The Veiled Detective (14 page)

“This Gregson...”

“A policeman. Inspector. Along with Lestrade he is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders.” Holmes wrinkled his nose. “That says little, however. They are the pick of a bad lot. They are quick and energetic — but conventional and limited in their outlook.”

It seemed a bitter irony that Holmes shared the same view of the
official police as Professor Moriarty.

“This Gregson is most earnest in his desire that you help them,” I said.

“He knows I am his superior and acknowledges it to me, but he would bite his tongue off rather than confess it to another soul.” Holmes gave a high-pitched giggle.

“You intend to help him?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. This has all the makings of a splendid case. We shall take a cab immediately to Lauriston Gardens.”

“
We
?”

“Oh, yes, you too, Doctor. I insist!” he cried, rising from the table and flapping off his dressing-gown. “I want you to witness my brilliance at first hand. I cannot have you thinking that I am merely capable of party tricks, simple deductions concerning where someone comes from or where they have been. You should see for yourself the very practical nature of my skills. I trust you don’t object to accompanying me?”

I could not help but grin at his suggestion. It was, of course, just the scenario I had hoped for.

Within five minutes we were in a cab on our way to Lauriston Gardens, off the Brixton Road, and my first adventure with Sherlock Holmes had begun.

It was a cold and misty morning, and a grey veil hung over the housetops. My companion was in an excited mood and was forever leaning forward to spy out of the window of the cab to check the progress of our journey, so eager was he to reach our destination.

“Have you formulated any theories about this strange business?” I asked.

Holmes shook his head vigorously. “No data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorise before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgement. That is why it is essential that I visit the scene to investigate it for myself; no
doubt Gregson will have missed numerous clues which could point the way to the truth. Ah, here were are at last: Lauriston Gardens.”

Holmes leapt up and instructed the driver to stop immediately. We were some hundred yards from the house in question, and we completed our journey on foot.

Number 3 Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and minatory look. It was one of four crumbling dwellings, all unoccupied and each containing a crooked To Let sign by the front door. Dark, begrimed windows stared with an air of vacant melancholy out on to the empty street. The garden of Number 3 was bounded by a three-foot brick wall with a fringe of wooden rails upon the top, and against this wall was leaning a stalwart policeman, surrounded by a little knot of loafers who craned their necks and strained their eyes in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of the proceedings within.

I had fully expected Sherlock Holmes to bound up the garden path and enter the house in order to study the scene of the crime. This was not the case. With an air of affected nonchalance, he strolled along the pavement, gazing vacantly at the ground, the sky, the houses opposite and the line of railings. I followed some distance behind, feeling uncomfortable and slightly ludicrous.

After having a brief word with the constable, he beckoned me and we proceeded slowly down the path. Holmes kept his eyes riveted to the ground. There were very many marks of footsteps upon the wet clay soil, a great number no doubt belonging to the policemen who had been coming and going. In my opinion there was nothing that my companion could learn from his scrutiny. And yet he gave this performance — and a performance it was, with his facial tics and mutterings. Twice he stopped and I saw him smile, and I heard him utter an exclamation of satisfaction. I felt sure that such actions were self-conscious ones designed to impress and intrigue me.

At the door we were met by a flaxen-haired man with a notebook in his hand who, on seeing my friend, rushed forward and shook his hand effusively.

“It is indeed kind of you to come,” he said, in a rasping voice. “I have left everything untouched.”

“Except
that
!” Holmes responded, with some heat, indicating the pathway. “If a herd of buffaloes had passed along there, there could be no greater mess. No doubt, however, you had drawn your own conclusions, Gregson, before you permitted this.”

The policeman flushed. “I have had so much to do in the house... It is in there that the heart of the mystery lies. My colleague, Mr Lestrade, is here also. I had relied on him to look after this.”

Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically. “Well, with two such fellows as yourself and Lestrade upon the case, there will not be much for a third party to find out,” he said smoothly.

“We have done all we can, but I am not sure we have uncovered all that is possible. It’s a queer case, and I know of your taste for such things.”

Holmes leaned close to me and whispered in my ear, “What did I tell you? They are stumped.”

“Would you care to look at the room?” said Lestrade.

“Yes, but first — you did not come in a cab?”

Gregson shook his head.

“Nor Lestrade?”

Another shake of the head.

“You arrived together in a police wagon?”

“Why, yes.”

“I thought so. I recognised the wide spread of the wheels, so much broader than those of a hansom. Good, that’s one thing settled. Very well, lay on, Macduff.”

With these words he strode into the house, followed by Gregson,
whose features expressed his blank astonishment.

A short passage, bare-planked and dusty, led to the kitchen and other downstairs rooms. 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, where the body had been found. Holmes walked in, and I followed him with that subdued feeling in my heart which the presence of death inspires.

It was a large square room, looking all the larger for the absence of any 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 crumbling plaster beneath. Opposite the door was the fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece of imitation white marble. On one corner of this was the stump of a red candle.

The solitary window was so thick with dirt that the light which filtered into the room touched everything with a grey bloom that was intensified by the layer of dust which coated the whole apartment.

All these details I noted down afterwards. On entering the room, my immediate attention was captured by the motionless figure that lay stretched out upon the floorboards, with vacant sightless eyes staring at the discoloured ceiling. The figure was that of a man in his early forties, middle-sized, with dark shiny hair which was swept back from his face, and a neatly clipped moustache. He was dressed in a heavy broadcloth frock-coat and waistcoat, with light-coloured trousers, and immaculate collar and cuffs. A top hat was placed on the floor beside him. His hands were clenched, but his arms were spread wide as though the death struggle had been a fierce one. His rigid face bore an expression of horror.

