

murdered at Halliday’s Private Hotel about six o’clock this morning.”