Read A Study in Scarlet Page 8


  "The word RACHE, written in letters of blood," he said.

  "That was it," said Lestrade, in an awe-struck 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 containing 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 grey 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 upstair in my arms.

  It's 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 wine glass, in which

  is a teaspoonful of water. You perceive that our friend,

  the Doctor, is right, and that it readily dissolves."

  "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 wine glass into a

  saucer and placed it in front of the terrier, who speedily

  licked it dry. Sherlock Holmes' 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

  tho {16} 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

  perspiration 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 occurred 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_ {17} 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

  considerable impatience, could contain himself no longer.

  "Look here, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, "we are all ready

  to acknowledge 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

  desperate 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 I 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

  combinations, 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 introduce

  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 cabman 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' 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 li
ke so many staghounds.

  He was dragged back into the room, and then commenced a

  terrific conflict. So powerful 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."

  PART II.

  _The Country of the Saints._

  CHAPTER I.

  ON THE GREAT ALKALI PLAIN.

  IN the central portion of the great North American Continent

  there lies an arid and repulsive desert, which for many a

  long year served as a barrier against the advance of

  civilisation. From the Sierra Nevada to Nebraska, and from

  the Yellowstone River in the north to the Colorado upon the

  south, is a region of desolation and silence.

  Nor is Nature always in one mood throughout this grim district.

  It comprises snow-capped and lofty mountains, and dark and

  gloomy valleys. There are swift-flowing rivers which dash

  through jagged canons; {18} and there are enormous plains, which

  in winter are white with snow, and in summer are grey with

  the saline alkali dust. They all preserve, however,

  the common characteristics of barrenness, inhospitality,

  and misery.

  There are no inhabitants of this land of despair. A band of

  Pawnees or of Blackfeet may occasionally traverse it in order

  to reach other hunting-grounds, but the hardiest of the

  braves are glad to lose sight of those awesome plains, and to

  find themselves once more upon their prairies. The coyote

  skulks among the scrub, the buzzard flaps heavily through the

  air, and the clumsy grizzly bear lumbers through the dark

  ravines, and picks up such sustenance as it can amongst the

  rocks. These are the sole dwellers in the wilderness.

  In the whole world there can be no more dreary view than that

  from the northern slope of the Sierra Blanco. As far as the

  eye can reach stretches the great flat plain-land, all dusted

  over with patches of alkali, and intersected by clumps of the

  dwarfish chaparral bushes. On the extreme verge of the

  horizon lie a long chain of mountain peaks, with their rugged

  summits flecked with snow. In this great stretch of country

  there is no sign of life, nor of anything appertaining to

  life. There is no bird in the steel-blue heaven, no movement

  upon the dull, grey earth -- above all, there is absolute

  silence. Listen as one may, there is no shadow of a sound in

  all that mighty wilderness; nothing but silence -- complete

  and heart-subduing silence.

  It has been said there is nothing appertaining to life upon

  the broad plain. That is hardly true. Looking down from the

  Sierra Blanco, one sees a pathway traced out across the

  desert, which winds away and is lost in the extreme distance.

  It is rutted with wheels and trodden down by the feet of many

  adventurers. Here and there there are scattered white

  objects which glisten in the sun, and stand out against the

  dull deposit of alkali. Approach, and examine them! They