A Study in Scarlet (Sherlock Holmes 1)

"Is that her ring?" I asked.

"The Lord be thanked!" cried the old woman; "Sally will be a glad womanthis night. That's the ring."

"And what may your address be?" I inquired, taking up a pencil.

"13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch. A weary way from here."

"The Brixton Road does not lie between any circus and Houndsditch," saidSherlock Holmes sharply.

The old woman faced round and looked keenly at him from her littlered-rimmed eyes. "The gentleman asked me for _my_ address," she said."Sally lives in lodgings at 3, Mayfield Place, Peckham."

"And your name is----?"

"My name is Sawyer--her's is Dennis, which Tom Dennis married her--anda smart, clean lad, too, as long as he's at sea, and no steward in thecompany more thought of; but when on shore, what with the women and whatwith liquor shops----"

"Here is your ring, Mrs. Sawyer," I interrupted, in obedience to a signfrom my companion; "it clearly belongs to your daughter, and I am gladto be able to restore it to the rightful owner."

With many mumbled blessings and protestations of gratitude the old cronepacked it away in her pocket, and shuffled off down the stairs. SherlockHolmes sprang to his feet the moment that she was gone and rushed intohis room. He returned in a few seconds enveloped in an ulster anda cravat. "I'll follow her," he said, hurriedly; "she must be anaccomplice, and will lead me to him. Wait up for me." The hall door hadhardly slammed behind our visitor before Holmes had descended the stair.Looking through the window I could see her walking feebly along theother side, while her pursuer dogged her some little distance behind."Either his whole theory is incorrect," I thought to myself, "or else hewill be led now to the heart of the mystery." There was no need for himto ask me to wait up for him, for I felt that sleep was impossible untilI heard the result of his adventure.

It was close upon nine when he set out. I had no idea how long he mightbe, but I sat stolidly puffing at my pipe and skipping over the pagesof Henri Murger's "Vie de Boheme." Ten o'clock passed, and I heard thefootsteps of the maid as they pattered off to bed. Eleven, and themore stately tread of the landlady passed my door, bound for the samedestination. It was close upon twelve before I heard the sharp sound ofhis latch-key. The instant he entered I saw by his face that he had notbeen successful. Amusement and chagrin seemed to be struggling for themastery, until the former suddenly carried the day, and he burst into ahearty laugh.

"I wouldn't have the Scotland Yarders know it for the world," he cried,dropping into his chair; "I have chaffed them so much that they wouldnever have let me hear the end of it. I can afford to laugh, because Iknow that I will be even with them in the long run."

"What is it then?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't mind telling a story against myself. That creature hadgone a little way when she began to limp and show every sign of beingfoot-sore. Presently she came to a halt, and hailed a four-wheeler whichwas passing. I managed to be close to her so as to hear the address, butI need not have been so anxious, for she sang it out loud enough tobe heard at the other side of the street, 'Drive to 13, Duncan Street,Houndsditch,' she cried. This begins to look genuine, I thought, andhaving seen her safely inside, I perched myself behind. That's an artwhich every detective should be an expert at. Well, away we rattled, andnever drew rein until we reached the street in question. I hopped offbefore we came to the door, and strolled down the street in an easy,lounging way. I saw the cab pull up. The driver jumped down, and I sawhim open the door and stand expectantly. Nothing came out though. WhenI reached him he was groping about frantically in the empty cab, andgiving vent to the finest assorted collection of oaths that ever Ilistened to. There was no sign or trace of his passenger, and I fear itwill be some time before he gets his fare. On inquiring at Number 13we found that the house belonged to a respectable paperhanger, namedKeswick, and that no one of the name either of Sawyer or Dennis had everbeen heard of there."

"You don't mean to say," I cried, in amazement, "that that tottering,feeble old woman was able to get out of the cab while it was in motion,without either you or the driver seeing her?"

"Old woman be damned!" said Sherlock Holmes, sharply. "We were the oldwomen to be so taken in. It must have been a young man, and anactive one, too, besides being an incomparable actor. The get-up wasinimitable. He saw that he was followed, no doubt, and used this meansof giving me the slip. It shows that the man we are after is not aslonely as I imagined he was, but has friends who are ready to risksomething for him. Now, Doctor, you are looking done-up. Take my adviceand turn in."

