‘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[92] in the Lowlands, in 1642. Charles’s 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 of times, but more especially when he has the drink. If it pleases 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[93],’ 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 – hers 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[94] and a cravat[95]. ‘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[96] Vie de Bohème. 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
Chapter VII
‘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[92] in the Lowlands, in 1642. Charles’s 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 of times, but more especially when he has the drink. If it pleases 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[93],’ 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 – hers 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[94] and a cravat[95]. ‘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[96] Vie de Bohème. 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[97], aqua tofana[98], Carbonari[99], the Marchioness de Brinvilliers[100], the Darwinian theory, the principles of Malthus[101], 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[102]. He had stayed at the boarding-house of Madame Charpentier, in Torquay Terrace, Camberwell[103]. 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[104] 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 organization.’
‘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-headed 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 there, 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 short-hand 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 lets 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.’
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[97], aqua tofana[98], Carbonari[99], the Marchioness de Brinvilliers[100], the Darwinian theory, the principles of Malthus[101], 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[102]. He had stayed at the boarding-house of Madame Charpentier, in Torquay Terrace, Camberwell[103]. 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[104] 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 organization.’
‘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-headed 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 there, 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 short-hand 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 lets 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.’
Chapter VII
Light in the darkness
The intelligence with which Lestrade greeted us was so momentous and so unexpected that we were all three fairly dumbfoundered. Gregson sprang out of his chair and upset the remainder of his whiskey and water. I stared in silence at Sherlock Holmes, whose lips were compressed and his brows drawn down over his eyes.
‘Stangerson too!’ he muttered. ‘The plot thickens.’
‘It was quite thick enough before,’ grumbled Lestrade, taking a chair. ‘I seem to have dropped into a sort of council of war.’
‘Are you – are you sure of this piece of intelligence?’ stammered Gregson.
‘I have just come from his room,’ said Lestrade; ‘I was the first to discover what had occurred.’
‘We have been hearing Gregson’s view of the matter,’ Holmes observed. ‘Would you mind letting us know what you have seen and done?’
‘I have no objection,’ Lestrade answered, seating himself. ‘I freely confess that I was of the opinion that Stangerson was concerned in the death of Drebber. This fresh development has shown me that I was completely mistaken. Full of the one idea, I set myself to find out what had become of the secretary. They had been seen together at Euston Station about half-past eight on the evening of the third. At two in the morning Drebber had been found in the Brixton Road. The question which confronted me was to find out how Stangerson had been employed between 8.30 and the time of the crime, and what had become of him afterwards. I telegraphed to Liverpool, giving a description of the man, and warning them to keep a watch upon the American boats. I then set to work calling upon all the hotels and lodging-houses in the vicinity of Euston. You see, I argued that if Drebber and his companion had become separated, the natural course for the latter would be to put up somewhere in the vicinity for the night, and then to hang about the station again next morning.’
‘They would be likely to agree on some meeting-place beforehand,’ remarked Holmes.
‘So it proved. I spent the whole of yesterday evening in making inquiries entirely without avail. This morning I began very early, and at eight o’clock I reached Halliday’s Private Hotel, in Little George Street. On my inquiry as to whether a Mr. Stangerson was living there, they at once answered me in the affirmative.
‘“No doubt you are the gentleman whom he was expecting,” they said. ‘He has been waiting for a gentleman for two days.”
‘“Where is he now?” I asked.
‘“He is upstairs in bed. He wished to be called at nine.”
‘“I will go up and see him at once,” I said.
‘It seemed to me that my sudden appearance might shake his nerves and lead him to say something unguarded. The Boots volunteered to show me the room; it was on the second floor, and there was a small corridor leading up to it. The Boots pointed out the door to me, and was about to go downstairs again when I saw something that made me feel sickish, in spite of my twenty years’ experience. From under the door there curled a little red ribbon of blood, which had meandered across the passage and formed a little pool along the skirting at the other side. I gave a cry, which brought the Boots back. He nearly fainted when he saw it. The door was locked on the inside, but we put our shoulders to it, and knocked it in. The window of the room was open, and beside the window, all huddled up, lay the body of a man in his nightdress. He was quite dead, and had been for some time, for his limbs were rigid and cold. When we turned him over, the Boots recognized him at once as being the same gentleman who had engaged the room under the name of Joseph Stangerson. The cause of death was a deep stab in the left side, which must have penetrated the heart. And now comes the strangest part of the affair. What do you suppose was above the murdered man?’
