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 shoe. Since the cab was there after the rain began, and was not there at any time during the morning-I have Gregson's word for that-it follows that it must have been there during the night, and, therefore, that it brought those two individuals to the house."
"That seems
simple enough," said I; "but how about the other man's
height?"
"Why, the
height of a man, in nine cases out of ten, can be told from the
length of his
stride. It is a
simple calculation enough, though there is no use my
boring you with figures. I had this fellow's
stride both on the
clay outside and on the dust within. Then I had a way of checking my
calculation. When a man writes on a wall, his
instinct leads him to write about the
level of his own eyes. Now that writing was just over six feet from the ground. It was child's play."
"And his age?" I asked.
"Well, if a man can
stride four and a-half feet without the smallest
effort, he can't be quite in the
sere and yellow. That was the
breadth of a
puddle on the garden walk which he had evidently walked across. Patent-
leather boots had gone round, and Square-toes had hopped over. There is no
mystery about it at all. I am simply applying to
ordinary life a few of those precepts of
observation and
deduction which I advocated in that
article. Is there anything else that puzzles you?"
"The finger nails and the Trichinopoly," I suggested.
"The writing on the wall was done with a man's forefinger dipped in blood. My glass allowed me to
observe that the plaster was slightly scratched in doing it, which would not have been the case if the man's nail had been trimmed. I gathered up some scattered
ash from the floor. It was dark in colour and flakey-such an
ash as is only made by a Trichinopoly. I have made a
special study of cigar ashes-in
fact, I have written a
monograph upon the
subject. I
flatter myself that I can
distinguish at a
glance the
ash of any known
brand, either of cigar or of
tobacco. It is just in such details that the skilled
detective differs from the Gregson and Lestrade type."
"And the
florid face?" I asked.
"Ah, that was a more
daring shot, though I have no
doubt that I was
right. You must not ask me that at the present
state of the
affair."
I passed my hand over my brow. "My head is in a
whirl," I remarked; "the more one thinks of it the more
mysterious it grows. How came these two men-if there were two men-into an
empty house? What has become of the cabman who drove them? How could one man
compel another to take
poison? Where did the blood come from? What was the
object of the murderer, since robbery had no part in it? How came the woman's ring there? Above all, why should the second man write up the German word RACHE before decamping? I
confess that I cannot see any
possible way of reconciling all these facts."
My
companion smiled approvingly.
"You
sum up the difficulties of the
situation succinctly and well," he said. "There is much that is still
obscure, though I have quite made up my
mind on the main facts. As to poor Lestrade's
discovery it was simply a
blind intended to put the police upon a wrong
track, by suggesting Socialism and secret societies. It was not done by a German. The A, if you noticed, was printed somewhat after the German
fashion. Now, a real German
invariably prints in the Latin
character, so that we may
safely say that this was not written by one, but by a
clumsy imitator who overdid his part. It was simply a
ruse to
divert inquiry into a wrong
channel. I'm not going to tell you much more of the case, Doctor. You know a conjuror gets no
credit when once he has explained his trick, and if I show you too much of my
method of working, you will come to the
conclusion that I am a very
ordinary individual after all."
"I shall never do that," I answered; "you have brought
detection as near an
exact science as it ever will be brought in this world."
My
companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the
earnest way in which I uttered them. I had already observed that he was as
sensitive to
flattery on the
score of his art as any girl could be of her beauty.
"I'll tell you one other thing," he said. "Patent leathers 10 and Square-toes came in the same cab, and they walked down the pathway together as friendly as
possible-arm-in-arm, in all
probability. When they got inside they walked up and down the room-or rather, Patent-leathers stood still while Square-toes walked up and down. I could read all that in the dust; and I could read that as he walked he grew more and more excited. That is shown by the increased
length of his strides. He was talking all the while, and working himself up, no
doubt, into a
fury. Then the
tragedy occurred. I've told you all I know myself now, for the rest is
mere surmise and
conjecture. We have a good working
basis, however, on which to start. We must hurry up, for I want to go to Halle's
concert to hear Norman Neruda this afternoon."
This
conversation had occurred while our cab had been threading its way
through a long
succession of
dingy streets and
dreary by-ways. In the dingiest and dreariest of them our driver
suddenly came to a stand. "That's Audley Court in there," he said, pointing to a
narrow slit in the line of dead-coloured brick. "You'll find me here when you come back."
Audley Court was not an
attractive locality. The
narrow passage led us into a
quadrangle paved with flags and lined by
sordid dwellings. We picked our way among groups of dirty children, and
through lines of discoloured
linen, until we came to Number 46, the door of which was decorated with a small slip of brass on which the name Rance was engraved. On enquiry we found that the constable was in bed, and we were shown into a little front parlour to
await his coming.
He appeared
presently, looking a little
irritable at being disturbed in his slumbers. "I made my
report at the
office," he said.
Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket and played with it pensively. "We
thought that we should like to hear it all from your own lips," he said.
"I shall be most happy to tell you anything I can," the constable answered with his eyes upon the little golden disk.
"Just let us hear it all in your own way as it occurred."
Rance sat down on the horsehair sofa, and knitted his brows as though
determined not to
omit anything in his
narrative.
