A Study in Scarlet

Your best way is to make a clean breast of the facts,' I
answered. 'Depend upon it, if your son is innocent he will be
none the worse.'
" 'Perhaps, Alice, you had better leave us together,' she said,
and her daughter withdrew. 'Now, sir,' she continued, 'I had no
intention of telling you all this, but since my poor daughter has
disclosed it I have no alternative. Having once decided to speak,
I will tell you all without omitting any particular.'
" 'It is your wisest course,' said I.
" 'Mr. Drebber has been with us nearly three weeks. He and
his secretary, Mr. Stangerson, had been travelling on the Conti-
nent. I noticed a Copenhagen label upon each of their trunks,
showing that that had been their last stopping place. Stangerson
was a quiet, reserved man, but his employer, I am sorry to say,
was far otherwise. He was coarse in his habits and brutish in his
ways. The very night of his arrival he became very much the
worse for drink, and, indeed, after twelve o'clock in the day he
could hardly ever be said to be sober. His manners towards the
maid-servants were disgustingly free and familiar. Worst of all,
he speedily assumed the same attitude towards my daughter,
Alice, and spoke to her more than once in a way which, fortu-
nately, she is too innocent to understand. On one occasion he
actually seized her in his arms and embraced her -- an outrage
which caused his own secretary to reproach him for his unmanly
conduct.'
" 'But why did you stand all this?' I asked. 'I suppose that
you can get rid of your boarders when you wish.'
"Mrs. Charpentier blushed at my pertinent question. 'Would
to God that I had given him notice on the very day that he
came,' she said. 'But it was a sore temptation. They were paying
a pound a day each -- fourteen pounds a week, and this is the
slack season. I am a widow, and my boy in the Navy has cost
me much. I grudged to lose the money. I acted for the best. This
last was too much, however, and I gave him notice to leave on
account of it. That was the reason of his going.'
" 'Well?'
" 'My heart grew light when I saw him drive away. My son is
on leave just now, but I did not tell him anything of all this, for
his temper is violent, and he is passionately fond of his sister.
When I closed the door behind them a load seemed to be lifted
from my mind. Alas, in less than an hour there was a ring at the
bell, and I learned that Mr. Drebber had returned. He was much
excited, and evidently the worse for drink. He forced his way
into the room, where I was sitting with my daughter, and made
some incoherent remark about having missed his train. He then
turned to Alice, and before my very face, proposed to her that
she should fly with him. "You are of age," he said, "and there
is no law to stop you. I have money enough and to spare. Never
mind the old girl here, but come along with me now straight
away. You shall live like a princess." Poor Alice was so fright-
ened that she shrunk away from him, but he caught her by the
wrist and endeavoured to draw her towards the door. I screamed,
and at that moment my son Arthur came into the room. What
happened then I do not know. I heard oaths and the confused
sounds of a scuffle. I was too terrified to raise my head. When I
did look up I saw Arthur standing in the doorway laughing, with
a stick in his hand. "I don't think that fine fellow will trouble us
again," he said. "I will just go after him and see what he does
with himself." With those words he took his hat and started off
down the street. The next morning we heard of Mr. Drebber's
mysterious death.'
"This statement came from Mrs. Charpentier's lips with many
gasps and pauses. At times she spoke so low that I could hardly
catch the words. I made shorthand notes of all that she said
however, so that there should be no possibility of a mistake."
"It's quite exciting," said Sherlock Holmes, with a yawn.
"What happened next?"
"When Mrs. Charpentier paused," the detective continued,
"I saw that the whole case hung upon one point. Fixing her with
my eye in a way which I always found effective with women, I
asked her at what hour her son returned.
" 'I do not know,' she answered.
" 'Not know?'
" 'No; he has a latchkey, and he let himself in.'
" 'After you went to bed?'
" 'Yes.'
" 'When did you go to bed?'
" 'About eleven.'
" 'So your son was gone at least two hours?'
" 'Yes.'
" 'Possibly four or five?'
