A STUDY IN SCARLET by Arthur Conan Doyle

PART 1 CHAPTER 3 THE LAURISTON GARDEN MYSTERY

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 prearranged 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 know 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 self-importance 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 opinions.

"Yours faithfully,

"TOBIAS GREGSON."

"Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders,"my friend remarked; "he [] andLestrade are the pick of a bad lot. They are both quick and energetic, butconventional–shockingly so. They have their knives into one another, too. Theyare as jealous as a pair of professional beauties. There will be some fun overthis 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 amoment 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 thatever stood in shoe leather–that is, when the fit is on me, for I can be spryenough 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 wholematter, you may be sure that Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. will pocket all thecredit. 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 wouldcut his tongue out before he would own it to any third person. However, we mayas well go and have a look. I shall work it out on my own hook. I may have alaugh at them, if I have nothing else. Come on!"
He hustled on his overcoat, and bustled about in a way that showed that anenergetic 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 ahansom, 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. Mycompanion was in the best of spirits, and prattled away about Cremona fiddlesand the difference between a Stradivarius and an Amati. As for myself, I wassilent, for the dull weather and the melancholy business upon which we wereengaged 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 before youhave all the evidence. It biases the judgment."
"You will have your data soon," I remarked, pointing with my finger; "this isthe 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 ill-omened and minatory look. It was one offour which stood back some little way from the street, two being occupied andtwo 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 haddeveloped like a cataract upon the bleared panes. A small garden sprinkled overwith a scattered eruption of sickly plants separated each of these houses fromthe street, and was traversed by a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour, andconsisting apparently of a mixture of clay and of gravel. The whole place wasvery sloppy from the rain which had fallen through the night. The garden wasbounded 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 asmall knot of loafers, [] whocraned their necks and strained their eyes in the vain hope of catching someglimpse of the proceedings within.
I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have hurried into the houseand plunged into a study of the mystery. Nothing appeared to be further fromhis 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 ofrailings. Having finished his scrutiny, he proceeded slowly down the path, orrather down the fringe of grass which flanked the path, keeping his eyesriveted upon the ground. Twice he stopped, and once I saw him smile, and heardhim utter an exclamation of satisfaction. There were many marks of footstepsupon the wet clayey soil; but since the police had been coming and going overit, 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 perceptivefaculties, that I had no doubt that he could see a great deal which was hiddenfrom 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 handwith effusion. "It is indeed kind of you to come," he said, "I have hadeverything left untouched."
"Except that!" my friend answered, pointing at the pathway. "If a herd ofbuffaloes had passed along, there could not be a greater mess. No doubt,however, you had drawn your own conclusions, Gregson, before you permittedthis."
"I have had so much to do inside the house," the detective said evasively. "Mycolleague, 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 menas yourself and Lestrade upon the ground, there will not be much for a thirdparty to find out," he said.
Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. "I think we have done allthat can be done," he answered; "it's a queer case, though, and I knew yourtaste 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 strodeon into the house followed by Gregson, whose features expressed hisastonishment.
A short passage, bare-planked and dusty, led to the kitchen and offices. Twodoors opened out of it to the left and to the right. One of these had obviouslybeen closed for many weeks. The other belonged to the dining-room, which wasthe 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 ofdeath inspires.
It was a large square room, looking all the larger from the absence of allfurniture. A vulgar flaring paper adorned the walls, but it was blotched inplaces with mildew, and here and there great strips had become detached andhung down, exposing the yellow plaster beneath. Opposite the door was a showyfireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece of imitation white marble. On one cornerof this was stuck the stump of a red wax candle. The solitary window was sodirty that the [] lightwas hazy and uncertain, giving a dull gray tinge to everything, which wasintensified by the thick layer of dust which coated the whole apartment