A Study in Scarlet
“Brag and bounce!” thought I to myself. “He knows that I cannot verify
his guess.”
The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man whom we were
watching caught sight of the number on our door, and ran rapidly across
the roadway. We heard a loud knock, a deep voice below, and heavy steps
ascending the stair.
“For Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said, stepping into the room and handing
my friend the letter.
Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit out of him. He little
thought of this when he made that random shot. “May I ask, my lad,” I
said, in the blandest voice, “what your trade may be?”
“Commissionaire, sir,” he said, gruffly. “Uniform away for repairs.”
“And you were?” I asked, with a slightly malicious glance at my
companion.
“A sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry, sir. No answer? Right,
sir.”
He clicked his heels together, raised his hand in a salute, and was
gone.
CHAPTER III.
THE LAURISTON GARDENS 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 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 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 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 dun-coloured 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 ill-omened 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