The Lauriston Garden Mystery
I confess that I was considerably startled by this
fresh proof of the practical nature of my compan-
ion’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 rude-
ness. 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, sus-
pected that something was amiss. He
found the door open, and in the front
room, which is bare of furniture, dis-
covered 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 every-
thing 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 rip-
pled 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 ac-
knowledges 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 su-
perseded 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 be-
neath. 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 mis-
take 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 mis taken.”
“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 gar-
den 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 fur-
ther 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 an-
swered; “it’s a queer case though, and I knew your
taste for such things.”
“You did not come here in a cab?” asked Sher-
lock 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 ex-
pressed 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 apart-
ment 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 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 stand-
ing 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 nu-
merous 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 circum-
stances 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 noth-
ing new under the sun. It has all been done before.”
As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying
here, there, and everywhere, feeling, pressing, un-
buttoning, 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 mysti-
fied 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?” ob-
served 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 Bar-
raud, 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 Boccac-
cio’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 ap-
peared 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, reap-
peared upon the scene, rubbing his hands in a
pompous and self-satisfied manner.
“Mr. Gregson,” he said, “I have just made a dis-
covery of the highest importance, and one which
would have been overlooked had I not made a care-
ful 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 detec-
tive, 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 mantel-
piece. 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 some-
thing 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 mys-
tery. 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 kneel-
ing, 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 re-
minded 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 manœu-
vres of their amateur companion with considerable
curiosity and some contempt. They evidently failed
to appreciate the fact, which I had begun to real-
ize, 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, leav-
ing the two rivals open-mouthed behind him.