" 'Yes.'
" 'What was he doing during that time?'
" 'I do not know,' she answered, turning white to her very
lips.
"Of course after that there was nothing more to be done. I
found out where Lieutenant Charpentier was, took two officers
with me, and arrested him. When I touched him on the shoulder
and warned him to come quietly with us, he answered us as bold
as brass, 'I suppose you are arresting me for being concerned in
the death of that scoundrel Drebber,' he said. We had said
nothing to him about it, so that his alluding to it had a most
suspicious aspect."
"Very," said Holmes.
"He still carried the heavy stick which the mother described
him as having with him when he followed Drebber. It was a
stout oak cudgel."
"What is your theory, then?"
"Well, my theory is that he followed Drebber as far as the
Brixton Road. When there, a fresh altercation arose between
them, in the course of which Drebber received a blow from the
stick, in the pit of the stomach perhaps, which killed him without
leaving any mark. The night was so wet that no one was about,
so Charpentier dragged the body of his victim into the empty
house. As to the candle, and the blood, and the writing on the
wall, and the ring, they may all be so many tricks to throw the
police on to the wrong scent."
"Well done!" said Holmes in an encouraging voice. "Really,
Gregson, you are getting along. We shall make something of you
yet."
"I flatter myself that I have managed it rather neatly," the
detective answered, proudly. "The young man volunteered a
statement, in which he said that after following Drebber some
time, the latter perceived him, and took a cab in order to get
away from him. On his way home he met an old shipmate, and
took a long walk with him. On being asked where this old
shipmate lived, he was unable to give any satisfactory reply. I
think the whole case fits together uncommonly well. What amuses
me is to think of Lestrade, who had started off upon the wrong
scent. I am afraid he won't make much of it. Why, by Jove,
here's the very man himself!"
It was indeed Lestrade, who had ascended the stairs while we
were talking, and who now entered the room. The assurance and
jauntiness which generally marked his demeanour and dress
were, however, wanting. His face was disturbed and troubled,
while his clothes were disarranged and untidy. He had evidently
come with the intention of consulting with Sherlock Holmes, for
on perceiving his colleague he appeared to be embarrassed and
put out. He stood in the centre of the room, fumbling nervously
with his hat and uncertain what to do. "This is a most extraordi-
nary case," he said at last -- "a most incomprehensible affair."
"Ah, you find it so, Mr. Lestrade!" cried Gregson, trium-
phantly. "I thought you would come to that conclusion. Have
you managed to find the secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson?"
"The secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson," said Lestrade, gravely,
"was murdered at Halliday's Private Hotel about six o'clock this
morning."
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Chapter 7
Light in the Darkness
The intelligence with which Lestrade greeted us was so momen-
tous and so unexpected that we were all three fairly dumfounded.
Gregson sprang out of his chair and upset the remainder of his
whisky 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, tak-
ing a chair, "I seem to have dropped into a sort of council of
war."
"Are you -- are you sure of this piece of intelligence?" stam-
mered 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 3rd. 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 be-
forehand," remarked Holmes.
"So it proved. I spent the whole of yesterday evening in
making inquiries 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 inquiry 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 gentle-
man 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 Sherock Holmes answered.
"The word RACHE, written in letters of blood," he said,
"That was it," said Lestrade, in an awestruck 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 contain-
ing 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 gray 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 upstairs in my arms. Its
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 wineglass, in which is a teaspoonful of water. You
perceive that our friend, the doctor, is right, and that it readily
dissolves."
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"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 wineglass into a
saucer and placed it in front of the terrier, who speedily licked it
dry. Sherlock Holmes's 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 the 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 perspira-
tion 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 oc-
curred 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 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 consider-
able impatience, could contain himself no longer. "Look here,
Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, "we are all ready to acknowl-
edge 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 desper-
ate 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 T 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 combina-
tions, 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 intro-
duce 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 cab-
man 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's 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 power-
ful 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."
End part 1 of A Study in Scalet
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