Sherlock Holmes complete collection by sir arthur conan doyle

A Study In Scarlet: Chapter 3 THE LAURISTON GARDEN MYSTERY

I CONFESS that I was considerably startled by this fresh proof of thepractical nature of my companion's theories. My respect for his powers ofanalysis increased [26] wondrously. There still remained some lurkingsuspicion in my mind, however, that the whole thing was a prearrangedepisode, intended to dazzle me, though what earthly object he could havein taking me in was past my comprehension. When I looked at him, hehad finished reading the note, and his eyes had assumed the vacant, lacklustre 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 perhapsit is as well. So you actually were not able to see that that man was asergeant of Marines?""No, indeed.""It was easier to know it than to explain why I know it. If you wereasked to prove that two and two made four, you might find somedifficulty, and yet you are quite sure of the fact. Even across the street Icould 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, andregulation side whiskers. There we have the marine. He was a man withsome amount of self-importance and a certain air of command. You musthave observed the way in which he held his head and swung his cane. Asteady, respectable, middle-aged man, too, on the face of him-all factswhich led me to believe that he had been a sergeant.""Wonderful!" I ejaculated."Commonplace," said Holmes, though I thought from his expressionthat he was pleased at my evident surprise and admiration. "I said justnow that there were no criminals. It appears that I am wrong-look atthis!" 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, LauristonGardens, off the Brixton Road. Our man on the beat saw a light there about two in the morning, and as the house was an emptyone, suspected that something was amiss. He found the door open,and in the front room, which is bare of furniture, discovered thebody of a gentleman, well dressed, and having cards in his pocketbearing the name of 'Enoch J. Drebber, Cleveland, Ohio, U. S. A.'There had been no robbery, nor is there any evidence as to how theman met his death. There are marks of blood in the room, but thereis no wound upon his person. We are at a loss as to how he cameinto the empty house; indeed, the whole affair is a puzzler. If youcan come round to the house any time before twelve, you will findme 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, andwould esteem it a great kindness if you would favour me with youropinions."Yours faithfully,"TOBIAS GREGSON.""Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders," my friend remarked;"he [27] and Lestrade are the pick of a bad lot. They are both quick andenergetic, but conventional-shockingly so. They have their knives intoone 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 isnot 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 lazydevil that ever stood in shoe leather-that is, when the fit is on me, for Ican 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 thewhole matter, you may be sure that Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. willpocket 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; buthe 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 myown 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 thatan 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 ina hansom, driving furiously for the Brixton Road.It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a dun-coloured veil hung over thehousetops, looking like the reflection of the mud-coloured streets beneath.My companion was in the best of spirits, and prattled away aboutCremona fiddles and the difference between a Stradivarius and an Amati.As for myself, I was silent, for the dull weather and the melancholybusiness 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's musical disquisition."No data yet," he answered. "It is a capital mistake to theorize beforeyou 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 muchmistaken.""So it is. Stop, driver, stop!" We were still a hundred yards or so fromit, but he insisted upon our alighting, and we finished our journey uponfoot.Number 3, Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and minatory look. Itwas one of four which stood back some little way from the street, twobeing occupied and two empty. The latter looked out with three tiers ofvacant melancholy windows, which were blank and dreary, save that hereand there a "To Let" card had developed like a cataract upon the blearedpanes. A small garden sprinkled over with a scattered eruption of sicklyplants separated each of these houses from the street, and was traversedby a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour, and consisting apparently of amixture of clay and of gravel. The whole place was very sloppy from therain which had fallen through the night. The garden was bounded by athree-foot brick wall with a fringe of wood rails upon the top, and againstthis wall was leaning a stalwart police constable, surrounded by a smallknot of loafers, [28] who craned their necks and strained their eyes in thevain hope of catching some glimpse of the proceedings within.I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have hurried intothe house and plunged into a study of the mystery. Nothing appeared tobe further from his intention. With an air of nonchalance which, under thecircumstances, seemed to me to border upon affectation, he lounged upand down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the ground, the sky, theopposite houses and the line of railings. Having finished his scrutiny, heproceeded slowly down the path, or rather down the fringe of grass whichflanked the path, keeping his eyes