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 ac-
count 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 bear-
ing 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 per-
petration by political refugees and revolutionists.
The Socialists had many branches in America, and
the deceased had, no doubt, infringed their unwrit-
ten laws, and been tracked down by them. After
alluding airily to the Vehmgericht, aqua tofana,
Carbonari, the Marchioness de Brinvilliers, the Dar-
winian 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 law-
less outrages of the sort usually occurred under a
Liberal Administration. They arose from the un-
settling of the minds of the masses, and the con-
sequent weakening of all authority. The deceased
was an American gentleman who had been resid-
ing for some weeks in the Metropolis. He had
stayed at the boarding-house of Madame Charp-
entier, 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 de-
parted to Euston Station with the avowed intention
of catching the Liverpool express. They were after-
wards 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 ques-
tions 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 ani-
mated 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 un-
dergone. 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. What-
ever 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 mo-
ment there came the pattering of many steps in the
hall and on the stairs, accompanied by audible ex-
pressions 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 organi-
sation.”
“Is it on this Brixton case that you are employ-
ing 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, rub-
bing his fat hands and inflating his chest.
Sherlock Holmes gave a sigh of relief, and re-
laxed 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 sud-
denly he slapped his thigh in a paroxysm of amuse-
ment.
“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 peo-
ple would have waited until their advertisements
were answered, or until parties came forward and
volunteered information. That is not Tobias Greg-
son’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 Char-
pentier’s Boarding Establishment, Torquay Terrace.
Thus I got at his address.”
“Smart—very smart!” murmured Sherlock
Holmes.
“I next called upon Madame Charpentier,” con-
tinued 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.
“ ‘At eight o’clock,’ she said, gulping in her
throat to keep down her agitation. ‘His secre-
tary, Mr. Stangerson, said that there were two
trains—one at 9.15 and one at 11. He was to catch
the first.’
“ ‘And was that the last which you saw of him?’
“A terrible change came over the woman’s face
as I asked the question. Her features turned per-
fectly livid. It was some seconds before she could
get out the single word ‘Yes’—and when it did
come it was in a husky unnatural tone.
“There was silence for a moment, and then the
daughter spoke in a calm clear voice.
“ ‘No good can ever come of falsehood, mother,’
she said. ‘Let us be frank with this gentleman. We
did see Mr. Drebber again.’
“ ‘God forgive you!’ cried Madame Charpentier,
throwing up her hands and sinking back in her
chair. ‘You have murdered your brother.’
“ ‘Arthur would rather that we spoke the truth,’
the girl answered firmly.
“ ‘You had best tell me all about it now,’ I said.
‘Half-confidences are worse than none. Besides, you
do not know how much we know of it.’
“ ‘On your head be it, Alice!’ cried her mother;
and then, turning to me, ‘I will tell you all, sir. Do
not imagine that my agitation on behalf of my son
arises from any fear lest he should have had a hand
in this terrible affair. He is utterly innocent of it.
My dread is, however, that in your eyes and in the
eyes of others he may appear to be compromised.
That however is surely impossible. His high charac-
ter, his profession, his antecedents would all forbid
it.’
“ ‘Your best way is to make a clean breast of the
facts,’ I answered. ‘Depend upon it, if your son is
innocent he will be none the worse.’
“ ‘Perhaps, Alice, you had better leave us to-
gether,’ she said, and her daughter withdrew. ‘Now,
sir,’ she continued, ‘I had no intention of telling you
all this, but since my poor daughter has disclosed it
I have no alternative. Having once decided to speak,
I will tell you all without omitting any particular.’
“ ‘It is your wisest course,’ said I.
“ ‘Mr. Drebber has been with us nearly three
weeks. He and his secretary, Mr. Stangerson,
had been travelling on the Continent. I noticed
a “Copenhagen” label upon each of their trunks,
showing that that had been their last stopping place.
Stangerson was a quiet reserved man, but his em-
ployer, I am sorry to say, was far otherwise. He was
coarse in his habits and brutish in his ways. The
very night of his arrival he became very much the
worse for drink, and, indeed, after twelve o’clock
in the day he could hardly ever be said to be sober.
His manners towards the maid-servants were dis-
gustingly free and familiar. Worst of all, he speedily
assumed the same attitude towards my daughter,
Alice, and spoke to her more than once in a way
which, fortunately, she is too innocent to under-
stand. On one occasion he actually seized her in his
arms and embraced her—an outrage which caused
his own secretary to reproach him for his unmanly
conduct.’
“ ‘But why did you stand all this,’ I asked. ‘I
suppose that you can get rid of your boarders when
you wish.’
“Mrs. Charpentier blushed at my pertinent ques-
tion. ‘Would to God that I had given him notice on
the very day that he came,’ she said. ‘But it was a
sore temptation. They were paying a pound a day
each—fourteen pounds a week, and this is the slack
season. I am a widow, and my boy in the Navy has
cost me much. I grudged to lose the money. I acted
for the best. This last was too much, however, and I
gave him notice to leave on account of it. That was
the reason of his going.’