I felt a creeping of the flesh, and a presentiment of coming horror, even before Sherlock Holmes answered.
‘The word RACHE, written in letters of blood,’ he said.
‘That was it,’ said Lestrade, in an awe-struck voice; and we were all silent for a while.
There was something so methodical and so incomprehensible about the deeds of this unknown assassin, that it imparted a fresh ghastliness to his crimes. My nerves, which were steady enough on the field of battle, tingled as I thought of it.
‘The man was seen,’ continued Lestrade: ‘A milk boy, passing on his way to the dairy, happened to walk down the lane which leads from the mews at the back of the hotel. He noticed that a ladder, which usually lay there, was raised against one of the windows of the second floor, which was wide open. After passing, he looked back and saw a man descend the ladder. He came down so quietly and openly that the boy imagined him to be some carpenter or joiner at work in the hotel. He took no particular notice of him, beyond thinking in his own mind that it was early for him to be at work. He had an impression that the man was tall, had a reddish face, and was dressed in a long, brownish coat. He must have stayed in the room some little time after the murder, for we found blood-stained water in the basin, where he had washed his hands, and marks on the sheets where he had deliberately wiped his knife.’
I glanced at Holmes on hearing the description of the murderer which tallied so exactly with his own. There was, however, no trace of exultation or satisfaction upon his face.
‘Did you find nothing in the room which could furnish a clue to the murderer?’ he asked.
‘Nothing. Stangerson had Drebber’s purse in his pocket, but it seems that this was usual, as he did all the paying. There was eighty odd pounds in it, but nothing had been taken. Whatever the motive of these extraordinary crimes, robbery is certainly not one of them. There were no papers or memoranda in the murdered man’s pocket, except a single telegram, dated from Cleveland about a month ago, and containing the words, ‘J. H. is in Europe.’ There was no name appended to this message.’
‘And there was nothing else?’ Holmes asked.
‘Nothing of any importance. The man’s novel, with which he had read himself to sleep, was lying upon the bed, and his pipe was on a chair beside him. There was a glass of water on the table, and on the window-sill a small chip ointment box containing a couple of pills.’
Sherlock Holmes sprang from his chair with an exclamation of delight.
‘The last link,’ he cried, exultantly. ‘My case is complete.’
The two detectives stared at him in amazement.
‘I have now in my hands,’ my companion said, confidently, ‘all the threads which have formed such a tangle. There are, of course details to be filled in, but I am as certain of all the main facts, from the time that Drebber parted from Stangerson at the station, up to the discovery of the body of the latter, as if I had seen them with my own eyes. I will give you a proof of my knowledge. Could you lay your hand upon those pills?’
‘I have them,’ said Lestrade, producing a small white box; ‘I took them and the purse and the telegram, intending to have them put in a place of safety at the Police Station. It was the merest chance my taking these pills, for I am bound to say that I do not attach any importance to them.’
‘Give them here,’ said Holmes. ‘Now, Doctor,’ turning to me, ‘are those ordinary pills?’
They certainly were not: They were of a pearly grey colour, small, round, and almost transparent against the light. ‘From their lightness and transparency, I should imagine that they are soluble in water,’ I remarked.
‘Precisely so,’ answered Holmes. ‘Now would you mind going down and fetching that poor little devil of a terrier which has been bad so long, and which the landlady wanted you to put out of its pain yesterday.’
I went downstairs and carried the dog upstairs in my arms. Its laboured breathing and glazing eye showed that it was not far from its end. Indeed, its snow-white muzzle proclaimed that it had already exceeded the usual term of canine existence. I placed it upon a cushion on the rug.
‘I will now cut one of these pills in two,’ said Holmes, and drawing his penknife he suited the action to the word. ‘One half we return into the box for future purposes. The other half I will place in this wine glass, in which is a teaspoonful of water. You perceive that our friend, the Doctor, is right, and that it readily dissolves.’
‘This may be very interesting,’ said Lestrade, in the injured tone of one who suspects that he is being laughed at; ‘I cannot see, however, what it has to do with the death of Mr. Joseph Stangerson.’