On seeing the man, I felt faint. A sudden searing light flashed before my eyes, blinding me, and for a brief moment I was back in Afghanistan in the heat of the infirmary tent, looking down at a dead colleague. His
eyes held the same terror and disbelief, and the body was contorted with agony in a similar fashion.

I stumbled and reached for the wall to steady myself. I shook my head and took a deep intake of breath in an effort to banish this vision from my mind. Thankfully, the others in the room were too absorbed in their preoccupations to notice me.

The man I recognised as Lestrade was standing by the corpse, jotting things down in a notebook. He was lean and ferret-like, with bright beady restless eyes.

“This case will cause us problems, I am sure,” he remarked, addressing Holmes. “It beats anything I have seen.”

“There are no clues,” said Gregson.

“None at all,” agreed Lestrade.

“We shall see, we shall see,” said Holmes, with no attempt to disguise the arrogance of the remark. He approached the body and, kneeling down, examined it intently. “You are sure there is no wound?” he asked, pointing to the numerous splashes of blood on the floor around the corpse.

“Positive!” cried the two detectives in unison, as though they were part of a music hall sketch.

“Then this blood belongs to a second individual — presumably the murderer, if indeed murder has been committed. It reminds me of the circumstances attendant on the death of Van Jansen, in Utrecht, in the year ’34. Do you remember the case, Gregson?”

“No, Mr Holmes.”

“Read it up — you really should. There is nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before.”

As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there and everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining. Despite the swiftness of the examination, it was clear to me that it was carried out with an enviable thoroughness. Finally Holmes leaned over the dead man and sniffed his lips, and then glanced at the soles of his patent leather boots.

As he rose to face us, his expression gave away nothing of his thoughts or conclusions.

“You can take him to the mortuary now. There is nothing more to be learned.”

Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand. At his call they entered the room, scooped up the body, covered it with a dark blanket and carried it away. As they did so, a ring tinkled down and rolled across the floor.

Lestrade grabbed it and held it up to the light.

“There has been a woman here!” he cried. “It’s a woman’s wedding ring.”

He held it out as he spoke, and we all gathered round and gazed at it. There could be no doubt that this plain gold band had once adorned the finger of a bride.

Gregson frowned and scratched his head. “This complicates matters,” he said. “Heaven knows they were complicated enough before.”

“My dear Gregson, there is nothing very complicated about this affair. Come, come, you will not find the key to the mystery by staring at the damned ring,” snapped Holmes, with a swagger, which I felt was manufactured deliberately to impress me as to the way he dealt with the Scotland Yard dunderheads. “What did you find in his pockets?”

“We have it all here,” said Gregson, leading us into the hallway and pointing to a litter of objects upon one of the bottom steps of the stairway. ‘A gold watch, No. 97163 by Barraud of London. Gold Albert chain, very heavy and solid. Gold ring with masonic device. Gold pin — bulldog’s head, with rubies as eyes. Russian leather-clad case with cards of Enoch Drebber of Cleveland corresponding with the E.J.D. upon the linen. No purse, but loose money to the extent of seven pounds and thirteen shillings. Pocket edition of Boccaccio’s
Decameron
, with the name Joseph Stangerson on the flyleaf. Two letters — one addressed to E.J. Drebber and one to Joseph Stangerson.”

“At what address?” asked Holmes, giving the objects a cursory glance.

“American Exchange, Strand — to be left until called for. The letters are from the Guion Steamship Company and refer to the sailing of their boats from Liverpool. It is clear that the poor blighter was about to return to New York.”

“Have you made enquiries about this other man — Stangerson?”

“I did it at once,” said Gregson, beaming. “I have had advertisements sent to all 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 enquiries?”

“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 you considered crucial?”

Gregson seemed somewhat abashed by this query. “Well, I asked about Stangerson,” he said.

Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes in despair. “I have not yet had time to examine the room, but if you will allow me, I shall do so now.”

He strode back into the room, the atmosphere of which felt clearer since the removal of its ghastly inmate. Whipping out a tape-measure and a large magnifying-glass from his pocket, he proceeded to trot around the room, sometimes stopping and sometimes kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face. So engrossed was he with his occupation, he appeared to have forgotten our presence, for he chattered away to himself in a nervous undertone the whole time, sometimes presenting himself with a question and then answering it. As I watched him I was irresistibly reminded of a pure-blooded, well-trained fox-hound as it dashes backwards and forwards through the covert, whining in its eagerness, until it comes across the lost scent. Sherlock Holmes was now truly in his element. No drug or stimulant could have so energised and enthused the
man as this frantic search for clues. So, for what seemed like fifteen minutes, we stood and watched this remarkable performance as he measured the distance between marks which were entirely invisible to me, and occasionally applied 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 dropped it into an envelope. Finally, he examined the fireplace and then gave a cry of delight. Snatching the candlestick which had been placed on the end, he lit it and held it up into the nearby corner.

“What do you think of this, gentlemen?” he cried, with the flourish of a showman introducing his latest exhibit. The flickering light illuminated a portion of the wall where a large piece of the wallpaper had peeled away, leaving a large discoloured oblong of coarse plastering. Across this bare space there was scrawled in blood-red letters a single word:

RACHE

We rushed forward to examine the writing.

“The other visitor to this room — and it is clear that there were two men here last night — has written it with his own blood. See the smear where it has trickled down the wall?”