A Study in Scarlet
“I wouldn’t have the Scotland Yarders know it for the world,” he cried,
dropping into his chair; “I have chaffed them so much that they would
never have let me hear the end of it. I can afford to laugh, because I
know that I will be even with them in the long run.”
“What is it then?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t mind telling a story against myself. That creature had
gone a little way when she began to limp and show every sign of being
foot-sore. Presently she came to a halt, and hailed a four-wheeler
which was passing. I managed to be close to her so as to hear the
address, but I need not have been so anxious, for she sang it out loud
enough to be heard at the other side of the street, ‘Drive to 13,
Duncan Street, Houndsditch,’ she cried. This begins to look genuine, I
thought, and having seen her safely inside, I perched myself behind.
That’s an art which every detective should be an expert at. Well, away
we rattled, and never drew rein until we reached the street in
question. I hopped off before we came to the door, and strolled down
the street in an easy, lounging way. I saw the cab pull up. The driver
jumped down, and I saw him open the door and stand expectantly. Nothing
came out though. When I reached him he was groping about frantically in
the empty cab, and giving vent to the finest assorted collection of
oaths that ever I listened to. There was no sign or trace of his
passenger, and I fear it will be some time before he gets his fare. On
inquiring at Number 13 we found that the house belonged to a
respectable paperhanger, named Keswick, and that no one of the name
either of Sawyer or Dennis had ever been heard of there.”
“You don’t mean to say,” I cried, in amazement, “that that tottering,
feeble old woman was able to get out of the cab while it was in motion,
without either you or the driver seeing her?”
“Old woman be damned!” said Sherlock Holmes, sharply. “We were the old
women to be so taken in. It must have been a young man, and an active
one, too, besides being an incomparable actor. The get-up was
inimitable. He saw that he was followed, no doubt, and used this means
of giving me the slip. It shows that the man we are after is not as
lonely as I imagined he was, but has friends who are ready to risk
something for him. Now, Doctor, you are looking done-up. Take my advice
and turn in.”
I was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed his injunction. I left
Holmes seated in front of the smouldering fire, and long into the
watches of the night I heard the low, melancholy wailings of his
violin, and knew that he was still pondering over the strange problem
which he had set himself to unravel.
CHAPTER VI.
TOBIAS GREGSON SHOWS WHAT HE CAN DO.
The papers next day were full of the “Brixton Mystery,” as they termed
it. Each had a long account of the affair, and some had leaders upon it
in addition. There was some information in them which was new to me. I
still retain in my scrap-book numerous clippings and extracts bearing
upon the case. Here is a condensation of a few of them:—
The _Daily Telegraph_ remarked that in the history of crime there had
seldom been a tragedy which presented stranger features. The German
name of the victim, the absence of all other motive, and the sinister
inscription on the wall, all pointed to its perpetration by political
refugees and revolutionists. The Socialists had many branches in
America, and the deceased had, no doubt, infringed their unwritten
laws, and been tracked down by them. After alluding airily to the
Vehmgericht, aqua tofana, Carbonari, the Marchioness de Brinvilliers,
the Darwinian theory, the principles of Malthus, and the Ratcliff
Highway murders, the article concluded by admonishing the Government
and advocating a closer watch over foreigners in England.
The _Standard_ commented upon the fact that lawless outrages of the
sort usually occurred under a Liberal Administration. They arose from
the unsettling of the minds of the masses, and the consequent weakening
of all authority. The deceased was an American gentleman who had been
residing for some weeks in the Metropolis. He had stayed at the
boarding-house of Madame Charpentier, in Torquay Terrace, Camberwell.
He was accompanied in his travels by his private secretary, Mr. Joseph
Stangerson. The two bade adieu to their landlady upon Tuesday, the 4th
inst., and departed to Euston Station with the avowed intention of
catching the Liverpool express. They were afterwards seen together upon
the platform. Nothing more is known of them until Mr. Drebber’s body
was, as recorded, discovered in an empty house in the Brixton Road,
many miles from Euston. How he came there, or how he met his fate, are
questions which are still involved in mystery. Nothing is known of the
whereabouts of Stangerson. We are glad to learn that Mr. Lestrade and
Mr. Gregson, of Scotland Yard, are both engaged upon the case, and it
is confidently anticipated that these well-known officers will speedily
throw light upon the matter.
The _Daily News_ observed that there was no doubt as to the crime being
a political one. The despotism and hatred of Liberalism which animated
the Continental Governments had had the effect of driving to our shores
a number of men who might have made excellent citizens were they not
soured by the recollection of all that they had undergone. Among these
men there was a stringent code of honour, any infringement of which was
punished by death. Every effort should be made to find the secretary,
Stangerson, and to ascertain some particulars of the habits of the
deceased. A great step had been gained by the discovery of the address
of the house at which he had boarded—a result which was entirely due to
the acuteness and energy of Mr. Gregson of Scotland Yard.
Sherlock Holmes and I read these notices over together at breakfast,
and they appeared to afford him considerable amusement.
“I told you that, whatever happened, Lestrade and Gregson would be sure
to score.”
“That depends on how it turns out.”