“ ‘Well?’
“ ‘My heart grew light when I saw him drive
away. My son is on leave just now, but I did not tell
him anything of all this, for his temper is violent,
and he is passionately fond of his sister. When I
closed the door behind them a load seemed to be
lifted from my mind. Alas, in less than an hour
there was a ring at the bell, and I learned that
Mr. Drebber had returned. He was much excited,
and evidently the worse for drink. He forced his
way into the room, where I was sitting with my
daughter, and made some incoherent remark about
having missed his train. He then turned to Alice,
and before my very face, proposed to her that she
should fly with him. “You are of age,” he said, “and
there is no law to stop you. I have money enough
and to spare. Never mind the old girl here, but
come along with me now straight away. You shall
live like a princess.” Poor Alice was so frightened
that she shrunk away from him, but he caught her
by the wrist and endeavoured to draw her towards
the door. I screamed, and at that moment my son
Arthur came into the room. What happened then
I do not know. I heard oaths and the confused
sounds of a scuffle. I was too terrified to raise my
head. When I did look up I saw Arthur standing in
the doorway laughing, with a stick in his hand. “I
don’t think that fine fellow will trouble us again,”
he said. “I will just go after him and see what
he does with himself.” With those words he took
his hat and started off down the street. The next
morning we heard of Mr. Drebber’s mysterious
death.’
“This statement came from Mrs. Charpentier’s
lips with many gasps and pauses. At times she
spoke so low that I could hardly catch the words. I
made shorthand notes of all that she said, however,
so that there should be no possibility of a mistake.”
“It’s quite exciting,” said Sherlock Holmes, with
a yawn. “What happened next?”
“When Mrs. Charpentier paused,” the detective
continued, “I saw that the whole case hung upon
one point. Fixing her with my eye in a way which I
always found effective with women, I asked her at
what hour her son returned.
“ ‘I do not know,’ she answered.
“ ‘Not know?’
“ ‘No; he has a latch-key, and he let himself in.’
“ ‘After you went to bed?’
“ ‘Yes.’
“ ‘When did you go to bed?’
“ ‘About eleven.’
“ ‘So your son was gone at least two hours?’
“ ‘Yes.’
“ ‘Possibly four or five?’
“ ‘Yes.’
“ ‘What was he doing during that time?’
“ ‘I do not know,’ she answered, turning white
to her very lips.
“Of course after that there was nothing more to
be done. I found out where Lieutenant Charpen-
tier was, took two officers with me, and arrested
him. When I touched him on the shoulder and
warned him to come quietly with us, he answered
us as bold as brass, ‘I suppose you are arresting me
for being concerned in the death of that scoundrel
Drebber,’ he said. We had said nothing to him
about it, so that his alluding to it had a most suspi-
cious aspect.”
“Very,” said Holmes.
“He still carried the heavy stick which the
mother described him as having with him when he
followed Drebber. It was a stout oak cudgel.”
“What is your theory, then?”
“Well, my theory is that he followed Drebber as
far as the Brixton Road. When there, a fresh alter-
cation arose between them, in the course of which
Drebber received a blow from the stick, in the pit
of the stomach, perhaps, which killed him without
leaving any mark. The night was so wet that no
one was about, so Charpentier dragged the body of
his victim into the empty house. As to the candle,
and the blood, and the writing on the wall, and the
ring, they may all be so many tricks to throw the
police on to the wrong scent.”
“Well done!” said Holmes in an encouraging
voice. “Really, Gregson, you are getting along. We
shall make something of you yet.”
“I flatter myself that I have managed it rather
neatly,” the detective answered proudly. “The
young man volunteered a statement, in which he
said that after following Drebber some time, the
latter perceived him, and took a cab in order to
get away from him. On his way home he met an
old shipmate, and took a long walk with him. On
being asked where this old shipmate lived, he was
unable to give any satisfactory reply. I think the
whole case fits together uncommonly well. What
amuses me is to think of Lestrade, who had started
off upon the wrong scent. I am afraid he won’t
make much of—Why, by Jove, here’s the very man
himself!”
It was indeed Lestrade, who had ascended the
stairs while we were talking, and who now entered
the room. The assurance and jauntiness which
generally marked his demeanour and dress were,
however, wanting. His face was disturbed and trou-
bled, while his clothes were disarranged and untidy.
He had evidently come with the intention of con-
sulting with Sherlock Holmes, for on perceiving
his colleague he appeared to be embarrassed and
put out. He stood in the centre of the room, fum-
bling nervously with his hat and uncertain what to
do. “This is a most extraordinary case,” he said at
last—“a most incomprehensible affair.”
“Ah, you find it so, Mr. Lestrade!” cried Greg-
son, triumphantly. “I thought you would come to
that conclusion. Have you managed to find the
Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson?”
“The Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson,” said
Lestrade gravely, “was murdered at Halliday’s Private Hotel about six o’clock this morning.”
