Mr. Sherlock Holmes

CHAPTER VII.

Light In The Darkness

The intelligence with which Lestrade greeted
us was so momentous and so unexpected, that
we were all three fairly dumfoundered. Gregson
sprang out of his chair and upset the remainder of
his whiskey 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, taking a chair. “I seem to have dropped
into a sort of council of war.”
“Are you—are you sure of this piece of intelligence?”
stammered 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 third. 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 beforehand,” remarked Holmes.
“So it proved. I spent the whole of yesterday
evening in making enquiries 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 enquiry 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 gentleman 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 Sherlock Holmes answered.
“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
30
A Study In Scarlet
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 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 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 outr´e 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 like 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.”