Chapter 3
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 [26] wondrously.
There still remained some lurking suspicion in my mind, however, that the whole thing was
a prearranged 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 know 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 opinions.
- “Yours faithfully,
- “TOBIAS GREGSON.”
“Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland
Yarders,” my friend remarked; “he [27]
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 housetops, 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’s 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, [28]
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 [29] light was hazy and uncertain, giving a dull gray tinge to
everything, which was intensified by the thick layer of dust which coated the whole
apartment.
