The Lauriston Garden Mystery
CHAPTER III.
I confess that I was considerably startled by
this fresh proof of the practical nature of my
companion’s theories. My respect for his powers
of analysis increased wondrously. There still remained
some lurking suspicion in my mind, however,
that the whole thing was a pre-arranged
episode, intended to dazzle me, though what
earthly object he could have in taking me in was
past my comprehension. When I looked at him
he had finished reading the note, and his eyes had
assumed the vacant, lack-lustre expression which
showed mental abstraction.
“How in the world did you deduce that?” I
asked.
“Deduce what?” said he, petulantly.
“Why, that he was a retired sergeant of
Marines.”
“I have no time for trifles,” he answered,
brusquely; then with a smile, “Excuse my rudeness.
You broke the thread of my thoughts; but
perhaps it is as well. So you actually were not able
to see that that man was a sergeant of Marines?”
“No, indeed.”
“It was easier to know it than to explain why
I knew it. If you were asked to prove that two
and two made four, you might find some difficulty,
and yet you are quite sure of the fact. Even across
the street I could see a great blue anchor tattooed
on the back of the fellow’s hand. That smacked
of the sea. He had a military carriage, however,
and regulation side whiskers. There we have the
marine. He was a man with some amount of selfimportance
and a certain air of command. You
must have observed the way in which he held his
head and swung his cane. A steady, respectable,
middle-aged man, too, on the face of him—all
facts which led me to believe that he had been a
sergeant.”
“Wonderful!” I ejaculated.
“Commonplace,” said Holmes, though I
thought from his expression that he was pleased
at my evident surprise and admiration. “I said just
now that there were no criminals. It appears that
I am wrong—look at this!” He threw me over the
note which the commissionaire had brought.
“Why,” I cried, as I cast my eye over it, “this is
terrible!”
“It does seem to be a little out of the common,”
he remarked, calmly. “Would you mind reading it
to me aloud?”
This is the letter which I read to him—
“My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
“There has been a bad business during
the night at 3, Lauriston Gardens,
off the Brixton Road. Our man on the
beat saw a light there about two in
the morning, and as the house was an
empty one, suspected that something
was amiss. He found the door open,
and in the front room, which is bare
of furniture, discovered the body of a
gentleman, well dressed, and having
cards in his pocket bearing the name
of ‘Enoch J. Drebber, Cleveland, Ohio,
U.S.A.’ There had been no robbery, nor
is there any evidence as to how the
man met his death. There are marks
of blood in the room, but there is no
wound upon his person. We are at a
loss as to how he came into the empty
house; indeed, the whole affair is a
puzzler. If you can come round to the
house any time before twelve, you will
find me there. I have left everything
in statu quo until I hear from you. If
you are unable to come I shall give you
fuller details, and would esteem it a
great kindness if you would favour me
with your opinion.
“Yours faithfully,
“Tobias Gregson.”
“Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland
Yarders,” my friend remarked; “he and Lestrade
are the pick of a bad lot. They are both quick and
energetic, but conventional—shockingly so. They
have their knives into one another, too. They are
as jealous as a pair of professional beauties. There
will be some fun over this case if they are both put
upon the scent.”
I was amazed at the calm way in which he rippled
on. “Surely there is not a moment to be lost,”
I cried, “shall I go and order you a cab?”
“I’m not sure about whether I shall go. I am the
most incurably lazy devil that ever stood in shoe
leather—that is, when the fit is on me, for I can be
spry enough at times.”
“Why, it is just such a chance as you have been
longing for.”
“My dear fellow, what does it matter to me.
Supposing I unravel the whole matter, you may be
sure that Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. will pocket
all the credit. That comes of being an unofficial
personage.”
“But he begs you to help him.”
“Yes. He knows that I am his superior, and acknowledges
it to me; but he would cut his tongue
out before he would own it to any third person.
However, we may as well go and have a look. I
shall work it out on my own hook. I may have a
laugh at them if I have nothing else. Come on!”
He hustled on his overcoat, and bustled about
in a way that showed that an energetic fit had superseded
the apathetic one.
“Get your hat,” he said.
“You wish me to come?”
“Yes, if you have nothing better to do.” A
minute later we were both in a hansom, driving
furiously for the Brixton Road.
It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a duncoloured
veil hung over the house-tops, looking
like the reflection of the mud-coloured streets beneath.
My companion was in the best of spirits,
and prattled away about Cremona fiddles, and the
difference between a Stradivarius and an Amati.
As for myself, I was silent, for the dull weather
and the melancholy business upon which we were
engaged, depressed my spirits.
