THE intelligence with which Lestrade greeted us was so momentous and so
unexpected, that we were all three fairly dumfoundered. Gregson sprang out of
his chair and upset the remainder of his whiskey and water. I stared in silence
at Sherlock Holmes, whose lips were compressed and his brows drawn down over his
eyes.
"Stangerson too!" he muttered. "The plot thickens."
"It was quite thick enough before," grumbled Lestrade, taking a chair. "I
seem to have dropped into a sort of council of war."
"Are you -- are you sure of this piece of intelligence?" stammered Gregson.
"I have just come from his room," said Lestrade. "I was the first to discover
what had occurred."
"We have been hearing Gregson's view of the matter," Holmes observed. "Would
you mind letting us know what you have seen and done?"
"I have no objection," Lestrade answered, seating himself. "I freely confess
that I was of the opinion that Stangerson was concerned in the death of Drebber.
This fresh development has shown me that I was completely mistaken. Full of the
one idea, I set myself to find out what had become of the Secretary. They had
been seen together at Euston Station about half-past eight on the evening of the
third. At two in the morning Drebber had been found in the Brixton Road. The
question which confronted me was to find out how Stangerson had been employed
between 8.30 and the time of the crime, and what had become of him afterwards. I
telegraphed to Liverpool, giving a description of the man, and warning them to
keep a watch upon the American boats. I then set to work calling upon all the
hotels and lodging-houses in the vicinity of Euston. You see, I argued that if
Drebber and his companion had become separated, the natural course for the
latter would be to put up somewhere in the vicinity for the night, and then to
hang about the station again next morning."
"They would be likely to agree on some meeting-place beforehand," remarked
Holmes.
"So it proved. I spent the whole of yesterday evening in making enquiries
entirely without avail. This morning I began very early, and at eight o'clock I
reached Halliday's Private Hotel, in Little George Street. On my enquiry as to
whether a Mr. Stangerson was living there, they at once answered me in the
affirmative.
"`No doubt you are the gentleman whom he was expecting,' they said. `He has
been waiting for a gentleman for two days.'
"`Where is he now?' I asked.
"`He is upstairs in bed. He wished to be called at nine.'
"`I will go up and see him at once,' I said.
"It seemed to me that my sudden appearance might shake his nerves and lead
him to say something unguarded. The Boots volunteered to show me the room: it
was on the second floor, and there was a small corridor leading up to it. The
Boots pointed out the door to me, and was about to go downstairs again when I
saw something that made me feel sickish, in spite of my twenty years'
experience. From under the door there curled a little red ribbon of blood, which
had meandered across the passage and formed a little pool along the skirting at
the other side. I gave a cry, which brought the Boots back. He nearly fainted
when he saw it. The door was locked on the inside, but we put our shoulders to
it, and knocked it in. The window of the room was open, and beside the window,
all huddled up, lay the body of a man in his nightdress. He was quite dead, and
had been for some time, for his limbs were rigid and cold. When we turned him
over, the Boots recognized him at once as being the same gentleman who had
engaged the room under the name of Joseph Stangerson. The cause of death was a
deep stab in the left side, which must have penetrated the heart. And now comes
the strangest part of the affair. What do you suppose was above the murdered
man?"
I felt a creeping of the flesh, and a presentiment of coming horror, even
before Sherlock Holmes answered.
"The word RACHE, written in letters of blood," he said.
"That was it," said Lestrade, in an awe-struck voice; and we were all silent
for a while.
There was something so methodical and so incomprehensible about the deeds of
this unknown assassin, that it imparted a fresh ghastliness to his crimes. My
nerves, which were steady enough on the field of battle tingled as I thought of
it.
"The man was seen," continued Lestrade. "A milk boy, passing on his way to
the dairy, happened to walk down the lane which leads from the mews at the back
of the hotel. He noticed that a ladder, which usually lay there, was raised
against one of the windows of the second floor, which was wide open. After
passing, he looked back and saw a man descend the ladder. He came down so
quietly and openly that the boy imagined him to be some carpenter or joiner at
work in the hotel. He took no particular notice of him, beyond thinking in his
own mind that it was early for him to be at work. He has an impression that the
man was tall, had a reddish face, and was dressed in a long, brownish coat. He
must have stayed in the room some little time after the murder, for we found
blood-stained water in the basin, where he had washed his hands, and marks on
the sheets where he had deliberately wiped his knife."
I glanced at Holmes on hearing the description of the murderer, which tallied
so exactly with his own. There was, however, no trace of exultation or
satisfaction upon his face.
"Did you find nothing in the room which could furnish a clue to the
murderer?" he asked.
"Nothing. Stangerson had Drebber's purse in his pocket, but it seems that
this was usual, as he did all the paying. There was eighty odd pounds in it, but
nothing had been taken. Whatever the motives of these extraordinary crimes,
robbery is certainly not one of them. There were no papers or memoranda in the
murdered man's pocket, except a single telegram, dated from Cleveland about a
month ago, and containing the words, `J. H. is in Europe.' There was no name
appended to this message."
"And there was nothing else?" Holmes asked.