I'll tell it ye from the beginning," he said. "My time is from ten at night to six in the morning. At eleven there was a fight at the 'White Hart'; but
bar that all was quiet enough on the beat. At one o'clock it began to rain, and I met Harry Murcher-him who has the Holland Grove beat-and we stood together at the
corner of Henrietta Street a-talkin'. Presently-maybe about two or a little after-I
thought I would take a look round and see that all was
right down the Brixton Road. It was
precious dirty and
lonely. Not a
soul did I meet all the way down, though a cab or two went past me. I was a strollin' down, thinkin' between ourselves how uncommon handy a four of gin hot would be, when
suddenly the
glint of a light caught my eye in the window of that same house. Now, I knew that them two houses in Lauriston Gardens was
empty on
account of him that owns them who won't have the drains seen to, though the very last
tenant what lived in one of them died o'
typhoid fever. I was knocked all in a heap therefore at seeing a light in the window, and I suspected as something was wrong. When I got to the door--"
"You stopped, and then walked back to the garden gate," my
companion interrupted. "What did you do that for?"
Rance gave a
violent jump, and stared at Sherlock Holmes with the
utmost amazement upon his features.
"Why, that's true, sir," he said; "though how you come to know it, Heaven only knows. Ye see, when I got up to the door it was so still and so
lonesome, that I
thought I'd be none the worse for some one with me. I ain't afeared of anything on this side o' the
grave; but I
thought that maybe it was him that died o' the
typhoid inspecting the drains what killed him. The
thought gave me a kind o' turn, and I walked back to the gate to see if I could see Murcher's
lantern, but there wasn't no sign of him nor of anyone else."
"There was no one in the street?"
"Not a livin'
soul, sir, nor as much as a dog. Then I pulled myself together and went back and pushed the door open. All was quiet inside, so I went into the room where the light was a-burnin'. There was a candle flickerin' on the mantelpiece-a red
wax one-and by its light I saw--"
"Yes, I know all that you saw. You walked round the room
several times, and you knelt down by the body, and then you walked
through and tried the kitchen door, and then--"
John Rance sprang to his feet with a
frightened face and
suspicion in his eyes. "Where was you hid to see all that?" he cried. "It seems to me that you knows a deal more than you should."
Holmes laughed and threw his card across the
table to the constable. "Don't get
arresting me for the
murder," he said. "I am one of the hounds and not the wolf; Mr. Gregson or Mr. Lestrade will answer for that. Go on, though. What did you do next?"
Rance resumed his seat, without however losing his mystified
expression. "I went back to the gate and sounded my
whistle. That brought Murcher and two more to the spot."
"Was the street
empty then?"
"Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good goes."
"What do you
mean?"
The constable's features broadened into a grin. "I've seen many a drunk
chap in my time," he said, "but never anyone so cryin' drunk as that
cove. He was at the gate when I came out, a-leanin' up agin the railings, and a-singin' at the
pitch o' his lungs about Columbine's New-fangled Banner, or some such stuff. He couldn't stand, far less help."
"What sort of a man was he?" asked Sherlock Holmes.
John Rance appeared to be somewhat
irritated at this
digression. "He was an uncommon drunk sort o' man," he said. "He'd ha' found hisself in the
station if we hadn't been so took up."
"His face-his dress-didn't you
notice them?" Holmes broke in impatiently.
"I should think I did
notice them, seeing that I had to prop him up-me and Murcher between us. He was a long
chap, with a red face, the lower part
muffled round--"
"That will do," cried Holmes. "What became of him?"
"We'd enough to do without lookin' after him," the policeman said, in an aggrieved voice. "I'll
wager he found his way home all
right."
"How was he dressed?"
"A brown overcoat."
"Had he a whip in his hand?"
"A whip-no."
"He must have left it behind," muttered my
companion. "You didn't happen to see or hear a cab after that?"
"No."
"There's a half-sovereign for you," my
companion said, standing up and taking his hat. "I am afraid, Rance, that you will never rise in the
force. That head of yours should be for use as well as
ornament. You
might have gained your
sergeant's stripes last night. The man whom you held in your hands is the man who holds the
clue of this
mystery, and whom we are seeking. There is no use of arguing about it now; I tell you that it is so. Come along, Doctor."
We started off for the cab together, leaving our informant
incredulous, but
obviously uncomfortable.
"The blundering fool," Holmes said, bitterly, as we drove back to our lodgings. "Just to think of his having such an
incomparable bit of good luck, and not taking
advantage of it."
"I am rather in the dark still. It is true that the
description of this man tallies with your idea of the second party in this
mystery. But why should he come back to the house after leaving it? That is not the way of criminals."
"The ring, man, the ring: that was what he came back for. If we have no other way of catching him, we can always
bait our line with the ring. I shall have him, Doctor-I'll lay you two to one that I have him. I must thank you for it all. I
might not have gone but for you, and so have missed the finest
study I ever came across: a
study in scarlet, eh? Why shouldn't we use a little art
jargon. There's the scarlet
thread of
murder running
through the colourless
skein of life, and our
duty is to
unravel it, and
isolate it, and
expose every
inch of it. And now for lunch, and then for Norman Neruda. Her
attack and her bowing are
splendid. What's that little thing of Chopin's she plays so magnificently: Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay."
Leaning back in the cab, this
amateur bloodhound carolled away like a
lark while I meditated upon the many-sidedness of the
human mind.