“You don’t seem to give much thought to
the matter in hand,” I said at last, interrupting
Holmes’ musical disquisition.
“No data yet,” he answered. “It is a capital mistake
to theorize before you have all the evidence.
It biases the judgment.”
“You will have your data soon,” I remarked,
pointing with my finger; “this is the Brixton Road,
and that is the house, if I am not very much mistaken.”
“So it is. Stop, driver, stop!” We were still a
hundred yards or so from it, but he insisted upon
our alighting, and we finished our journey upon
foot.
Number 3, Lauriston Gardens wore an illomened
and minatory look. It was one of four
which stood back some little way from the street,
two being occupied and two empty. The latter
looked out with three tiers of vacant melancholy
windows, which were blank and dreary, save that
here and there a “To Let” card had developed like
a cataract upon the bleared panes. A small garden
sprinkled over with a scattered eruption of
sickly plants separated each of these houses from
the street, and was traversed by a narrow pathway,
yellowish in colour, and consisting apparently
of a mixture of clay and of gravel. The whole
place was very sloppy from the rain which had
fallen through the night. The garden was bounded
by a three-foot brick wall with a fringe of wood
rails upon the top, and against this wall was leaning
a stalwart police constable, surrounded by a
small knot of loafers, who craned their necks and
strained their eyes in the vain hope of catching
some glimpse of the proceedings within.
I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would
at once have hurried into the house and plunged
into a study of the mystery. Nothing appeared to
be further from his intention. With an air of nonchalance
which, under the circumstances, seemed
to me to border upon affectation, he lounged up
and down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the
ground, the sky, the opposite houses and the line
of railings. Having finished his scrutiny, he proceeded
slowly down the path, or rather down the
fringe of grass which flanked the path, keeping his
eyes riveted upon the ground. Twice he stopped,
and once I saw him smile, and heard him utter
an exclamation of satisfaction. There were many
marks of footsteps upon the wet clayey soil, but
since the police had been coming and going over
it, I was unable to see how my companion could
hope to learn anything from it. Still I had had such
extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his perceptive
faculties, that I had no doubt that he could
see a great deal which was hidden from me.
At the door of the house we were met by a
tall, white-faced, flaxen-haired man, with a notebook
in his hand, who rushed forward and wrung
my companion’s hand with effusion. “It is indeed
kind of you to come,” he said, “I have had everything
left untouched.”
“Except that!” my friend answered, pointing at
the pathway. “If a herd of buffaloes had passed
along there could not be a greater mess. No doubt,
however, you had drawn your own conclusions,
Gregson, before you permitted this.”
“I have had so much to do inside the house,”
the detective said evasively. “My colleague, Mr.
Lestrade, is here. I had relied upon him to look
after this.”
Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows
sardonically. “With two such men as yourself and
Lestrade upon the ground, there will not be much
for a third party to find out,” he said.
Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied
way. “I think we have done all that can be done,”
he answered; “it’s a queer case though, and I knew
your taste for such things.”
“You did not come here in a cab?” asked Sherlock
Holmes.
“No, sir.”
“Nor Lestrade?”
“No, sir.”
“Then let us go and look at the room.” With
which inconsequent remark he strode on into the
house, followed by Gregson, whose features expressed
his astonishment.
A short passage, bare planked and dusty, led
to the kitchen and offices. Two doors opened out
of it to the left and to the right. One of these had
obviously been closed for many weeks. The other
belonged to the dining-room, which was the apartment
in which the mysterious affair had occurred.
Holmes walked in, and I followed him with that
subdued feeling at my heart which the presence of
death inspires.
It was a large square room, looking all the
larger from the absence of all furniture. A vulgar
flaring paper adorned the walls, but it was
blotched in places with mildew, and here and there
great strips had become detached and hung down,
exposing the yellow plaster beneath. Opposite the
door was a showy fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece
of imitation white marble. On one corner
of this was stuck the stump of a red wax candle.
The solitary window was so dirty that the light
was hazy and uncertain, giving a dull grey tinge
to everything, which was intensified by the thick
layer of dust which coated the whole apartment.
All these details I observed afterwards. At
present my attention was centred upon the single
grim motionless figure which lay stretched
upon the boards, with vacant sightless eyes staring
up at the discoloured ceiling. It was that of a
man about forty-three or forty-four years of age,
middle-sized, broad shouldered, with crisp curling
black hair, and a short stubbly beard. He
was dressed in a heavy broadcloth frock coat and
waistcoat, with light-coloured trousers, and immaculate
collar and cuffs. A top hat, well brushed
and trim, was placed upon the floor beside him.
