Yard official can see through it."
I was still annoyed at his bumptious style of conversation. I thought
it best to change the topic.
"I wonder what that fellow is looking for?" I asked, pointing to a
stalwart, plainly-dressed individual who was walking slowly down the
other side of the street, looking anxiously at the numbers. He had a
large blue envelope in his hand, and was evidently the bearer of a
message.
"You mean the retired sergeant of Marines," said Sherlock Holmes.
"Brag and bounce!" thought I to myself. "He knows that I cannot
verify his guess."
The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man whom we
were watching caught sight of the number on our door, and ran rapidly
across the roadway. We heard a loud knock, a deep voice below, and
heavy steps ascending the stair.
"For Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, stepping into the room and
handing my friend the letter.
Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit out of him. He little
thought of this when he made that random shot. "May I ask, my lad," I
said, in the blandest voice, "what your trade may be?"
"Commissionaire, sir," he said, gruffly. "Uniform away for repairs."
"And you were?" I asked, with a slightly malicious glance at my
companion.
"A sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry, sir. No answer? Right,
sir."
He clicked his heels together, raised his hand in a salute, and was
gone.
CHAPTER III
The Lauriston Garden Mystery
I confess that I was considerably startled by this fresh proof of the
practical nature of my companion'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 rudeness. 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,
suspected that something was amiss. He found the door open, and in
the front room, which is bare of furniture, discovered 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
everything 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 rippled 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 acknowledges 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 superseded 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
beneath. 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 mistake 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 mistaken."
"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 garden 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 further 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 answered; "it's a queer case though,
and I knew your taste for such things."
"You did not come here in a cab?" asked Sherlock 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
expressed 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 apartment 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,
