Chương Chương 4 · Part I - What John Rance Had To Tell.

. Part I - What John Rance Had To Tell.

It was one o’clock when we left No. 3, Lauriston Gardens. Sherlock

Holmes led me to the nearest telegraph office, whence he dispatched a

long telegram. He then hailed a cab, and ordered the driver to take us

to the address given us by Lestrade.

“There is nothing like first hand evidence,” he remarked; “as a matter

of fact, my mind is entirely made up upon the case, but still we may as

well learn all that is to be learned.”

“You amaze me, Holmes,” said I. “Surely you are not as sure as you

pretend to be of all those particulars which you gave.”

“There’s no room for a mistake,” he answered. “The very first thing

which I observed on arriving there was that a cab had made two ruts

with its wheels close to the curb. Now, up to last night, we have had

no rain for a week, so that those wheels which left such a deep

impression must have been there during the night. There were the marks

of the horse’s hoofs, too, the outline of one of which was far more

clearly cut than that of the other three, showing that that was a new

shoe. Since the cab was there after the rain began, and was not there

at any time during the morning—I have Gregson’s word for that—it

follows that it must have been there during the night, and, therefore,

that it brought those two individuals to the house.”

“That seems simple enough,” said I; “but how about the other man’s

height?”

“Why, the height of a man, in nine cases out of ten, can be told from

the length of his stride. It is a simple calculation enough, though

there is no use my boring you with figures. I had this fellow’s stride

both on the clay outside and on the dust within. Then I had a way of

checking my calculation. When a man writes on a wall, his instinct

leads him to write about the level of his own eyes. Now that writing

was just over six feet from the ground. It was child’s play.”

“And his age?” I asked.

“Well, if a man can stride four and a-half feet without the smallest

effort, he can’t be quite in the sere and yellow. That was the breadth

of a puddle on the garden walk which he had evidently walked across.

Patent-leather boots had gone round, and Square-toes had hopped over.

There is no mystery about it at all. I am simply applying to ordinary

life a few of those precepts of observation and deduction which I

advocated in that article. Is there anything else that puzzles you?”

“The finger nails and the Trichinopoly,” I suggested.

“The writing on the wall was done with a man’s forefinger dipped in

blood. My glass allowed me to observe that the plaster was slightly

scratched in doing it, which would not have been the case if the man’s

nail had been trimmed. I gathered up some scattered ash from the floor.

It was dark in colour and flakey—such an ash as is only made by a

Trichinopoly. I have made a special study of cigar ashes—in fact, I

have written a monograph upon the subject. I flatter myself that I can

distinguish at a glance the ash of any known brand, either of cigar or

of tobacco. It is just in such details that the skilled detective

differs from the Gregson and Lestrade type.”

“And the florid face?” I asked.

“Ah, that was a more daring shot, though I have no doubt that I was

right. You must not ask me that at the present state of the affair.”

I passed my hand over my brow. “My head is in a whirl,” I remarked;

“the more one thinks of it the more mysterious it grows. How came these

two men—if there were two men—into an empty house? What has become of

the cabman who drove them? How could one man compel another to take

poison? Where did the blood come from? What was the object of the

murderer, since robbery had no part in it? How came the woman’s ring

there? Above all, why should the second man write up the German word

RACHE before decamping? I confess that I cannot see any possible way of

reconciling all these facts.”

My companion smiled approvingly.

“You sum up the difficulties of the situation succinctly and well,” he

said. “There is much that is still obscure, though I have quite made up

my mind on the main facts. As to poor Lestrade’s discovery it was

simply a blind intended to put the police upon a wrong track, by

suggesting Socialism and secret societies. It was not done by a German.

The A, if you noticed, was printed somewhat after the German fashion.

Now, a real German invariably prints in the Latin character, so that we

may safely say that this was not written by one, but by a clumsy

imitator who overdid his part. It was simply a ruse to divert inquiry

into a wrong channel. I’m not going to tell you much more of the case,

Doctor. You know a conjuror gets no credit when once he has explained

his trick, and if I show you too much of my method of working, you will

come to the conclusion that I am a very ordinary individual after all.”

“I shall never do that,” I answered; “you have brought detection as

near an exact science as it ever will be brought in this world.”

My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the earnest way

in which I uttered them. I had already observed that he was as

sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of

her beauty.

“I’ll tell you one other thing,” he said. “Patent-leathers and

Square-toes came in the same cab, and they walked down the pathway

together as friendly as possible—arm-in-arm, in all probability. When

they got inside they walked up and down the room—or rather,

Patent-leathers stood still while Square-toes walked up and down. I

could read all that in the dust; and I could read that as he walked he

grew more and more excited. That is shown by the increased length of

his strides. He was talking all the while, and working himself up, no

doubt, into a fury. Then the tragedy occurred. I’ve told you all I know

myself now, for the rest is mere surmise and conjecture. We have a good

working basis, however, on which to start. We must hurry up, for I want

to go to Halle’s concert to hear Norman Neruda this afternoon.”

This conversation had occurred while our cab had been threading its way

through a long succession of dingy streets and dreary by-ways. In the

dingiest and dreariest of them our driver suddenly came to a stand.

“That’s Audley Court in there,” he said, pointing to a narrow slit in

the line of dead-coloured brick. “You’ll find me here when you come

back.”

