I turned the handle and walked in. The room was empty, and thebed had never been slept in. He had gone with the rest. The foreignhost, the foreign footman, the foreign cook, all had vanished in thenight! That was the end of my visit to Wisteria Lodge.”
Sherlock Holmes was rubbing his hands and chuckling as headded this bizarre incident to his collection of strange episodes.
“Your experience is, so far as I know, perfectly unique,” said he.
“May I ask, sir, what you did then?”
“I was furious. My first idea was that I had been the victim ofsome absurd practical joke. I packed my things, banged the halldoor behind me, and set off for Esher, with my bag in my hand. Icalled at Allan Brothers’, the chiefland agents in the village, andfound that it was from this firm that the villa had been rented.
It struck me that the whole proceeding could hardly be for thepurpose of making a fool of me, and that the main object must beto get out of the rent. It is late in March, so quarter-day is at hand.
But this theory would not work. The agent was obliged to me formy warning, but told me that the rent had been paid in advance.
Then I made my way to town and called at the Spanish embassy.
The man was unknown there. After this I went to see Melville,at whose house I had first met Garcia, but I found that he reallyknew rather less about him than I did. Finally when I got yourreply to my wire I came out to you, since I gather that you are aperson who gives advice in difficult cases. But now, Mr. Inspector,I understand, from what you said when you entered the room, thatyou can carry the story on, and that some tragedy has occurred. Ican assure you that every word I have said is the truth, and that,outside of what I have told you, I know absolutely nothing aboutthe fate of this man. My only desire is to help the law in everypossible way.”
“I am sure of it, Mr. Scott Eccles—I am sure of it,” said InspectorGregson in a very amiable tone. “I am bound to say that everythingwhich you have said agrees very closely with the facts as they havecome to our notice. For example, there was that note which arrivedduring dinner. Did you chance to observe what became of it?”
“Yes, I did. Garcia rolled it up and threw it into the fire.”
“What do you say to that, Mr. Baynes?”
The country detective was a stout, puffy, red man, whose facewas only redeemed from grossness by two extraordinarily brighteyes, almost hidden behind the heavy creases of cheek and brow.
With a slow smile he drew a folded and discoloured scrap of paperfrom his pocket.
“It was a dog-grate, Mr. Holmes, and he overpitched it. I pickedthis out unburned from the back of it.”
Holmes smiled his appreciation.
“You must have examined the house very carefully to find asingle pellet of paper.”
“I did, Mr. Holmes. It’s my way. Shall I read it, Mr. Gregson?”
The Londoner nodded.
“The note is written upon ordinary cream-laid paper withoutwatermark. It is a quarter-sheet. The paper is cut off in two snipswith a short-bladed scissors. It has been folded over three timesand sealed with purple wax, put on hurriedly and pressed downwith some flat oval object. It is addressed to Mr. Garcia, WisteriaLodge. It says:
“Our own colours, green and white. Green open, white shut.
Main stair, first corridor, seventh right, green baize. Godspeed. D.
“It is a woman’s writing, done with a sharp-pointed pen, but theaddress is either done with another pen or by someone else. It isthicker and bolder, as you see.”
“A very remarkable note,” said Holmes, glancing it over. “I mustcompliment you, Mr. Baynes, upon your attention to detail in yourexamination of it. A few trifling points might perhaps be added.
The oval seal is undoubtedly a plain sleeve-link—what else is ofsuch a shape? The scissors were bent nail scissors. Short as the twosnips are, you can distinctly see the same slight curve in each.”
The country detective chuckled.
“I thought I had squeezed all the juice out of it, but I see therewas a little over,” he said. “I’m bound to say that I make nothingof the note except that there was something on hand, and that awoman, as usual was at the bottom of it.”
Mr. Scott Eccles had fidgeted in his seat during this conversation.
“I am glad you found the note, since it corroborates my story,”
said he. “But I beg to point out that I have not yet heard what hashappened to Mr. Garcia, nor what has become of his household.”
“As to Garcia,” said Gregson, “that is easily answered. He wasfound dead this morning upon Oxshott Common, nearly a milefrom his home. His head had been smashed to pulp by heavyblows of a sandbag or some such instrument, which had crushedrather than wounded. It is a lonely corner, and there is no housewithin a quarter of a mile of the spot. He had apparently beenstruck down first from behind, but his assailant had gone onbeating him long after he was dead. It was a most furious assault.
There are no footsteps nor any clue to the criminals.”
“Robbed?”
“No, there was no attempt at robbery.”
“This is very painful—very painful and terrible,” said Mr. ScottEccles in a querulous voice, “but it is really uncommonly hardwpon me. I had nothing to do with my host going off upon anocturnal excursion and meeting so sad an end. How do I come tobe mixed up with the case?”
“Very simply, sir,” Inspector Baynes answered. “The onlydocument found in the pocket of the deceased was a letter fromyou saying that you would be with him on the night of his death.
It was the envelope of this letter which gave us the dead man’sname and address. It was after nine this morning when we reachedhis house and found neither you nor anyone else inside it. I wiredto Mr. Gregson to run you down in London while I examinedWisteria Lodge. Then I came into town, joined Mr. Gregson, andhere we are.”
“I think now,” said Gregson, rising, “we had best put this matterinto an official shape. You will come round with us to the station,Mr. Scott Eccles, and let us have your statement in writing.”
“Certainly, I will come at once. But I retain your services, Mr.