Colonel Carruthers. My mind is like a racing engine, tearing itself
to pieces because it is not connected up with the work for which it
was built. Life is commonplace, the papers are sterile; audacity and
romance seem to have passed forever from the criminal world. Can you
ask me, then, whether I am ready to look into any new problem,
however trivial it may prove? But here, unless I am mistaken, is our
client."
A measured step was heard upon the stairs, and a moment later a
stout, tall, gray-whiskered and solemnly respectable person was
ushered into the room. His life history was written in his heavy
features and pompous manner. From his spats to his gold-rimmed
spectacles he was a Conservative, a churchman, a good citizen,
orthodox and conventional to the last degree. But some amazing
experience had disturbed his native composure and left its traces in
his bristling hair, his flushed, angry cheeks, and his flurried,
excited manner. He plunged instantly into his business.
"I have had a most singular and unpleasant experience, Mr. Holmes,"
said he. "Never in my life have I been placed in such a situation. It
is most improper--most outrageous. I must insist upon some
explanation." He swelled and puffed in his anger.
"Pray sit down, Mr. Scott Eccles," said Holmes in a soothing voice.
"May I ask, in the first place, why you came to me at all?"
"Well, sir, it did not appear to be a matter which concerned the
police, and yet, when you have heard the facts, you must admit that I
could not leave it where it was. Private detectives are a class with
whom I have absolutely no sympathy, but none the less, having heard
your name--"
"Quite so. But, in the second place, why did you not come at once?"
"What do you mean?"
Holmes glanced at his watch.
"It is a quarter-past two," he said. "Your telegram was dispatched
about one. But no one can glance at your toilet and attire without
seeing that your disturbance dates from the moment of your waking."
Our client smoothed down his unbrushed hair and felt his unshaven
chin.
"You are right, Mr. Holmes. I never gave a thought to my toilet. I
was only too glad to get out of such a house. But I have been running
round making inquiries before I came to you. I went to the house
agents, you know, and they said that Mr. Garcia's rent was paid up
all right and that everything was in order at Wisteria Lodge."
"Come, come, sir," said Holmes, laughing. "You are like my friend,
Dr. Watson, who has a bad habit of telling his stories wrong end
foremost. Please arrange your thoughts and let me know, in their due
sequence, exactly what those events are which have sent you out
unbrushed and unkempt, with dress boots and waistcoat buttoned awry,
in search of advice and assistance."
Our client looked down with a rueful face at his own unconventional
appearance.
"I'm sure it must look very bad, Mr. Holmes, and I am not aware that
in my whole life such a thing has ever happened before. But will tell
you the whole queer business, and when I have done so you will admit,
I am sure, that there has been enough to excuse me."
But his narrative was nipped in the bud. There was a bustle outside,
and Mrs. Hudson opened the door to usher in two robust and
official-looking individuals, one of whom was well known to us as
Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard, an energetic, gallant, and,
within his limitations, a capable officer. He shook hands with Holmes
and introduced his comrade as Inspector Baynes, of the Surrey
Constabulary.
"We are hunting together, Mr. Holmes, and our trail lay in this
direction." He turned his bulldog eyes upon our visitor. "Are you Mr.
John Scott Eccles, of Popham House, Lee?"
"I am."
"We have been following you about all the morning."
"You traced him through the telegram, no doubt," said Holmes.
"Exactly, Mr. Holmes. We picked up the scent at Charing Cross
Post-Office and came on here."
"But why do you follow me? What do you want?"
"We wish a statement, Mr. Scott Eccles, as to the events which let up
to the death last night of Mr. Aloysius Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge,
near Esher."
Our client had sat up with staring eyes and every tinge of colour
struck from his astonished face.
"Dead? Did you say he was dead?"
"Yes, sir, he is dead."
"But how? An accident?"
"Murder, if ever there was one upon earth."
"Good God! This is awful! You don't mean--you don't mean that I am
suspected?"
"A letter of yours was found in the dead man's pocket, and we know by
it that you had planned to pass last night at his house."
"So I did."
"Oh, you did, did you?"
Out came the official notebook.
"Wait a bit, Gregson," said Sherlock Holmes. "All you desire is a
plain statement, is it not?"
"And it is my duty to warn Mr. Scott Eccles that it may be used
against him."
"Mr. Eccles was going to tell us about it when you entered the room.
I think, Watson, a brandy and soda would do him no harm. Now, sir, I
suggest that you take no notice of this addition to your audience,
and that you proceed with your narrative exactly as you would have
done had you never been interrupted."
Our visitor had gulped off the brandy and the colour had returned to
his face. With a dubious glance at the inspector's notebook, he
plunged at once into his extraordinary statement.
"I am a bachelor," said he, "and being of a sociable turn I cultivate
a large number of friends. Among these are the family of a retired
brewer called Melville, living at Abermarle Mansion, Kensington. It
was at his table that I met some weeks ago a young fellow named
Garcia. He was, I understood, of Spanish descent and connected in
some way with the embassy. He spoke perfect English, was pleasing in
his manners, and as good-looking a man as ever I saw in my life.
"In some way we struck up quite a friendship, this young fellow and
I. He seemed to take a fancy to me from the first, and within two
days of our meeting he came to see me at Lee. One thing led to
another, and it ended in his inviting me out to spend a few days at
his house, Wisteria Lodge, between Esher and Oxshott. Yesterday
evening I went to Esher to fulfil this engagement.