‘Patience, my friend, patience! You will find in time that it has everything to do with it. I shall now add a little milk to make the mixture palatable, and on presenting it to the dog we find that he laps it up readily enough.’
As he spoke he turned the contents of the wine glass into a saucer and placed it in front of the terrier, who speedily licked it dry. Sherlock Holmes’ earnest demeanour had so far convinced us that we all sat in silence, watching the animal intently, and expecting some startling effect. None such appeared, however. The dog continued to lie stretched upon the cushion, breathing in a laboured way, but apparently neither the better nor the worse for its draught.
Holmes had taken out his watch, and as minute followed minute without result, an expression of the utmost chagrin and disappointment appeared upon his features. He gnawed his lip, drummed his fingers upon the table, and showed every other symptom of acute impatience. So great was his emotion that I felt sincerely sorry for him, while the two detectives smiled derisively, by no means displeased at this check which he had met.
‘It can’t be a coincidence,’ he cried, at last springing from his chair and pacing wildly up and down the room; ‘it is impossible that it should be a mere coincidence. The very pills which I suspected in the case of Drebber are actually found after the death of Stangerson. And yet they are inert. What can it mean? Surely my whole chain of reasoning cannot have been false. It is impossible! And yet this wretched dog is none the worse. Ah, I have it! I have it! ‘With a perfect shriek of delight he rushed to the box, cut the other pill in two, dissolved it, added milk, and presented it to the terrier. The unfortunate creature’s tongue seemed hardly to have been moistened in it before it gave a convulsive shiver in every limb, and lay as rigid and lifeless as if it had been struck by lightning.
Sherlock Holmes drew a long breath, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. ‘I should have more faith,’ he said; ‘I ought to know by this time that when a fact appears to be opposed to a long train of deductions, it invariably proves to be capable of bearing some other interpretation. Of the two pills in that box, one was of the most deadly poison, and the other was entirely harmless. I ought to have known that before ever I saw the box at all.’
This last statement appeared to me to be so startling that I could hardly believe that he was in his sober senses. There was the dead dog, however, to prove that his conjecture had been correct. It seemed to me that the mists in my own mind were gradually clearing away, and I began to have a dim, vague perception of the truth.
‘All this seems strange to you,’ continued Holmes, ‘because you failed at the beginning of the inquiry to grasp the importance of the single real clue which was presented to you. I had the good fortune to seize upon that, and everything which has occurred since then has served to confirm my original supposition, and, indeed, was the logical sequence of it. Hence things which have perplexed you and made the case more obscure have served to enlighten me and strengthen my conclusions. It is a mistake to confound strangeness with mystery. The most commonplace crime is often the most mysterious, because it presents no new or special features from which deductions may be drawn. This murder would have been infinitely more difficult to unravel had the body of the victim been simply found lying in the roadway without any of those outré[105] and sensational accompaniments which have rendered it remarkable. These strange details, far from making the case more difficult, have really had the effect of making it less so.’
Mr. Gregson, who had listened to this address with considerable impatience, could contain himself no longer. ‘Look here, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,’ he said, ‘we are all ready to acknowledge that you are a smart man, and that you have your own methods of working. We want something more than mere theory and preaching now, though. It is a case of taking the man. I have made my case out, and it seems I was wrong. Young Charpentier could not have been engaged in this second affair. Lestrade went after his man, Stangerson, and it appears that he was wrong too. You have thrown out hints here, and hints there, and seem to know more than we do, but the time has come when we feel that we have a right to ask you straight how much you do know of the business. Can you name the man who did it?’
‘I cannot help feeling that Gregson is right, sir,’ remarked Lestrade. ‘We have both tried, and we have both failed. You have remarked more than once since I have been in the room that you had all the evidence which you require. Surely you will not withhold it any longer.’
‘Any delay in arresting the assassin,’ I observed, ‘might give him time to perpetrate some fresh atrocity.’
Thus pressed by us all, Holmes showed signs of irresolution. He continued to walk up and down the room with his head sunk on his chest and his brows drawn down, as was his habit when lost in thought.