His hands were clenched and his arms thrown
abroad, while his lower limbs were interlocked
as though his death struggle had been a grievous
one. On his rigid face there stood an expression
of horror, and as it seemed to me, of hatred, such
as I have never seen upon human features. This
malignant and terrible contortion, combined with
the low forehead, blunt nose, and prognathous
jaw gave the dead man a singularly simious and
ape-like appearance, which was increased by his
writhing, unnatural posture. I have seen death in
many forms, but never has it appeared to me in
a more fearsome aspect than in that dark grimy
apartment, which looked out upon one of the main
arteries of suburban London.
Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was
standing by the doorway, and greeted my companion
and myself.
“This case will make a stir, sir,” he remarked.
“It beats anything I have seen, and I am no
chicken.”
“There is no clue?” said Gregson.
“None at all,” chimed in Lestrade.
Sherlock Holmes approached the body, and,
kneeling down, examined it intently. “You are sure
that there is no wound?” he asked, pointing to numerous
gouts and splashes of blood which lay all
round.
“Positive!” cried both detectives.
“Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second
individual—presumably the murderer, if murder
has been committed. It reminds me of the circumstances
attendant on the death of Van Jansen,
in Utrecht, in the year ’34. Do you remember the
case, Gregson?”
“No, sir.”
“Read it up—you really should. There is nothing
new under the sun. It has all been done before.”
As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying
here, there, and everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning,
examining, while his eyes wore the
same far-away expression which I have already
remarked upon. So swiftly was the examination
made, that one would hardly have guessed the
minuteness with which it was conducted. Finally,
he sniffed the dead man’s lips, and then glanced
at the soles of his patent leather boots.
“He has not been moved at all?” he asked.
“No more than was necessary for the purposes
of our examination.”
“You can take him to the mortuary now,” he
said. “There is nothing more to be learned.”
Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand.
At his call they entered the room, and the stranger
was lifted and carried out. As they raised him,
a ring tinkled down and rolled across the floor.
Lestrade grabbed it up and stared at it with mystified
eyes.
“There’s been a woman here,” he cried. “It’s a
woman’s wedding-ring.”
He held it out, as he spoke, upon the palm of
his hand. We all gathered round him and gazed
at it. There could be no doubt that that circlet of
plain gold had once adorned the finger of a bride.
“This complicates matters,” said Gregson.
“Heaven knows, they were complicated enough
before.”
“You’re sure it doesn’t simplify them?” observed
Holmes. “There’s nothing to be learned by
staring at it. What did you find in his pockets?”
“We have it all here,” said Gregson, pointing
to a litter of objects upon one of the bottom steps
of the stairs. “A gold watch, No. 97163, by Barraud,
of London. Gold Albert chain, very heavy
and solid. Gold ring, with masonic device. Gold
pin—bull-dog’s head, with rubies as eyes. Russian
leather card-case, with cards of Enoch J. Drebber
of Cleveland, corresponding with the E. J. D. upon
the linen. No purse, but loose money to the extent
of seven pounds thirteen. Pocket edition of Boccaccio’s
‘Decameron,’ with name of Joseph Stangerson
upon the fly-leaf. Two letters—one addressed
to E. J. Drebber and one to Joseph Stangerson.”
“At what address?”
“American Exchange, Strand—to be left till
called for. They are both from the Guion
Steamship Company, and refer to the sailing of
their boats from Liverpool. It is clear that this unfortunate
man was about to return to New York.”
“Have you made any inquiries as to this man,
Stangerson?”
“I did it at once, sir,” said Gregson. “I have had
advertisements sent to all the newspapers, and one
of my men has gone to the American Exchange,
but he has not returned yet.”
“Have you sent to Cleveland?”
“We telegraphed this morning.”
“How did you word your inquiries?”
“We simply detailed the circumstances, and
said that we should be glad of any information
which could help us.”
“You did not ask for particulars on any point
which appeared to you to be crucial?”
“I asked about Stangerson.”
“Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on
which this whole case appears to hinge? Will you
not telegraph again?”
“I have said all I have to say,” said Gregson, in
an offended voice.
Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself, and appeared
to be about to make some remark, when
Lestrade, who had been in the front room while
we were holding this conversation in the hall, reappeared
upon the scene, rubbing his hands in a
pompous and self-satisfied manner.
“Mr. Gregson,” he said, “I have just made a discovery
of the highest importance, and one which
would have been overlooked had I not made a
careful examination of the walls.”
The little man’s eyes sparkled as he spoke, and
he was evidently in a state of suppressed exultation
at having scored a point against his colleague.