“Oh, bless you, it doesn’t matter in the least. If the man is caught,
it will be _on account_ of their exertions; if he escapes, it will be
_in spite_ of their exertions. It’s heads I win and tails you lose.
Whatever they do, they will have followers. ‘Un sot trouve toujours un
plus sot qui l’admire.’”
“What on earth is this?” I cried, for at this moment there came the
pattering of many steps in the hall and on the stairs, accompanied by
audible expressions of disgust upon the part of our landlady.
“It’s the Baker Street division of the detective police force,” said my
companion, gravely; and as he spoke there rushed into the room half a
dozen of the dirtiest and most ragged street Arabs that ever I clapped
eyes on.
“‘Tention!” cried Holmes, in a sharp tone, and the six dirty little
scoundrels stood in a line like so many disreputable statuettes. “In
future you shall send up Wiggins alone to report, and the rest of you
must wait in the street. Have you found it, Wiggins?”
“No, sir, we hain’t,” said one of the youths.
“I hardly expected you would. You must keep on until you do. Here are
your wages.” He handed each of them a shilling.
“Now, off you go, and come back with a better report next time.”
He waved his hand, and they scampered away downstairs like so many
rats, and we heard their shrill voices next moment in the street.
“There’s more work to be got out of one of those little beggars than
out of a dozen of the force,” Holmes remarked. “The mere sight of an
official-looking person seals men’s lips. These youngsters, however, go
everywhere and hear everything. They are as sharp as needles, too; all
they want is organisation.”
“Is it on this Brixton case that you are employing them?” I asked.
“Yes; there is a point which I wish to ascertain. It is merely a matter
of time. Hullo! we are going to hear some news now with a vengeance!
Here is Gregson coming down the road with beatitude written upon every
feature of his face. Bound for us, I know. Yes, he is stopping. There
he is!”
There was a violent peal at the bell, and in a few seconds the
fair-haired detective came up the stairs, three steps at a time, and
burst into our sitting-room.
“My dear fellow,” he cried, wringing Holmes’ unresponsive hand,
“congratulate me! I have made the whole thing as clear as day.”
A shade of anxiety seemed to me to cross my companion’s expressive
face.
“Do you mean that you are on the right track?” he asked.
“The right track! Why, sir, we have the man under lock and key.”
“And his name is?”
“Arthur Charpentier, sub-lieutenant in Her Majesty’s navy,” cried
Gregson, pompously, rubbing his fat hands and inflating his chest.
Sherlock Holmes gave a sigh of relief, and relaxed into a smile.
“Take a seat, and try one of these cigars,” he said. “We are anxious to
know how you managed it. Will you have some whiskey and water?”
“I don’t mind if I do,” the detective answered. “The tremendous
exertions which I have gone through during the last day or two have
worn me out. Not so much bodily exertion, you understand, as the strain
upon the mind. You will appreciate that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for we
are both brain-workers.”
“You do me too much honour,” said Holmes, gravely. “Let us hear how you
arrived at this most gratifying result.”
The detective seated himself in the arm-chair, and puffed complacently
at his cigar. Then suddenly he slapped his thigh in a paroxysm of
amusement.
“The fun of it is,” he cried, “that that fool Lestrade, who thinks
himself so smart, has gone off upon the wrong track altogether. He is
after the secretary Stangerson, who had no more to do with the crime
than the babe unborn. I have no doubt that he has caught him by this
time.”
The idea tickled Gregson so much that he laughed until he choked.
“And how did you get your clue?”
“Ah, I’ll tell you all about it. Of course, Doctor Watson, this is
strictly between ourselves. The first difficulty which we had to
contend with was the finding of this American’s antecedents. Some
people would have waited until their advertisements were answered, or
until parties came forward and volunteered information. That is not
Tobias Gregson’s way of going to work. You remember the hat beside the
dead man?”
“Yes,” said Holmes; “by John Underwood and Sons, 129, Camberwell Road.”
Gregson looked quite crest-fallen.
“I had no idea that you noticed that,” he said. “Have you been there?”
“No.”
“Ha!” cried Gregson, in a relieved voice; “you should never neglect a
chance, however small it may seem.”
“To a great mind, nothing is little,” remarked Holmes, sententiously.
“Well, I went to Underwood, and asked him if he had sold a hat of that
size and description. He looked over his books, and came on it at once.
He had sent the hat to a Mr. Drebber, residing at Charpentier’s
Boarding Establishment, Torquay Terrace. Thus I got at his address.”
“Smart—very smart!” murmured Sherlock Holmes.
“I next called upon Madame Charpentier,” continued the detective. “I
found her very pale and distressed. Her daughter was in the room,
too—an uncommonly fine girl she is, too; she was looking red about the
eyes and her lips trembled as I spoke to her. That didn’t escape my
notice. I began to smell a rat. You know the feeling, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, when you come upon the right scent—a kind of thrill in your
nerves. ‘Have you heard of the mysterious death of your late boarder
Mr. Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland?’ I asked.
“The mother nodded. She didn’t seem able to get out a word. The
daughter burst into tears. I felt more than ever that these people knew
something of the matter.
“‘At what o’clock did Mr. Drebber leave your house for the train?’ I
asked.