"Nothing of any importance. The man's novel, with which he had read himself
to sleep was lying upon the bed, and his pipe was on a chair beside him. There
was a glass of water on the table, and on the window-sill a small chip ointment
box containing a couple of pills."
Sherlock Holmes sprang from his chair with an exclamation of delight.
"The last link," he cried, exultantly. "My case is complete."
The two detectives stared at him in amazement.
"I have now in my hands," my companion said, confidently, "all the threads
which have formed such a tangle. There are, of course, details to be filled in,
but I am as certain of all the main facts, from the time that Drebber parted
from Stangerson at the station, up to the discovery of the body of the latter,
as if I had seen them with my own eyes. I will give you a proof of my knowledge.
Could you lay your hand upon those pills?"
"I have them," said Lestrade, producing a small white box; "I took them and
the purse and the telegram, intending to have them put in a place of safety at
the Police Station. It was the merest chance my taking these pills, for I am
bound to say that I do not attach any importance to them."
"Give them here," said Holmes. "Now, Doctor," turning to me, "are those
ordinary pills?"
They certainly were not. They were of a pearly grey colour, small, round, and
almost transparent against the light. "From their lightness and transparency, I
should imagine that they are soluble in water," I remarked.
"Precisely so," answered Holmes. "Now would you mind going down and fetching
that poor little devil of a terrier which has been bad so long, and which the
landlady wanted you to put out of its pain yesterday."
I went downstairs and carried the dog upstair in my arms. It's laboured
breathing and glazing eye showed that it was not far from its end. Indeed, its
snow-white muzzle proclaimed that it had already exceeded the usual term of
canine existence. I placed it upon a cushion on the rug.
"I will now cut one of these pills in two," said Holmes, and drawing his
penknife he suited the action to the word. "One half we return into the box for
future purposes. The other half I will place in this wine glass, in which is a
teaspoonful of water. You perceive that our friend, the Doctor, is right, and
that it readily dissolves."
"This may be very interesting," said Lestrade, in the injured tone of one who
suspects that he is being laughed at, "I cannot see, however, what it has to do
with the death of Mr. Joseph Stangerson."
"Patience, my friend, patience! You will find in time that it has everything
to do with it. I shall now add a little milk to make the mixture palatable, and
on presenting it to the dog we find that he laps it up readily enough."
As he spoke he turned the contents of the wine glass into a saucer and placed
it in front of the terrier, who speedily licked it dry. Sherlock Holmes' earnest
demeanour had so far convinced us that we all sat in silence, watching the
animal intently, and expecting some startling effect. None such appeared,
however. The dog continued to lie stretched upon tho {16} cushion, breathing in
a laboured way, but apparently neither the better nor the worse for its draught.
Holmes had taken out his watch, and as minute followed minute without result,
an expression of the utmost chagrin and disappointment appeared upon his
features. He gnawed his lip, drummed his fingers upon the table, and showed
every other symptom of acute impatience. So great was his emotion, that I felt
sincerely sorry for him, while the two detectives smiled derisively, by no means
displeased at this check which he had met.
"It can't be a coincidence," he cried, at last springing from his chair and
pacing wildly up and down the room; "it is impossible that it should be a mere
coincidence. The very pills which I suspected in the case of Drebber are
actually found after the death of Stangerson. And yet they are inert. What can
it mean? Surely my whole chain of reasoning cannot have been false. It is
impossible! And yet this wretched dog is none the worse. Ah, I have it! I have
it!" With a perfect shriek of delight he rushed to the box, cut the other pill
in two, dissolved it, added milk, and presented it to the terrier. The
unfortunate creature's tongue seemed hardly to have been moistened in it before
it gave a convulsive shiver in every limb, and lay as rigid and lifeless as if
it had been struck by lightning.
Sherlock Holmes drew a long breath, and wiped the perspiration from his
forehead. "I should have more faith," he said; "I ought to know by this time
that when a fact appears to be opposed to a long train of deductions, it
invariably proves to be capable of bearing some other interpretation. Of the two
pills in that box one was of the most deadly poison, and the other was entirely
harmless. I ought to have known that before ever I saw the box at all."
This last statement appeared to me to be so startling, that I could hardly
believe that he was in his sober senses. There was the dead dog, however, to
prove that his conjecture had been correct. It seemed to me that the mists in my
own mind were gradually clearing away, and I began to have a dim, vague
perception of the truth.
"All this seems strange to you," continued Holmes, "because you failed at the
beginning of the inquiry to grasp the importance of the single real clue which
was presented to you. I had the good fortune to seize upon that, and everything
which has occurred since then has served to confirm my original supposition,
and, indeed, was the logical sequence of it. Hence things which have perplexed
you and made the case more obscure, have served to enlighten me and to
strengthen my conclusions. It is a mistake to confound strangeness with mystery.
The most commonplace crime is often the most mysterious because it presents no
new or special features from which deductions may be drawn. This murder would
have been infinitely more difficult to unravel had the body of the victim been
simply found lying in the roadway without any of those _outre_ {17} and
sensational accompaniments which have rendered it remarkable. These strange
details, far from making the case more difficult, have really had the effect of
making it less so."