riveted upon the ground. Twice hestopped, and once I saw him smile, and heard him utter an exclamation ofsatisfaction. There were many marks of footsteps upon the wet clayeysoil; but since the police had been coming and going over it, I was unableto see how my companion could hope to learn anything from it. Still I hadhad such extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his perceptivefaculties, that I had no doubt that he could see a great deal which washidden from me.At the door of the house we were met by a tall, white-faced, flaxenhaired man, with a notebook in his hand, who rushed forward and wrungmy 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 herdof buffaloes had passed along, there could not be a greater mess. Nodoubt, however, you had drawn your own conclusions, Gregson, beforeyou permitted this.""I have had so much to do inside the house," the detective saidevasively. "My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here. I had relied upon him tolook after this." Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically. "With twosuch men as yourself and Lestrade upon the ground, there will not bemuch for a third party to find out," he said.Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. "I think we have doneall that can be done," he answered; "it's a queer case, though, and I knewyour 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 inconsequentremark he strode on into the house followed by Gregson, whose featuresexpressed 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 hadobviously been closed for many weeks. The other belonged to the diningroom, which was the apartment in which the mysterious affair hadoccurred. Holmes walked in, and I followed him with that subduedfeeling at my heart which the presence of death inspires.It was a large square room, looking all the larger from the absence ofall furniture. A vulgar flaring paper adorned the walls, but it was blotchedin places with mildew, and here and there great strips had becomedetached and hung down, exposing the yellow plaster beneath. Oppositethe door was a showy fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece of imitationwhite marble. On one corner of this was stuck the stump of a red waxcandle. The solitary window was so dirty that the [29] light was hazy anduncertain, giving a dull gray tinge to everything, which was intensified bythe thick layer of dust which coated the whole apartment.All these details I observed afterwards. At present my attention wascentred upon the single, grim, motionless figure which lay stretched uponthe boards, with vacant, sightless eyes staring up at the discolouredceiling. 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 andwaistcoat, 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 lowerlimbs were interlocked, as though his death struggle had been a grievousone. On his rigid face there stood an expression of horror, and, as itseemed 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 simiousand ape-like appearance, which was increased by his writhing, unnaturalposture. I have seen death in many forms, but never has it appeared to mein a more fearsome aspect than in that dark, grimy apartment, whichlooked out upon one of the main arteries of suburban London.Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was standing by the doorway, andgreeted my companion and myself."This case will make a stir, sir," he remarked. "It beats anything I haveseen, 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 tonumerous gouts and splashes of blood which lay all round."Positive!" cried both detectives."Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second individual-presumablythe murderer, if murder has been committed. It reminds me of thecircumstances attendant on the death of Van Jansen, in Utrecht, in theyear '34. Do you remember the case, Gregson?""No, sir.""Read it up-you really should. There is nothing new under the sun. Ithas all been done before."As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, andeverywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while his eyeswore the same far-away expression which I have already remarked upon.So swiftly was the examination made, that one would hardly haveguessed the minuteness with which it was conducted. Finally, he sniffedthe dead man's lips, and then glanced at the soles of his patent leatherboots."He has not been moved at all?" he asked."No more than was necessary for the purpose of our examination.""You can take him to the mortuary now," he said. "There is nothingmore to be learned."Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand. At his call they enteredthe 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 andstared at it with mystified eyes.[30] "There's been a woman here," he cried. "It's a woman's weddingring."He held it out, as he spoke, upon the palm of his hand. We all gatheredround him and gazed at it. There could be no doubt that that circlet ofplain gold had once adorned the finger of a bride."This complicates matters," said Gregson. "Heaven knows, they werecomplicated enough before.""You're sure it doesn't simplify them?" observed Holmes. "There'snothing 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 uponone of the bottom steps of the stairs. "A gold watch, No. 97163, byBarraud, 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 cardcase, with cards of Enoch J. Drebber of Cleveland,corresponding with the E. J. D. upon the linen. No purse, but loose moneyto the extent of seven pounds thirteen. Pocket edition of Boccaccio's'Decameron,' with name of Joseph Stangerson upon the flyleaf. Twoletters-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 bothfrom the Guion Steamship Company, and refer to the sailing of their boatsfrom Liverpool. It is clear that this unfortunate man was about to return toNew York.""Have you made any inquiries as to this man Stangerson?" "I did it at once, sir," said Gregson. "I have had advertisements sent toall the newspapers, and one of my men has gone to the AmericanExchange, 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 gladof any information which could help us.""You did not ask for particulars on any point which appeared to you tobe crucial?""I asked about Stangerson.""Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which this whole caseappears 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 tomake some remark, when Lestrade, who had been in the front room whilewe 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 highestimportance, and one which would have been overlooked had I not made acareful examination of the walls."The little man's eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was evidently in astate of suppressed exultation at having scored a point against hiscolleague."Come here," he said, bustling back into the room, the atmosphere ofwhich felt clearer since the removal of its ghastly inmate. "Now, standthere!"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 thisparticular corner [31] of the room a large piece had peeled off, leaving ayellow square of coarse plastering. Across this bare space there wasscrawled in blood-red letters a single word-RACHE"What do you think of that?" cried the detective, with the air of ashowman exhibiting his show. "This was overlooked because it was in thedarkest corner of the room, and no one thought of looking there. Themurderer has written it with his or her own blood. See this smear where ithas 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 candleon the mantelpiece. It was lit at the time, and if it was lit this cornerwould be the brightest instead of the darkest portion of the wall.""And what does it mean now that you have found it?" asked Gregson ina depreciatory voice."Mean? Why, it means that the writer was going to put the femalename Rachel, but was disturbed before he or she had time to finish. Youmark my words, when this case comes to be cleared up, you will find thata woman named Rachel has something to do with it. It's all very well foryou 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 thelittle man's temper by bursting into an explosion of laughter. "Youcertainly have the credit of being the first of us to find this out and, as yousay, it bears every mark of having been written by the other participant inlast night's mystery. I have not had time to examine this room yet, butwith your permission I shall do so now."As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round magnifyingglass from his pocket. With these two implements he trotted noiselesslyabout the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally kneeling, and oncelying flat upon his face. So engrossed was he with his occupation that heappeared to have forgotten our presence, for he chattered away to himselfunder his breath the whole time, keeping up a running fire ofexclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive ofencouragement and of hope. As I watched him I was irresistibly remindedof a pure-blooded, well-trained foxhound, as it dashes backward andforward through the covert, whining in its eagerness, until it comes acrossthe lost scent. For twenty minutes or more he continued his researches,measuring with the most exact care the distance between marks whichwere entirely invisible to me, and occasionally applying his tape to thewalls in an equally incomprehensible manner. In one place he gathered upvery carefully a little pile of gray dust from the floor, and packed it awayin an envelope. Finally he examined with his glass the word upon thewall, going over every letter of it with the most minute exactness. Thisdone, he appeared to be satisfied, for he replaced his tape and his glass inhis pocket."They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains," heremarked with a smile. "It's a very bad definition, but it does apply todetective work."Gregson and Lestrade had watched the manoeuvres of their amateurcompanion with considerable curiosity and some contempt. Theyevidently failed to appreciate the fact, which I had begun to realize, thatSherlock Holmes's smallest actions were all directed towards somedefinite 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 were to presumeto help [32] you," remarked my friend. "You are doing so well now that itwould be a pity for anyone to interfere." There was a world of sarcasm inhis voice as he spoke. "If you will let me know how your investigationsgo," he continued, "I shall be happy to give you any help I can. In themeantime I should like to speak to the constable who found the body. Canyou give me his name and address?"Lestrade glanced at his notebook. "John Rance," he said. "He is offduty 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 tellyou one thing which may help you in the case," he continued, turning tothe two detectives. "There has been murder done, and the murderer was aman. He was more than six feet high, was in the prime of life, had smallfeet 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 hisoff fore-leg. In all probability the murderer had a florid face, and thefinger-nails of his right hand were remarkably long. These are only a fewindications, 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 otherthing, Lestrade," he added, turning round at the door: "'Rache,' is theGerman for 'revenge'; so don't lose your time looking for Miss Rachel."With which Parthian shot he walked away, leaving the two rivals openmouthed behind him.