‘There will be no more murders,’ he said at last, stopping abruptly and facing us. ‘You can put that consideration out of the question. You have asked me if I know the name of the assassin. I do. The mere knowing of his name is a small thing, however, compared with the power of laying our hands upon him. This I expect very shortly to do. I have good hopes of managing it through my own arrangements; but it is a thing which needs delicate handling, for we have a shrewd and desperate man to deal with, who is supported, as I have had occasion to prove, by another who is as clever as himself. As long as this man has no idea that any one can have a clue there is some chance of securing him; but if he had the slightest suspicion, he would change his name, and vanish in an instant among the four million inhabitants of this great city. Without meaning to hurt either of your feelings, I am bound to say that I consider these men to be more than a match for the official force, and that is why I have not asked your assistance. If I fail, I shall, of course, incur all the blame due to this omission; but that I am prepared for. At present I am ready to promise that the instant that I can communicate with you without endangering my own combinations, I shall do so.’
‘Stangerson too!’ he muttered. ‘The plot thickens.’
‘It was quite thick enough before,’ grumbled Lestrade, taking a chair. ‘I seem to have dropped into a sort of council of war.’
‘Are you – are you sure of this piece of intelligence?’ stammered Gregson.
‘I have just come from his room,’ said Lestrade; ‘I was the first to discover what had occurred.’
‘We have been hearing Gregson’s view of the matter,’ Holmes observed. ‘Would you mind letting us know what you have seen and done?’
‘I have no objection,’ Lestrade answered, seating himself. ‘I freely confess that I was of the opinion that Stangerson was concerned in the death of Drebber. This fresh development has shown me that I was completely mistaken. Full of the one idea, I set myself to find out what had become of the secretary. They had been seen together at Euston Station about half-past eight on the evening of the third. At two in the morning Drebber had been found in the Brixton Road. The question which confronted me was to find out how Stangerson had been employed between 8.30 and the time of the crime, and what had become of him afterwards. I telegraphed to Liverpool, giving a description of the man, and warning them to keep a watch upon the American boats. I then set to work calling upon all the hotels and lodging-houses in the vicinity of Euston. You see, I argued that if Drebber and his companion had become separated, the natural course for the latter would be to put up somewhere in the vicinity for the night, and then to hang about the station again next morning.’
‘They would be likely to agree on some meeting-place beforehand,’ remarked Holmes.
‘So it proved. I spent the whole of yesterday evening in making inquiries entirely without avail. This morning I began very early, and at eight o’clock I reached Halliday’s Private Hotel, in Little George Street. On my inquiry as to whether a Mr. Stangerson was living there, they at once answered me in the affirmative.
‘“No doubt you are the gentleman whom he was expecting,” they said. ‘He has been waiting for a gentleman for two days.”
‘“Where is he now?” I asked.
‘“He is upstairs in bed. He wished to be called at nine.”
‘“I will go up and see him at once,” I said.
‘It seemed to me that my sudden appearance might shake his nerves and lead him to say something unguarded. The Boots volunteered to show me the room; it was on the second floor, and there was a small corridor leading up to it. The Boots pointed out the door to me, and was about to go downstairs again when I saw something that made me feel sickish, in spite of my twenty years’ experience. From under the door there curled a little red ribbon of blood, which had meandered across the passage and formed a little pool along the skirting at the other side. I gave a cry, which brought the Boots back. He nearly fainted when he saw it. The door was locked on the inside, but we put our shoulders to it, and knocked it in. The window of the room was open, and beside the window, all huddled up, lay the body of a man in his nightdress. He was quite dead, and had been for some time, for his limbs were rigid and cold. When we turned him over, the Boots recognized him at once as being the same gentleman who had engaged the room under the name of Joseph Stangerson. The cause of death was a deep stab in the left side, which must have penetrated the heart. And now comes the strangest part of the affair. What do you suppose was above the murdered man?’
I felt a creeping of the flesh, and a presentiment of coming horror, even before Sherlock Holmes answered.
‘The word RACHE, written in letters of blood,’ he said.
‘That was it,’ said Lestrade, in an awe-struck voice; and we were all silent for a while.
There was something so methodical and so incomprehensible about the deeds of this unknown assassin, that it imparted a fresh ghastliness to his crimes. My nerves, which were steady enough on the field of battle, tingled as I thought of it.