Mr. Gregson, who had listened to this address with considerable impatience,
could contain himself no longer. "Look here, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, "we
are all ready to acknowledge that you are a smart man, and that you have your
own methods of working. We want something more than mere theory and preaching
now, though. It is a case of taking the man. I have made my case out, and it
seems I was wrong. Young Charpentier could not have been engaged in this second
affair. Lestrade went after his man, Stangerson, and it appears that he was
wrong too. You have thrown out hints here, and hints there, and seem to know
more than we do, but the time has come when we feel that we have a right to ask
you straight how much you do know of the business. Can you name the man who did
it?"
"I cannot help feeling that Gregson is right, sir," remarked Lestrade. "We
have both tried, and we have both failed. You have remarked more than once since
I have been in the room that you had all the evidence which you require. Surely
you will not withhold it any longer."
"Any delay in arresting the assassin," I observed, "might give him time to
perpetrate some fresh atrocity."
Thus pressed by us all, Holmes showed signs of irresolution. He continued to
walk up and down the room with his head sunk on his chest and his brows drawn
down, as was his habit when lost in thought.
"There will be no more murders," he said at last, stopping abruptly and
facing us. "You can put that consideration out of the question. You have asked
me if I know the name of the assassin. I do. The mere knowing of his name is a
small thing, however, compared with the power of laying our hands upon him. This
I expect very shortly to do. I have good hopes of managing it through my own
arrangements; but it is a thing which needs delicate handling, for we have a
shrewd and desperate man to deal with, who is supported, as I have had occasion
to prove, by another who is as clever as himself. As long as this man has no
idea that anyone can have a clue there is some chance of securing him; but if he
had the slightest suspicion, he would change his name, and vanish in an instant
among the four million inhabitants of this great city. Without meaning to hurt
either of your feelings, I am bound to say that I consider these men to be more
than a match for the official force, and that is why I have not asked your
assistance. If I fail I shall, of course, incur all the blame due to this
omission; but that I am prepared for. At present I am ready to promise that the
instant that I can communicate with you without endangering my own combinations,
I shall do so."
Gregson and Lestrade seemed to be far from satisfied by this assurance, or by
the depreciating allusion to the detective police. The former had flushed up to
the roots of his flaxen hair, while the other's beady eyes glistened with
curiosity and resentment. Neither of them had time to speak, however, before
there was a tap at the door, and the spokesman of the street Arabs, young
Wiggins, introduced his insignificant and unsavoury person.
"Please, sir," he said, touching his forelock, "I have the cab downstairs."
"Good boy," said Holmes, blandly. "Why don't you introduce this pattern at
Scotland Yard?" he continued, taking a pair of steel handcuffs from a drawer.
"See how beautifully the spring works. They fasten in an instant."
"The old pattern is good enough," remarked Lestrade, "if we can only find the
man to put them on."
"Very good, very good," said Holmes, smiling. "The cabman may as well help me
with my boxes. Just ask him to step up, Wiggins."
I was surprised to find my companion speaking as though he were about to set
out on a journey, since he had not said anything to me about it. There was a
small portmanteau in the room, and this he pulled out and began to strap. He was
busily engaged at it when the cabman entered the room.
"Just give me a help with this buckle, cabman," he said, kneeling over his
task, and never turning his head.
The fellow came forward with a somewhat sullen, defiant air, and put down his
hands to assist. At that instant there was a sharp click, the jangling of metal,
and Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet again.
"Gentlemen," he cried, with flashing eyes, "let me introduce you to Mr.
Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber and of Joseph Stangerson."
The whole thing occurred in a moment -- so quickly that I had no time to
realize it. I have a vivid recollection of that instant, of Holmes' triumphant
expression and the ring of his voice, of the cabman's dazed, savage face, as he
glared at the glittering handcuffs, which had appeared as if by magic upon his
wrists. For a second or two we might have been a group of statues. Then, with an
inarticulate roar of fury, the prisoner wrenched himself free from Holmes's
grasp, and hurled himself through the window. Woodwork and glass gave way before
him; but before he got quite through, Gregson, Lestrade, and Holmes sprang upon
him like so many staghounds. He was dragged back into the room, and then
commenced a terrific conflict. So powerful and so fierce was he, that the four
of us were shaken off again and again. He appeared to have the convulsive
strength of a man in an epileptic fit. His face and hands were terribly mangled
by his passage through the glass, but loss of blood had no effect in diminishing
his resistance. It was not until Lestrade succeeded in getting his hand inside
his neckcloth and half-strangling him that we made him realize that his
struggles were of no avail; and even then we felt no security until we had
pinioned his feet as well as his hands. That done, we rose to our feet
breathless and panting.
"We have his cab," said Sherlock Holmes. "It will serve to take him to
Scotland Yard. And now, gentlemen," he continued, with a pleasant smile, "we
have reached the end of our little mystery. You are very welcome to put any
questions that you like to me now, and there is no danger that I will refuse to
answer them."
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