"He had described his household to me before I went there. He lived
with a faithful servant, a countryman of his own, who looked after
all his needs. This fellow could speak English and did his
housekeeping for him. Then there was a wonderful cook, he said, a
half-breed whom he had picked up in his travels, who could serve an
excellent dinner. I remember that he remarked what a queer household
it was to find in the heart of Surrey, and that I agreed with him,
though it has proved a good deal queerer than I thought.
"I drove to the place--about two miles on the south side of Esher.
The house was a fair-sized one, standing back from the road, with a
curving drive which was banked with high evergreen shrubs. It was an
old, tumbledown building in a crazy state of disrepair. When the trap
pulled up on the grass-grown drive in front of the blotched and
weather-stained door, I had doubts as to my wisdom in visiting a man
whom I knew so slightly. He opened the door himself, however, and
greeted me with a great show of cordiality. I was handed over to the
manservant, a melancholy, swarthy individual, who led the way, my bag
in his hand, to my bedroom. The whole place was depressing. Our
dinner was t阾e-?t阾e, and though my host did his best to be
entertaining, his thoughts seemed to continually wander, and he
talked so vaguely and wildly that I could hardly understand him. He
continually drummed his fingers on the table, gnawed his nails, and
gave other signs of nervous impatience. The dinner itself was neither
well served nor well cooked, and the gloomy presence of the taciturn
servant did not help to enliven us. I can assure you that many times
in the course of the evening I wished that I could invent some excuse
which would take me back to Lee.
"One thing comes back to my memory which may have a bearing upon the
business that you two gentlemen are investigating. I thought nothing
of it at the time. Near the end of dinner a note was handed in by the
servant. I noticed that after my host had read it he seemed even more
distrait and strange than before. He gave up all pretence at
conversation and sat, smoking endless cigarettes, lost in his own
thoughts, but he made no remark as to the contents. About eleven I
was glad to go to bed. Some time later Garcia looked in at my
door--the room was dark at the time--and asked me if I had rung. I
said that I had not. He apologized for having disturbed me so late,
saying that it was nearly one o'clock. I dropped off after this and
slept soundly all night.
"And now I come to the amazing part of my tale. When I woke it was
broad daylight. I glanced at my watch, and the time was nearly nine.
I had particularly asked to be called at eight, so I was very much
astonished at this forgetfulness. I sprang up and rang for the
servant. There was no response. I rang again and again, with the same
result. Then I came to the conclusion that the bell was out of order.
I huddled on my clothes and hurried downstairs in an exceedingly bad
temper to order some hot water. You can imagine my surprise when I
found that there was no one there. I shouted in the hall. There was
no answer. Then I ran from room to room. All were deserted. My host
had shown me which was his bedroom the night before, so I knocked at
the door. No reply. I turned the handle and walked in. The room was
empty, and the bed had never been slept in. He had gone with the
rest. The foreign host, the foreign footman, the foreign cook, all
had vanished in the night! That was the end of my visit to Wisteria
Lodge."
Sherlock Holmes was rubbing his hands and chuckling as he added this
bizarre incident to his collection of strange episodes.
"Your experience is, so far as I know, perfectly unique," said he.
"May I ask, sir, what you did then?"
"I was furious. My first idea was that I had been the victim of some
absurd practical joke. I packed my things, banged the hall door
behind me, and set off for Esher, with my bag in my hand. I called at
Allan Brothers', the chief land agents in the village, and found that
it was from this firm that the villa had been rented. It struck me
that the whole proceeding could hardly be for the purpose of making a
fool of me, and that the main objet must be to get out of the rent.
It is late in March, so quarter-day is at hand. But this theory would
not work. The agent was obliged to me for my warning, but told me
that the rent had been paid in advance. Then I made my way to town
and called at the Spanish embassy. The man was unknown there. After
this I went to see Melville, at whose house I had first met Garcia,
but I found that he really knew rather less about him than I did.
Finally when I got your reply to my wire I came out to you, since I
gather that you are a person who gives advice in difficult cases. But
now, Mr. Inspector, I understand, from what you said when you entered
the room, that you can carry the story on, and that some tragedy had
occurred. I can assure you that every word I have said is the truth,
and that, outside of what I have told you, I know absolutely nothing
about the fate of this man. My only desire is to help the law in
every possible way."
"I am sure of it, Mr. Scott Eccles--I am sure of it," said Inspector
Gregson in a very amiable tone. "I am bound to say that everything
which you have said agrees very closely with the facts as they have
come to our notice. For example, there was that note which arrived
during dinner. Did you chance to observe what became of it?"
"Yes, I did. Garcia rolled it up and threw it into the fire."
"What do you say to that, Mr. Baynes?"
The country detective was a stout, puffy, red man, whose face was
only redeemed from grossness by two extraordinarily bright eyes,
almost hidden behind the heavy creases of cheek and brow. With a slow
smile he drew a folded and discoloured scrap of paper from his
pocket.
"It was a dog-grate, Mr. Holmes, and he overpitched it. I picked this
out unburned from the back of it."
Holmes smiled his appreciation.
"You must have examined the house very carefully to find a single
pellet of paper."
"I did, Mr. Holmes. It's my way. Shall I read it, Mr. Gregson?"
The Londoner nodded.
"The note is written upon ordinary cream-laid paper without
watermark. It is a quarter-sheet. The paper is cut off in two snips
with a short-bladed scissors. It has been folded over three times and
sealed with purple wax, put on hurriedly and pressed down with some
