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. Garcias rent was paid up all right and that everything was in order at
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
Im 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 I 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?
We have been following you about all the morning.
You traced him through the telegram, no doubt,
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 led up to the death last night of Mr. Aloysius Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge, near
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 dont meanyou
dont mean that I am suspected?
A letter of yours was found in the dead mans
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 inspectors 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 Albemarle 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 placeabout 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, tumble-down 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 tête-à-tête, 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 doorthe room was dark at the timeand
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 oclock. 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 object 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 has 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 EcclesI 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
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. Its my way. Shall I read it,
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 flat oval object. It is addressed to Mr. Garcia,
Wisteria Lodge. It says:
-  Our
own colours, green and white. Green open, white shut. Main stair, first corridor, seventh
right, green baize. Godspeed. D.
It is a womans writing, done with a sharp-pointed pen, but the address is either
done with another pen or by someone else. It is thicker and bolder, as you see.
A very remarkable note, said Holmes, glancing it
over. I must compliment you, Mr. Baynes, upon your attention to detail in your
examination of it. A few trifling points might perhaps be added. The oval seal is
undoubtedly a plain sleeve-linkwhat else is of such a shape? The scissors were bent
nail scissors. Short as the two snips are, you can distinctly see the same slight curve in
The country detective chuckled.
I thought I had squeezed all the juice out of it, but I
see there was a little over, he said. Im bound to say that I make
nothing of the note except that there was something on hand, and that a woman, as usual,
was at the bottom of it.
Mr. Scott Eccles had fidgeted in his seat during this
I am glad you found the note, since it corroborates my
story, said he. But I beg to point out that I have not yet heard what has
happened to Mr. Garcia, nor what has become of his household.
As to Garcia, said Gregson, that is easily
answered. He was found dead this morning upon Oxshott Common, nearly a mile from his home.
His head had been smashed to pulp by heavy blows of a sandbag or some such instrument,
which had crushed rather than wounded. It is a lonely corner, and there is no house within
a quarter of a mile of the spot. He had apparently been struck down first from behind, but
his assailant had gone on beating him long after he was dead. It was a most furious
assault. There are no footsteps nor any clue to the criminals.
No, there was no attempt at robbery.
This is very painfulvery painful and
terrible, said Mr. Scott Eccles in a querulous voice, but it is really
uncommonly hard upon me. I had nothing to do with my host going off upon a nocturnal
excursion and meeting so sad an end. How do I come to be mixed up with the case?
Very simply, sir, Inspector Baynes answered.
The only document found in the pocket of the deceased was a letter from you saying
that you would be with him on the night of his death. It was the envelope of this letter
which gave us the dead mans name and address. It was after nine this morning when we
reached his house and found neither you nor anyone else inside it. I wired to Mr. Gregson
to run you down in London while I examined Wisteria Lodge. Then I came into town, joined
Mr. Gregson, and here we are.
I think now, said Gregson, rising, we had
best put this matter into an official shape. You will come round with us to the station,
Mr. Scott Eccles, and let us have your statement in writing.
Certainly, I will come at once. But I retain your
services, Mr. Holmes. I desire you to spare no expense and no pains to get at the
My friend turned to the country inspector.
I suppose that you have no objection to my collaborating
with you, Mr. Baynes?
Highly honoured, sir, I am sure.
You appear to have been very prompt and business-like in
all that you have done. Was there any clue, may I ask, as to the exact hour that the man
met his death?
had been there since one oclock. There was rain about that time, and his death had
certainly been before the rain.
But that is perfectly impossible, Mr. Baynes,
cried our client. His voice is unmistakable. I could swear to it that it was he who
addressed me in my bedroom at that very hour.
Remarkable, but by no means impossible, said
You have a clue? asked Gregson.
On the face of it the case is not a very complex one,
though it certainly presents some novel and interesting features. A further knowledge of
facts is necessary before I would venture to give a final and definite opinion. By the
way, Mr. Baynes, did you find anything remarkable besides this note in your examination of
The detective looked at my friend in a singular way.
There were, said he, one or two very
remarkable things. Perhaps when I have finished at the police-station you would care to
come out and give me your opinion of them.
I am entirely at your service, said Sherlock
Holmes, ringing the bell. You will show these gentlemen out, Mrs. Hudson, and kindly
send the boy with this telegram. He is to pay a five-shilling reply.
We sat for some time in silence after our visitors had left.
Holmes smoked hard, with his brows drawn down over his keen eyes, and his head thrust
forward in the eager way characteristic of the man.
Well, Watson, he asked, turning suddenly upon me,
what do you make of it?
I can make nothing of this mystification of Scott
But the crime?
Well, taken with the disappearance of the mans
companions, I should say that they were in some way concerned in the murder and had fled
That is certainly a possible point of view. On the face
of it you must admit, however, that it is very strange that his two servants should have
been in a conspiracy against him and should have attacked him on the one night when he had
a guest. They had him alone at their mercy every other night in the week.
Then why did they fly?