Audley Court was not an attractive locality. The narrow passage led us

into a quadrangle paved with flags and lined by sordid dwellings. We

picked our way among groups of dirty children, and through lines of

discoloured linen, until we came to Number 46, the door of which was

decorated with a small slip of brass on which the name Rance was

engraved. On enquiry we found that the constable was in bed, and we

were shown into a little front parlour to await his coming.

He appeared presently, looking a little irritable at being disturbed in

his slumbers. “I made my report at the office,” he said.

Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket and played with it

pensively. “We thought that we should like to hear it all from your own

lips,” he said.

“I shall be most happy to tell you anything I can,” the constable

answered with his eyes upon the little golden disk.

“Just let us hear it all in your own way as it occurred.”

Rance sat down on the horsehair sofa, and knitted his brows as though

determined not to omit anything in his narrative.

“I’ll tell it ye from the beginning,” he said. “My time is from ten at

night to six in the morning. At eleven there was a fight at the ‘White

Hart’; but bar that all was quiet enough on the beat. At one o’clock it

began to rain, and I met Harry Murcher—him who has the Holland Grove

beat—and we stood together at the corner of Henrietta Street a-talkin’.

Presently—maybe about two or a little after—I thought I would take a

look round and see that all was right down the Brixton Road. It was

precious dirty and lonely. Not a soul did I meet all the way down,

though a cab or two went past me. I was a strollin’ down, thinkin’

between ourselves how uncommon handy a four of gin hot would be, when

suddenly the glint of a light caught my eye in the window of that same

house. Now, I knew that them two houses in Lauriston Gardens was empty

on account of him that owns them who won’t have the drains seen to,

though the very last tenant what lived in one of them died o’ typhoid

fever. I was knocked all in a heap therefore at seeing a light in the

window, and I suspected as something was wrong. When I got to the

door——”

“You stopped, and then walked back to the garden gate,” my companion

interrupted. “What did you do that for?”

Rance gave a violent jump, and stared at Sherlock Holmes with the

utmost amazement upon his features.

“Why, that’s true, sir,” he said; “though how you come to know it,

Heaven only knows. Ye see, when I got up to the door it was so still

and so lonesome, that I thought I’d be none the worse for some one with

me. I ain’t afeared of anything on this side o’ the grave; but I

thought that maybe it was him that died o’ the typhoid inspecting the

drains what killed him. The thought gave me a kind o’ turn, and I

walked back to the gate to see if I could see Murcher’s lantern, but

there wasn’t no sign of him nor of anyone else.”

“There was no one in the street?”

“Not a livin’ soul, sir, nor as much as a dog. Then I pulled myself

together and went back and pushed the door open. All was quiet inside,

so I went into the room where the light was a-burnin’. There was a

candle flickerin’ on the mantelpiece—a red wax one—and by its light I

saw——”

“Yes, I know all that you saw. You walked round the room several times,

and you knelt down by the body, and then you walked through and tried

the kitchen door, and then——”

John Rance sprang to his feet with a frightened face and suspicion in

his eyes. “Where was you hid to see all that?” he cried. “It seems to

me that you knows a deal more than you should.”

Holmes laughed and threw his card across the table to the constable.

“Don’t get arresting me for the murder,” he said. “I am one of the

hounds and not the wolf; Mr. Gregson or Mr. Lestrade will answer for

that. Go on, though. What did you do next?”

Rance resumed his seat, without however losing his mystified

expression. “I went back to the gate and sounded my whistle. That

brought Murcher and two more to the spot.”

“Was the street empty then?”

“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

cove. He was at the gate when I came out, a-leanin’ up agin the

railings, and a-singin’ at the pitch o’ his lungs about Columbine’s

New-fangled 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 ha’ found hisself 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—me

and Murcher between us. He was a long chap, with a red face, the lower

part muffled round——”

“That will do,” cried Holmes. “What became of him?”

“We’d enough to do without lookin’ after him,” the policeman said, in

an aggrieved voice. “I’ll wager he found his way home all right.”

“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 a half-sovereign for you,” my companion said, 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. The man whom you

held in your hands is the man who holds the clue of this mystery, and

whom we are seeking. There is no use of arguing about it now; I tell

you that it is so. Come along, Doctor.”

We started off for the cab together, leaving our informant incredulous,

but obviously uncomfortable.

“The blundering fool,” Holmes said, bitterly, as we drove back to our

lodgings. “Just to think of his having such an incomparable bit of good

luck, and not taking advantage of it.”

“I am rather in the dark still. It is true that the description of this

man tallies with your idea of the second party in this mystery. But why

should he come back to the house after leaving it? That is not the way

of criminals.”

“The ring, man, the ring: that was what he came back for. If we have no

other way of catching him, we can always bait our line with the ring. I

shall have him, Doctor—I’ll lay you two to one that I have him. I must

thank you for it all. I might not have gone but for you, and so have

missed the finest study I ever came across: a study in scarlet, eh? Why

shouldn’t we use a little art jargon. There’s the 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. And now for

lunch, and then for Norman Neruda. Her attack and her bowing are

splendid. What’s that little thing of Chopin’s she plays so

magnificently: Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay.”

Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound carolled away like a

lark while I meditated upon the many-sidedness of the human mind.