“Come here,” he said, bustling back into the
room, the atmosphere of which felt clearer since
the removal of its ghastly inmate. “Now, stand
there!”
He struck a match on his boot and held it up
against the wall.
“Look at that!” he said, triumphantly.
I have remarked that the paper had fallen away
in parts. In this particular corner of the room a
large piece had peeled off, leaving a yellow square
of coarse plastering. Across this bare space there
was scrawled in blood-red letters a single word—
RACHE.
“What do you think of that?” cried the detective,
with the air of a showman exhibiting his show.
“This was overlooked because it was in the darkest
corner of the room, and no one thought of looking
there. The murderer has written it with his or her
own blood. See this smear where it has trickled
down the wall! That disposes of the idea of suicide
anyhow. Why was that corner chosen to write
it on? I will tell you. See that candle on the mantelpiece.
It was lit at the time, and if it was lit this
corner would be the brightest instead of the darkest
portion of the wall.”
“And what does it mean now that you have
found it?” asked Gregson in a depreciatory voice.
“Mean? Why, it means that the writer was
going to put the female name Rachel, but was
disturbed before he or she had time to finish.
You mark my words, when this case comes to
be cleared up you will find that a woman named
Rachel has something to do with it. It’s all very
well for you to laugh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You
may be very smart and clever, but the old hound
is the best, when all is said and done.”
“I really beg your pardon!” said my companion,
who had ruffled the little man’s temper by
bursting into an explosion of laughter. “You certainly
have the credit of being the first of us to
find this out, and, as you say, it bears every mark
of having been written by the other participant in
last night’s mystery. I have not had time to examine
this room yet, but with your permission I shall
do so now.”
As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and
a large round magnifying glass from his pocket.
With these two implements he trotted noiselessly
about the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally
kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face. So
engrossed was he with his occupation that he appeared
to have forgotten our presence, for he chattered
away to himself under his breath the whole
time, keeping up a running fire of exclamations,
groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive of encouragement
and of hope. As I watched him I
was irresistibly reminded of a pure-blooded welltrained
foxhound as it dashes backwards and forwards
through the covert, whining in its eagerness,
until it comes across the lost scent. For twenty
minutes or more he continued his researches, measuring
with the most exact care the distance between
marks which were entirely invisible to me,
and occasionally applying his tape to the walls in
an equally incomprehensible manner. In one place
he gathered up very carefully a little pile of grey
dust from the floor, and packed it away in an envelope.
Finally, he examined with his glass the word
upon the wall, going over every letter of it with the
most minute exactness. This done, he appeared to
be satisfied, for he replaced his tape and his glass
in his pocket.
“They say that genius is an infinite capacity for
taking pains,” he remarked with a smile. “It’s a
very bad definition, but it does apply to detective
work.”
Gregson and Lestrade had watched the
manoeuvres of their amateur companion with considerable
curiosity and some contempt. They evidently
failed to appreciate the fact, which I had begun
to realize, that Sherlock Holmes’ smallest actions
were all directed towards some definite and
practical end.
“What do you think of it, sir?” they both asked.
“It would be robbing you of the credit of the
case if I was to presume to help you,” remarked
my friend. “You are doing so well now that it
would be a pity for anyone to interfere.” There was
a world of sarcasm in his voice as he spoke. “If you
will let me know how your investigations go,” he
continued, “I shall be happy to give you any help I
can. In the meantime I should like to speak to the
constable who found the body. Can you give me
his name and address?”
Lestrade glanced at his note-book. “John
Rance,” he said. “He is off duty now. You will find
him at 46, Audley Court, Kennington Park Gate.”
Holmes took a note of the address.
“Come along, Doctor,” he said; “we shall go
and look him up. I’ll tell you one thing which may
help you in the case,” he continued, turning to the
two detectives. “There has been murder done, and
the murderer was a man. He was more than six
feet high, was in the prime of life, had small feet
for his height, wore coarse, square-toed boots and
smoked a Trichinopoly cigar. He came here with
his victim in a four-wheeled cab, which was drawn
by a horse with three old shoes and one new one
on his off fore leg. In all probability the murderer
had a florid face, and the finger-nails of his right
hand were remarkably long. These are only a few
indications, but they may assist you.”
Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other
with an incredulous smile.
“If this man was murdered, how was it done?”
asked the former.
“Poison,” said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and
strode off. “One other thing, Lestrade,” he added,
turning round at the door: “ ‘Rache,’ is the German
for ‘revenge;’ so don’t lose your time looking
for Miss Rachel.”
With which Parthian shot he walked away,
leaving the two rivals open-mouthed behind him.
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