Quite so. Why did they fly? There is a big fact. Another
big fact is the remarkable experience of our client, Scott Eccles. Now, my dear Watson, is
it beyond the limits of human ingenuity to furnish an explanation which would cover both
these big facts? If it were one which would also admit of the mysterious note with its
very curious phraseology, why, then it would be worth accepting as a temporary hypothesis.
If the fresh facts which come to our knowledge all fit themselves into the scheme, then
our hypothesis may gradually become a solution.
But what is our hypothesis?
Holmes leaned back in his chair with half-closed eyes.
You must admit, my dear Watson, that the idea of a joke
is impossible. There were grave events afoot, as the sequel showed, and the coaxing of
Scott Eccles to Wisteria Lodge had some connection with them.
But what possible connection?
Let us take it link by link. There is, on the face of
it, something unnatural about this strange and sudden friendship between the young
Spaniard and Scott Eccles. It was the former who forced the pace. He called upon Eccles at
the other end of London on the very day after he first met him, and he kept in close touch
 with him until he got
him down to Esher. Now, what did he want with Eccles? What could Eccles supply? I see no
charm in the man. He is not particularly intelligentnot a man likely to be congenial
to a quick-witted Latin. Why, then, was he picked out from all the other people whom
Garcia met as particularly suited to his purpose? Has he any one outstanding quality? I
say that he has. He is the very type of conventional British respectability, and the very
man as a witness to impress another Briton. You saw yourself how neither of the inspectors
dreamed of questioning his statement, extraordinary as it was.
But what was he to witness?
Nothing, as things turned out, but everything had they
gone another way. That is how I read the matter.
I see, he might have proved an alibi.
Exactly, my dear Watson; he might have proved an alibi.
We will suppose, for arguments sake, that the household of Wisteria Lodge are
confederates in some design. The attempt, whatever it may be, is to come off, we will say,
before one oclock. By some juggling of the clocks it is quite possible that they may
have got Scott Eccles to bed earlier than he thought, but in any case it is likely that
when Garcia went out of his way to tell him that it was one it was really not more than
twelve. If Garcia could do whatever he had to do and be back by the hour mentioned he had
evidently a powerful reply to any accusation. Here was this irreproachable Englishman
ready to swear in any court of law that the accused was in his house all the time. It was
an insurance against the worst.
Yes, yes, I see that. But how about the disappearance of
I have not all my facts yet, but I do not think there
are any insuperable difficulties. Still, it is an error to argue in front of your data.
You find yourself insensibly twisting them round to fit your theories.
And the message?
How did it run? Our own colours, green and
white. Sounds like racing. Green open, white shut. That is clearly a
signal. Main stair, first corridor, seventh right, green baize. This is an
assignation. We may find a jealous husband at the bottom of it all. It was clearly a
dangerous quest. She would not have said Godspeed had it not been so.
Dthat should be a guide.
The man was a Spaniard. I suggest that D
stands for Dolores, a common female name in Spain.
Good, Watson, very goodbut quite inadmissible. A
Spaniard would write to a Spaniard in Spanish. The writer of this note is certainly
English. Well, we can only possess our souls in patience until this excellent inspector
comes back for us. Meanwhile we can thank our lucky fate which has rescued us for a few
short hours from the insufferable fatigues of idleness.
An answer had arrived to Holmess telegram before our
Surrey officer had returned. Holmes read it and was about to place it in his notebook when
he caught a glimpse of my expectant face. He tossed it across with a laugh.
We are moving in exalted circles, said he.
The telegram was a list of names and addresses:
- Lord Harringby, The Dingle; Sir George Ffolliott, Oxshott
Towers; Mr. Hynes Hynes, J. P., Purdey Place; Mr. James Baker Williams, Forton Old Hall;
Mr. Henderson, High Gable; Rev. Joshua Stone, Nether Walsling.
is a very obvious way of limiting our field of operations, said Holmes. No
doubt Baynes, with his methodical mind, has already adopted some similar plan.
I dont quite understand.
Well, my dear fellow, we have already arrived at the
conclusion that the message received by Garcia at dinner was an appointment or an
assignation. Now, if the obvious reading of it is correct, and in order to keep this tryst
one has to ascend a main stair and seek the seventh door in a corridor, it is perfectly
clear that the house is a very large one. It is equally certain that this house cannot be
more than a mile or two from Oxshott, since Garcia was walking in that direction and
hoped, according to my reading of the facts, to be back in Wisteria Lodge in time to avail
himself of an alibi, which would only be valid up to one oclock. As the number of
large houses close to Oxshott must be limited, I adopted the obvious method of sending to
the agents mentioned by Scott Eccles and obtaining a list of them. Here they are in this
telegram, and the other end of our tangled skein must lie among them.
It was nearly six oclock before we found ourselves in
the pretty Surrey village of Esher, with Inspector Baynes as our companion.
Holmes and I had taken things for the night, and found
comfortable quarters at the Bull. Finally we set out in the company of the detective on
our visit to Wisteria Lodge. It was a cold, dark March evening, with a sharp wind and a
fine rain beating upon our faces, a fit setting for the wild common over which our road
passed and the tragic goal to which it led us.