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                                 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 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 had 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 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,
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 bands 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 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.
     All these details I observed afterwards.  At present my
attention was centred upon the single, grim, motionless figure
which lay stretched upon the boards, with vacant, sightless eyes
staring up at the discoloured ceiling.  It was that of a man
about forty-three or forty-four years of age, middle-sized,
broad-shouldered, with crisp curling black hair, and a short,
stubbly beard.  He was dressed in a heavy broadcloth frock coat
and waistcoat, with light-coloured trousers, and immaculate
collar and cuffs.  A top hat, well brushed and trim, was placed
upon the floor beside him.  His hands were clenched and his arms
thrown abroad, while his lower limbs were interlocked, as though
his death struggle had been a grievous one.  On his rigid face
there stood an expression of horror, and, as it seemed to me, of
hatred, such as I have never seen upon human features.  This
malignant and terrible contortion, combined with the low
forehead, blunt nose, and prognathous jaw, gave the dead man a
singularly simious and ape-like appearance, which was increased
by his writhing, unnatural posture.  I have seen death in many
forms, but never has it appeared to me in a more fearsome aspect
than in that dark, grimy apartment, which looked out upon one of
the main arteries of suburban London.
     Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was standing by the
doorway, and greeted my companion and myself.
     "This case will make a stir, sir," he remarked.  "It beats
anything I have seen, and I am no chicken."
     "There is no clue?" said Gregson.
     "None at all," chimed in Lestrade.
     Sherlock Holmes approached the body, and, kneeling down,
examined it intently.  "You are sure that there is no wound?" he
asked, pointing to numerous gouts and splashes of blood which lay
all round.
     "Positive!" cried both detectives.
     "Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second individual
-- presumably the murderer, if 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, sir."
     "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, while his
eyes wore the same far-away expression which I have already
remarked upon.  So swiftly was the examination made, that one
would hardly have guessed the minuteness with which it was
conducted.  Finally, he sniffed the dead man's lips, and then
glanced at the soles of his patent leather boots.
     "He has not been moved at all?" he asked.
     "No more than was necessary for the purpose of our
examination."
     "You can take him to the mortuary now," he said.  "There is
nothing more to be learned."
     Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand.  At his call
they entered the room, and the stranger was lifted and carried
out.  As they raised him, a ring tinkled down and rolled across
the floor.  Lestrade grabbed it up and stared at it with
mystified eyes.
     "There's been a woman here," he cried.  "It's a woman's
wedding ring."
     He held it out, as he spoke, upon the palm of his hand.  We
all gathered round him and gazed at it.  There could be no doubt
that that circlet of plain gold had once adorned the finger of a
bride.
     "This complicates matters," said Gregson.  "Heaven knows,
they were complicated enough before."
     "You're sure it doesn't simplify them?" observed Holmes.
"There's nothing to be learned by staring at it.  What did you
find in his pockets?"
     "We have it all here," said Gregson, pointing to a litter of
objects upon one of the bottom steps of the stairs.  "A gold
watch, No. 97163, by Barraud, of London.  Gold Albert chain, very
heavy and solid.  Gold ring, with masonic device.  Gold pin --
bull-dog's head, with rubies as eyes.  Russian leather cardcase,
with cards of Enoch J. Drebber of Cleveland, corresponding with
the E. J. D. upon the linen.  No purse, but loose money to the
extent of seven pounds thirteen.  Pocket edition of Boccaccio's
'Decameron,' with name of Joseph Stangerson upon the flyleaf.
Two letters -- one addressed to E. J. Drebber and one to Joseph
Stangerson."
     "At what address?"
     "American Exchange, Strand -- to be left till called for.
They are both from the Guion Steamship Company, and refer to the
sailing of their boats from Liverpool.  It is clear that this
unfortunate man was about to return to New York."
     "Have you made any inquiries as to this man Stangerson?"
     "I did it at once, sir," said Gregson.  "I have had
advertisements sent to all the 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 inquiries?"
     "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 which appeared
to you to be crucial?"
     "I asked about Stangerson."
     "Nothing else?  Is there no circumstance on which this whole
case appears to hinge?  Will you not telegraph again?"
     "I have said all I have to say," said Gregson, in an
offended voice.
     Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself, and appeared to be
about to make some remark, when Lestrade, who had been in the
front room while we were holding this conversation in the hall,
reappeared upon the scene, rubbing his bands in a pompous and
self-satisfied manner.
     Mr. Gregson," he said, "I have just made a discovery of the
highest importance, and one which would have been overlooked had
I not made a careful examination of the walls."
     The little man's eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was
evidently in a state of suppressed exultation at having scored a
point against his colleague.