I was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed his injunction. Ileft Holmes seated in front of the smouldering fire, and long into thewatches of the night I heard the low, melancholy wailings of his violin,and knew that he was still pondering over the strange problem which hehad set himself to unravel.

CHAPTER VI. TOBIAS GREGSON SHOWS WHAT HE CAN DO.

THE papers next day were full of the "Brixton Mystery," as they termedit. Each had a long account of the affair, and some had leaders upon itin addition. There was some information in them which was new to me. Istill retain in my scrap-book numerous clippings and extracts bearingupon the case. Here is a condensation of a few of them:--

The _Daily Telegraph_ remarked that in the history of crime there hadseldom been a tragedy which presented stranger features. The Germanname of the victim, the absence of all other motive, and the sinisterinscription on the wall, all pointed to its perpetration by politicalrefugees and revolutionists. The Socialists had many branches inAmerica, and the deceased had, no doubt, infringed their unwritten laws,and been tracked down by them. After alluding airily to the Vehmgericht,aqua tofana, Carbonari, the Marchioness de Brinvilliers, the Darwiniantheory, the principles of Malthus, and the Ratcliff Highway murders, thearticle concluded by admonishing the Government and advocating a closerwatch over foreigners in England.

The _Standard_ commented upon the fact that lawless outrages of the sortusually occurred under a Liberal Administration. They arose from theunsettling of the minds of the masses, and the consequent weakeningof all authority. The deceased was an American gentleman who hadbeen residing for some weeks in the Metropolis. He had stayed at theboarding-house of Madame Charpentier, in Torquay Terrace, Camberwell.He was accompanied in his travels by his private secretary, Mr. JosephStangerson. The two bade adieu to their landlady upon Tuesday, the4th inst., and departed to Euston Station with the avowed intention ofcatching the Liverpool express. They were afterwards seen together uponthe platform. Nothing more is known of them until Mr. Drebber's bodywas, as recorded, discovered in an empty house in the Brixton Road,many miles from Euston. How he came there, or how he met his fate, arequestions which are still involved in mystery. Nothing is known of thewhereabouts of Stangerson. We are glad to learn that Mr. Lestrade andMr. Gregson, of Scotland Yard, are both engaged upon the case, and itis confidently anticipated that these well-known officers will speedilythrow light upon the matter.

The _Daily News_ observed that there was no doubt as to the crime beinga political one. The despotism and hatred of Liberalism which animatedthe Continental Governments had had the effect of driving to our shoresa number of men who might have made excellent citizens were they notsoured by the recollection of all that they had undergone. Among thesemen there was a stringent code of honour, any infringement of which waspunished by death. Every effort should be made to find the secretary,Stangerson, and to ascertain some particulars of the habits of thedeceased. A great step had been gained by the discovery of the addressof the house at which he had boarded--a result which was entirely due tothe acuteness and energy of Mr. Gregson of Scotland Yard.

Sherlock Holmes and I read these notices over together at breakfast, andthey appeared to afford him considerable amusement.

"I told you that, whatever happened, Lestrade and Gregson would be sureto score."

"That depends on how it turns out."

"Oh, bless you, it doesn't matter in the least. If the man is caught, itwill be _on account_ of their exertions; if he escapes, it will be _inspite_ of their exertions. It's heads I win and tails you lose. Whateverthey do, they will have followers. 'Un sot trouve toujours un plus sotqui l'admire.'"

"What on earth is this?" I cried, for at this moment there came thepattering of many steps in the hall and on the stairs, accompanied byaudible expressions of disgust upon the part of our landlady.

"It's the Baker Street division of the detective police force," said mycompanion, gravely; and as he spoke there rushed into the room half adozen of the dirtiest and most ragged street Arabs that ever I clappedeyes on.

"'Tention!" cried Holmes, in a sharp tone, and the six dirty littlescoundrels stood in a line like so many disreputable statuettes. "Infuture you shall send up Wiggins alone to report, and the rest of youmust wait in the street. Have you found it, Wiggins?"

"No, sir, we hain't," said one of the youths.