‘The man was seen,’ continued Lestrade: ‘A milk boy, passing on his way to the dairy, happened to walk down the lane which leads from the mews at the back of the hotel. He noticed that a ladder, which usually lay there, was raised against one of the windows of the second floor, which was wide open. After passing, he looked back and saw a man descend the ladder. He came down so quietly and openly that the boy imagined him to be some carpenter or joiner at work in the hotel. He took no particular notice of him, beyond thinking in his own mind that it was early for him to be at work. He had an impression that the man was tall, had a reddish face, and was dressed in a long, brownish coat. He must have stayed in the room some little time after the murder, for we found blood-stained water in the basin, where he had washed his hands, and marks on the sheets where he had deliberately wiped his knife.’
I glanced at Holmes on hearing the description of the murderer which tallied so exactly with his own. There was, however, no trace of exultation or satisfaction upon his face.
‘Did you find nothing in the room which could furnish a clue to the murderer?’ he asked.
‘Nothing. Stangerson had Drebber’s purse in his pocket, but it seems that this was usual, as he did all the paying. There was eighty odd pounds in it, but nothing had been taken. Whatever the motive of these extraordinary crimes, robbery is certainly not one of them. There were no papers or memoranda in the murdered man’s pocket, except a single telegram, dated from Cleveland about a month ago, and containing the words, ‘J. H. is in Europe.’ There was no name appended to this message.’
‘And there was nothing else?’ Holmes asked.
‘Nothing of any importance. The man’s novel, with which he had read himself to sleep, was lying upon the bed, and his pipe was on a chair beside him. There was a glass of water on the table, and on the window-sill a small chip ointment box containing a couple of pills.’
Sherlock Holmes sprang from his chair with an exclamation of delight.
‘The last link,’ he cried, exultantly. ‘My case is complete.’
The two detectives stared at him in amazement.
‘I have now in my hands,’ my companion said, confidently, ‘all the threads which have formed such a tangle. There are, of course details to be filled in, but I am as certain of all the main facts, from the time that Drebber parted from Stangerson at the station, up to the discovery of the body of the latter, as if I had seen them with my own eyes. I will give you a proof of my knowledge. Could you lay your hand upon those pills?’
‘I have them,’ said Lestrade, producing a small white box; ‘I took them and the purse and the telegram, intending to have them put in a place of safety at the Police Station. It was the merest chance my taking these pills, for I am bound to say that I do not attach any importance to them.’
‘Give them here,’ said Holmes. ‘Now, Doctor,’ turning to me, ‘are those ordinary pills?’
They certainly were not: They were of a pearly grey colour, small, round, and almost transparent against the light. ‘From their lightness and transparency, I should imagine that they are soluble in water,’ I remarked.
‘Precisely so,’ answered Holmes. ‘Now would you mind going down and fetching that poor little devil of a terrier which has been bad so long, and which the landlady wanted you to put out of its pain yesterday.’
I went downstairs and carried the dog upstairs in my arms. Its laboured breathing and glazing eye showed that it was not far from its end. Indeed, its snow-white muzzle proclaimed that it had already exceeded the usual term of canine existence. I placed it upon a cushion on the rug.
‘I will now cut one of these pills in two,’ said Holmes, and drawing his penknife he suited the action to the word. ‘One half we return into the box for future purposes. The other half I will place in this wine glass, in which is a teaspoonful of water. You perceive that our friend, the Doctor, is right, and that it readily dissolves.’
‘This may be very interesting,’ said Lestrade, in the injured tone of one who suspects that he is being laughed at; ‘I cannot see, however, what it has to do with the death of Mr. Joseph Stangerson.’
‘Patience, my friend, patience! You will find in time that it has everything to do with it. I shall now add a little milk to make the mixture palatable, and on presenting it to the dog we find that he laps it up readily enough.’
As he spoke he turned the contents of the wine glass into a saucer and placed it in front of the terrier, who speedily licked it dry. Sherlock Holmes’ earnest demeanour had so far convinced us that we all sat in silence, watching the animal intently, and expecting some startling effect. None such appeared, however. The dog continued to lie stretched upon the cushion, breathing in a laboured way, but apparently neither the better nor the worse for its draught.
Holmes had taken out his watch, and as minute followed minute without result, an expression of the utmost chagrin and disappointment appeared upon his features. He gnawed his lip, drummed his fingers upon the table, and showed every other symptom of acute impatience. So great was his emotion that I felt sincerely sorry for him, while the two detectives smiled derisively, by no means displeased at this check which he had met.