     "Come here," he said, bustling back into the room, the
atmosphere of which felt clearer since the removal of its ghastly
inmate.  "Now, stand there!"
     He struck a match on his boot and held it up against the
wall.
     "Look at that!" he said, triumphantly.
     I have remarked that the paper had fallen away in parts.  In
this particular corner of the room a large piece had peeled off,
leaving a yellow square of coarse plastering.  Across this bare
space there was scrawled in blood-red letters a single word --

     RACHE

     "What do you think of that?" cried the detective, with the
air of a showman exhibiting his show.  "This was overlooked
because it was in the darkest corner of the room, and no one
thought of looking there.  The murderer has written it with his
or her own blood.  See this smear where it has trickled down the
wall!  That disposes of the idea of suicide anyhow.  Why was that
corner chosen to write it on?  I will tell you.  See that candle
on the mantelpiece.  It was lit at the time, and if it was lit
this corner would be the brightest instead of the darkest portion
of the wall."
     "And what does it mean now that you have found it?" asked
Gregson in a depreciatory voice.
     "Mean?  Why, it means that the writer was going to put the
female name Rachel, but was disturbed before he or she had time
to finish.  You mark my words, when this case comes to be cleared
up, you will find that a woman named Rachel has something to do
with it.  It's all very well for you to laugh, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes.  You may be very smart and clever, but the old hound is
the best, when all is said and done."
     "I really beg your pardon!" said my companion, who had
ruffled the little man's temper by bursting into an explosion of
laughter.  "You certainly have the credit of being the first of
us to find this out and, as you say, it bears every mark of
having been written by the other participant in last night's
mystery.  I have not had time to examine this room yet, but with
your permission I shall do so now."
     As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round
magnifying glass from his pocket.  With these two implements he
trotted noiselessly about the room, sometimes stopping,
occasionally kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face.  So
engrossed was he with his occupation that he appeared to have
forgotten our presence, for he chattered away to himself under
his breath the whole time, keeping up a running fire of
exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive of
encouragement and of hope.  As I watched him I was irresistibly
reminded of a pure-blooded, well-trained foxhound, as it dashes
backward and forward through the covert, whining in its
eagerness, until it comes across the lost scent.  For twenty
minutes or more he continued his researches, measuring with the
most exact care the distance between marks which were entirely
invisible to me, and occasionally applying his tape to the walls
in an equally incomprehensible manner.  In one place he gathered
up very carefully a little pile of gray dust from the floor, and
packed it away in an envelope.  Finally he examined with his
glass the word upon the wall, going over every letter of it with
the most minute exactness.  This done, he appeared to be
satisfied, for he replaced his tape and his glass in his pocket.
     "They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking
pains," he remarked with a smile.  "It's a very bad definition,
but it does apply to detective work."
     Gregson and Lestrade had watched the manoeuvres of their
amateur companion with considerable curiosity and some contempt.
They evidently failed to appreciate the fact, which I had begun
to realize, that Sherlock Holmes's smallest actions were all
directed towards some definite and practical end.
     "What do you think of it sir?" they both asked.
     "It would be robbing you of the credit of the case if I were
to presume to help you," remarked my friend.  'You are doing so
well now that it would be a pity for anyone to interfere."  There
was a world of sarcasm in his voice as he spoke.  "If you will
let me know how your investigations go," he continued, "I shall
be happy to give you any help I can.  In the meantime I should
like to speak to the constable who found the body.  Can you give
me his name and address?"
     Lestrade glanced at his notebook.  "John Rance," he said.
"He is off duty now.  You will find him at 46, Audley Court,
Kennington Park Gate."
     Holmes took a note of the address.
     "Come along, Doctor," he said: "we shall go and look him up.
I'll tell you one thing which may help you in the case," he
continued, turning to the two detectives.  "There has been murder
done, and the murderer was a man.  He was more than six feet
high, was in the prime of life, had small feet for his height,
wore coarse, square-toed boots and smoked a Trichinopoly cigar.
He came here with his victim in a four-wheeled cab, which was
drawn by a horse with three old shoes and one new one on his off
fore-leg.  In all probability the murderer had a florid face, and
the finger-nails of his right hand were remarkably long.  These
are only a few indications, but they may assist you."
     Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with an
incredulous smile.
     "If this man was murdered, how was it done?" asked the
former.
     "Poison," said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode off.  "One
other thing, Lestrade," he added, turning round at the door:
"'Rache,' is the German for 'revenge'; so don't lose your time
looking for Miss Rachel."
     With which Parthian shot he walked away, leaving the two
rivals open mouthed behind him.