What John Rance Had To Tell
It was one o’clock when we left No. 3, Lau-
riston 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 calcu-
lation. 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 de-
duction which I advocated in that article. Is there
anything else that puzzles you?”
“The finger nails and the Trichinopoly,” I sug-
gested.
“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 dis-
covery 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 invari-
ably 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 chan-
nel. 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 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 succes-
sion 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 deco-
rated 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 knit-
ted 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 morn-
ing. 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 Henri-
etta 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 seed 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 gar-
den gate,” my companion interrupted. “What did
you do that for?”
Rance gave a violent jump, and stared at Sher-
lock 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 ag’in
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 compan-
ion 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 mys-
tery, 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 uncomfort-
able.
“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 blood-
hound carolled away like a lark while I meditated
upon the many-sidedness of the human mind.
