A Study in Scarlet
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 well-trained 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 manœuvres 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.
CHAPTER IV.
WHAT JOHN RANCE HAD TO TELL.
It was one o’clock when we left No. 3, Lauriston Gardens. Sherlock
Holmes led me to the nearest telegraph office, whence he dispatched a
long telegram. He then hailed a cab, and ordered the driver to take us
to the address given us by Lestrade.
“There is nothing like first hand evidence,” he remarked; “as a matter
of fact, my mind is entirely made up upon the case, but still we may as
well learn all that is to be learned.”
“You amaze me, Holmes,” said I. “Surely you are not as sure as you
pretend to be of all those particulars which you gave.”
“There’s no room for a mistake,” he answered. “The very first thing
which I observed on arriving there was that a cab had made two ruts
with its wheels close to the curb. Now, up to last night, we have had
no rain for a week, so that those wheels which left such a deep
impression must have been there during the night. There were the marks
of the horse’s hoofs, too, the outline of one of which was far more
clearly cut than that of the other three, showing that that was a new