‘It can’t be a coincidence,’ he cried, at last springing from his chair and pacing wildly up and down the room; ‘it is impossible that it should be a mere coincidence. The very pills which I suspected in the case of Drebber are actually found after the death of Stangerson. And yet they are inert. What can it mean? Surely my whole chain of reasoning cannot have been false. It is impossible! And yet this wretched dog is none the worse. Ah, I have it! I have it! ‘With a perfect shriek of delight he rushed to the box, cut the other pill in two, dissolved it, added milk, and presented it to the terrier. The unfortunate creature’s tongue seemed hardly to have been moistened in it before it gave a convulsive shiver in every limb, and lay as rigid and lifeless as if it had been struck by lightning.
Sherlock Holmes drew a long breath, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. ‘I should have more faith,’ he said; ‘I ought to know by this time that when a fact appears to be opposed to a long train of deductions, it invariably proves to be capable of bearing some other interpretation. Of the two pills in that box, one was of the most deadly poison, and the other was entirely harmless. I ought to have known that before ever I saw the box at all.’
This last statement appeared to me to be so startling that I could hardly believe that he was in his sober senses. There was the dead dog, however, to prove that his conjecture had been correct. It seemed to me that the mists in my own mind were gradually clearing away, and I began to have a dim, vague perception of the truth.
‘All this seems strange to you,’ continued Holmes, ‘because you failed at the beginning of the inquiry to grasp the importance of the single real clue which was presented to you. I had the good fortune to seize upon that, and everything which has occurred since then has served to confirm my original supposition, and, indeed, was the logical sequence of it. Hence things which have perplexed you and made the case more obscure have served to enlighten me and strengthen my conclusions. It is a mistake to confound strangeness with mystery. The most commonplace crime is often the most mysterious, because it presents no new or special features from which deductions may be drawn. This murder would have been infinitely more difficult to unravel had the body of the victim been simply found lying in the roadway without any of those outré[105] and sensational accompaniments which have rendered it remarkable. These strange details, far from making the case more difficult, have really had the effect of making it less so.’
Mr. Gregson, who had listened to this address with considerable impatience, could contain himself no longer. ‘Look here, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,’ he said, ‘we are all ready to acknowledge that you are a smart man, and that you have your own methods of working. We want something more than mere theory and preaching now, though. It is a case of taking the man. I have made my case out, and it seems I was wrong. Young Charpentier could not have been engaged in this second affair. Lestrade went after his man, Stangerson, and it appears that he was wrong too. You have thrown out hints here, and hints there, and seem to know more than we do, but the time has come when we feel that we have a right to ask you straight how much you do know of the business. Can you name the man who did it?’
‘I cannot help feeling that Gregson is right, sir,’ remarked Lestrade. ‘We have both tried, and we have both failed. You have remarked more than once since I have been in the room that you had all the evidence which you require. Surely you will not withhold it any longer.’
‘Any delay in arresting the assassin,’ I observed, ‘might give him time to perpetrate some fresh atrocity.’
Thus pressed by us all, Holmes showed signs of irresolution. He continued to walk up and down the room with his head sunk on his chest and his brows drawn down, as was his habit when lost in thought.
‘There will be no more murders,’ he said at last, stopping abruptly and facing us. ‘You can put that consideration out of the question. You have asked me if I know the name of the assassin. I do. The mere knowing of his name is a small thing, however, compared with the power of laying our hands upon him. This I expect very shortly to do. I have good hopes of managing it through my own arrangements; but it is a thing which needs delicate handling, for we have a shrewd and desperate man to deal with, who is supported, as I have had occasion to prove, by another who is as clever as himself. As long as this man has no idea that any one can have a clue there is some chance of securing him; but if he had the slightest suspicion, he would change his name, and vanish in an instant among the four million inhabitants of this great city. Without meaning to hurt either of your feelings, I am bound to say that I consider these men to be more than a match for the official force, and that is why I have not asked your assistance. If I fail, I shall, of course, incur all the blame due to this omission; but that I am prepared for. At present I am ready to promise that the instant that I can communicate with you without endangering my own combinations, I shall do so.’