David Davies - The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - The Veiled Detective

He held it out as he spoke, and we all gathered round and gazed at it. There could be no doubt that this plain gold band had once adorned the finger of a bride.

Gregson frowned and scratched his head. “This complicates matters,” he said. “Heaven knows they were complicated enough before.”

“My dear Gregson, there is nothing very complicated about this affair. Come, come, you will not find the key to the mystery by staring at the damned ring,” snapped Holmes, with a swagger, which I felt was manufactured deliberately to impress me as to the way he dealt with the Scotland Yard dunderheads. “What did you find in his pockets?”

“We have it all here,” said Gregson, leading us into the hallway and pointing to a litter of objects upon one of the bottom steps of the stairway. ‘A gold watch, No. 97163 by Barraud of London. Gold Albert chain, very heavy and solid. Gold ring with masonic device. Gold pin — bulldog’s head, with rubies as eyes. Russian leather-clad case with cards of Enoch Drebber of Cleveland corresponding with the E.J.D. upon the linen. No purse, but loose money to the extent of seven pounds and thirteen shillings. Pocket edition of Boccaccio’s Decameron , with the name Joseph Stangerson on the flyleaf. Two letters — one addressed to E.J. Drebber and one to Joseph Stangerson.”

“At what address?” asked Holmes, giving the objects a cursory glance.

“American Exchange, Strand — to be left until called for. The letters are from the Guion Steamship Company and refer to the sailing of their boats from Liverpool. It is clear that the poor blighter was about to return to New York.”

“Have you made enquiries about this other man — Stangerson?”

“I did it at once,” said Gregson, beaming. “I have had advertisements sent to all 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 enquiries?”

“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 you considered crucial?”

Gregson seemed somewhat abashed by this query. “Well, I asked about Stangerson,” he said.

Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes in despair. “I have not yet had time to examine the room, but if you will allow me, I shall do so now.”

He strode back into the room, the atmosphere of which felt clearer since the removal of its ghastly inmate. Whipping out a tape-measure and a large magnifying-glass from his pocket, he proceeded to trot around the room, sometimes stopping and sometimes kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face. So engrossed was he with his occupation, he appeared to have forgotten our presence, for he chattered away to himself in a nervous undertone the whole time, sometimes presenting himself with a question and then answering it. As I watched him I was irresistibly reminded of a pure-blooded, well-trained fox-hound as it dashes backwards and forwards through the covert, whining in its eagerness, until it comes across the lost scent. Sherlock Holmes was now truly in his element. No drug or stimulant could have so energised and enthused the man as this frantic search for clues. So, for what seemed like fifteen minutes, we stood and watched this remarkable performance as he measured the distance between marks which were entirely invisible to me, and occasionally applied his tape to the walls in an equally incomprehensible manner. In one place he gathered up very carefully a little pile of grey dust from the floor, and dropped it into an envelope. Finally, he examined the fireplace and then gave a cry of delight. Snatching the candlestick which had been placed on the end, he lit it and held it up into the nearby corner.

“What do you think of this, gentlemen?” he cried, with the flourish of a showman introducing his latest exhibit. The flickering light illuminated a portion of the wall where a large piece of the wallpaper had peeled away, leaving a large discoloured oblong of coarse plastering. Across this bare space there was scrawled in blood-red letters a single word:

RACHE

We rushed forward to examine the writing.

“The other visitor to this room — and it is clear that there were two men here last night — has written it with his own blood. See the smear where it has trickled down the wall?”

“Why was it written there?” I asked.

“The candle on the mantelpiece was lit at the time, and this would have been the brightest corner of the room,” explained Holmes.

“And what does it mean, now that you have found it?” asked Gregson, in a deprecating manner.

“Oh, I can answer that,” crowed Lestrade. “It means that the writer was going to put the female name Rachel, but something prevented him from finishing it. You mark my words, when the case comes to be cleared you will find that a woman by the name of Rachel will feature in the business. It’s all very well for you to laugh, Mr Sherlock Holmes; you may think you are very smart and clever, but I think you will discover that in the end the old hound is the best.”

Holmes, who had exploded with rude laughter at Lestrade’s assertions, attempted to curb his natural amusement.

“I am sure you are correct,” he beamed, his voice heavily tinged with sarcasm. “Please let me know how your investigations go. I shall be happy to give you any help I can. In the mean time, I should like to have words with the constable who discovered the body.”

“He’s off duty now,” said Lestrade.

“Can you give me his name and address?”

Lestrade glanced at his notebook. “John Rance. You will find him at 46 Audley Court, Kennington Park Gate.”

Holmes took note of the address.

“Come along, Doctor,” he said, taking my arm. “We shall go and look him up.”

Gregson stepped forward. “Before you go, Mr Holmes, have you learned anything from your investigations here that would help us?”

“Oh, certainly.”

The two police officers looked at each other and then back at Holmes, waiting for his words of enlightenment.

“I can tell you that a murder has been done, and the murderer was a man. He was more than six feet in height, was in the prime of life, had small feet for his size, wore coarse squaretoed 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 foreleg. In all probability the murderer had a florid face, and the fingernails of his right hand were remarkably long. These are only a few indications, but they may assist you.”

For a moment, the two policemen were rendered speechless by this authoritative recital, and then Gregson roused himself. “If this man was murdered, how was it done?” he asked.

“Poison,” said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode off. “One thing more,” he added, turning round at the door. “RACHE is German for revenge, so don’t waste your time looking for a lady by the name of Rachel. Goodbye, gentlemen.”

Thirteen

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER

Not only did Ishare Sherlock Holmes’ great amusement at confounding Lestrade and Gregson as we left Number 3 Lauriston Gardens, but also Iwas excited at the great possibilities which had been bubbling away in my brain as Ihad watched and listened to my new friend demonstrate his remarkable powers. Despite his pomposity and his unabashed love of the limelight, Sherlock Holmes was not only a unique individual, but also he had fascinating personal qualities which, if presented in a dramatised form in an exciting narrative, would make him a heroic figure. With some felicitous alterations to his character traits, Ibelieved that Icould portray Sherlock Holmes as a dynamic detective hero. Indeed, this case in which he was engaged would make an excellent introduction for the reading public. Creating a semi-fictional account of the investigation would both add zest to my time with him and provide me with a more legitimate reason to observe him and his methods.