Number 3, Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and minatorylook. It was one of four which stood back some little way fromthe street, two being occupied and two empty. The latter lookedout with three tiers of vacant melancholy windows, which wereblank and dreary, save that here and there a “To Let” card haddeveloped like a cataract upon the bleared panes. A small gardensprinkled over with a scattered eruption of sickly plants separatedeach of these houses from the street, and was traversed by anarrow pathway, yellowish in colour, and consisting apparently ofa mixture of clay and of gravel. The whole place was very sloppyfrom the rain which had fallen through the night. The garden wasbounded by a three-foot brick wall with a fringe of wood railsupon the top, and against this wall was leaning a stalwart policeconstable, surrounded by a small knot of loafers, who craned theirnecks and strained their eyes in the vain hope of catching someglimpse of the proceedings within.
I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once havehurried into the house and plunged into a study of the mystery.
Nothing appeared to be further from his intention. With an airof nonchalance which, under the circumstances, seemed to me toborder upon affectation, he lounged up and down the pavement,and gazed vacantly at the ground, the sky, the opposite housesand the line of railings. Having finished his scrutiny, he proceededslowly down the path, or rather down the fringe of grass whichflanked the path, keeping his eyes riveted upon the ground. Twicehe stopped, and once I saw him smile, and heard him utter anexclamation of satisfaction. There were many marks of footstepsupon the wet clayey soil; but since the police had been comingand going over it, I was unable to see how my companion couldhope to learn anything from it. Still I had had such extraordinaryevidence of the quickness of his perceptive faculties, that I had nodoubt that he could see a great deal which was hidden from me.
At the door of the house we were met by a tall, white-faced,flaxen-haired man, with a notebook in his hand, who rushedforward and wrung my companion’s hand with effusion. “It isindeed kind of you to come,” he said, “I have had everything leftuntouched.”
“Except that!” my friend answered, pointing at the pathway. “Ifa herd of buffaloes had passed along, there could not be a greatermess. No doubt, however, you had drawn your own conclusions,Gregson, before you permitted this.”
“I have had so much to do inside the house,” the detective saidevasively. “My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here. I had relied uponhim to look after this.”
Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically.
“With two such men as yourself and Lestrade upon the ground,there will not be much for a third party to find out,” he said.
Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. “I think wehave done all that can be done,” he answered; “it’s a queer casethough, and I knew your taste for such things.”
“You did not come here in a cab?” asked Sherlock Holmes.
“No, sir.”
“Nor Lestrade?”
“No, sir.”
“Then let us go and look at the room.” With which inconsequentremark he strode on into the house followed by Gregson, whosefeatures expressed his astonishment.
A short passage, bare-planked and dusty, led to the kitchen andoffices. Two doors opened out of it to the left and to the right.
One of these had obviously been closed for many weeks. Theother belonged to the dining-room, which was the apartment inwhich the mysterious affair had occurred. Holmes walked in, andI followed him with that subdued feeling at my heart which thepresence of death inspires.
It was a large square room, looking all the larger from theabsence of all furniture. A vulgar flaring paper adorned the walls,but it was blotched in places with mildew, and here and theregreat strips had become detached and hung down, exposing theyellow plaster beneath. Opposite the door was a showy fireplace,surmounted by a mantelpiece of imitation white marble. Onone corner of this was stuck the stump of a red wax candle. Thesolitary window was so dirty that the light was hazy and uncertain,giving a dull gray tinge to everything, which was intensified by thethick layer of dust which coated the whole apartment.
All these details I observed afterwards. At present my attentionwas centred upon the single grim, motionless figure which laystretched upon the boards, with vacant, sightless eyes staring up atthe discoloured ceiling. It was that of a man about forty-three orforty-four years of age, middle-sized, broad-shouldered, with crispcurling black hair, and a short stubbly beard. He was dressed ina heavy broadcloth frock coat and waistcoat, with light-colouredtrousers, and immaculate collar and cuffs. A top hat, well brushedand trim, was placed upon the floor beside him. His hands wereclenched and his arms thrown abroad, while his lower limbs wereinterlocked, as though his death struggle had been a grievous one.
On his rigid face there stood an expression of horror, and, as itseemed to me, of hatred, such as I have never seen upon humanfeatures. This malignant and terrible contortion, combined withthe low forehead, blunt nose, and prognathous jaw, gave the deadman a singularly simious and ape-like appearance, which wasincreased by his writhing, unnatural posture. I have seen death inmany forms, but never has it appeared to me in a more fearsomeaspect than in that dark, grimy apartment, which looked out uponone of the main arteries of suburban London.
Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was standing by thedoorway, and greeted my companion and myself.
“This case will make a stir, sir,” he remarked. “It beats anythingI have seen, and I am no chicken.”
“There is no clue?” said Gregson.
“None at all,” chimed in Lestrade.