Sherlock Holmes approached the body, and, kneeling down,examined it intently. “You are sure that there is no wound?” heasked, pointing to numerous gouts and splashes of blood which layall round.
“Positive!” cried both detectives.
“Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second individual—presumably the murderer, if murder has been committed. Itreminds me of the circumstances attendant on the death of VanJansen, in Utrecht, in the year ’34. Do you remember the case,Gregson?”
“No, sir.”
“Read it up—you really should. There is nothing new under thesun. It has all been done before.”
As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, andeverywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while hiseyes wore the same far-away expression which I have alreadyremarked upon. So swiftly was the examination made, that onewould hardly have guessed the minuteness with which it wasconducted. Finally, he sniffed the dead man’s lips, and then glancedat the soles of his patent-leather boots.
“He has not been moved at all?” he asked.
“No more than was necessary for the purposes of our examination.”
“You can take him to the mortuary now,” he said. “There isnothing more to be learned.”
Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand. At his call theyentered the room, and the stranger was lifted and carried out. Asthey raised him, a ring tinkled down and rolled across the floor.
Lestrade grabbed it up and stared at it with mystified eyes.
“There’s been a woman here,” he cried. “It’s a woman’s weddingring.”
He held it out, as he spoke, upon the palm of his hand. We allgathered round him and gazed at it. There could be no doubt thatthat circlet of plain gold had once adorned the finger of a bride.
“This complicates matters,” said Gregson. “Heaven knows, theywere complicated enough before.”
“You’re sure it doesn’t simplify them?” observed Holmes. “There’snothing to be learned by staring at it. What did you find in hispockets?”
“We have it all here,” said Gregson, pointing to a litter of objectsupon one of the bottom steps of the stairs. “A gold watch, No. 97163, by Barraud, of London. Gold Albert chain, very heavy andsolid. Gold ring, with masonic device. Gold pin—bull-dog’s head,with rubies as eyes. Russian leather cardcase, with cards of EnochJ. Drebber of Cleveland, corresponding with the E. J. D. upon thelinen. No purse, but loose money to the extent of seven poundsthirteen. Pocket edition of Boccaccio’s ‘Decameron,’ with name ofJoseph Stangerson upon the flyleaf. Two letters—one addressed toE. J. Drebber and one to Joseph Stangerson.”
“At what address?”
“American Exchange, Strand—to be left till called for. They areboth from the Guion Steamship Company, and refer to the sailingof their boats from Liverpool. It is clear that this unfortunate manwas about to return to New York.”
“Have you made any inquiries as to this man Stangerson?”
“I did it at once, sir,” said Gregson. “I have had advertisementssent to all the newspapers, and one of my men has gone to theAmerican Exchange, but he has not returned yet.”
“Have you sent to Cleveland?”
“We telegraphed this morning.”
“How did you word your inquiries?”
“We simply detailed the circumstances, and said that we shouldbe glad of any information which could help us.”
“You did not ask for particulars on any point which appeared toyou to be crucial?”
“I asked about Stangerson.”
“Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which this wholecase appears to hinge? Will you not telegraph again?”
“I have said all I have to say,” said Gregson, in an offended voice.
Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself, and appeared to beabout to make some remark, when Lestrade, who had been in thefront room while we were holding this conversation in the hall,reappeared upon the scene, rubbing his hands in a pompous andself-satisfied manner.
“Mr. Gregson,” he said, “I have just made a discovery of thehighest importance, and one which would have been overlookedhad I not made a careful examination of the walls.”
The little man’s eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was evidentlyin a state of suppressed exultation at having scored a point againsthis colleague.
“Come here,” he said, bustling back into the room, the atmosphereof which felt clearer since the removal of its ghastly inmate. “Now,stand there!”
He struck a match on his boot and held it up against the wall.
“Look at that!” he said, triumphantly.
I have remarked that the paper had fallen away in parts. In thisparticular corner of the room a large piece had peeled off, leavinga yellow square of coarse plastering. Across this bare space therewas scrawled in blood-red letters a single word—RACHE
“What do you think of that?” cried the detective, with the airof a showman exhibiting his show. “This was overlooked becauseit was in the darkest corner of the room, and no one thought oflooking there. The murderer has written it with his or her ownblood. See this smear where it has trickled down the wall! Thatdisposes of the idea of suicide anyhow. Why was that cornerchosen to write it on? I will tell you. See that candle on themantelpiece. It was lit at the time, and if it was lit this cornerwould be the brightest instead of the darkest portion of the wall.”
“And what does it mean now that you have found it?” askedGregson in a depreciatory voice.
“Mean? Why, it means that the writer was going to put thefemale name Rachel, but was disturbed before he or she had timeto finish. You mark my words, when this case comes to be clearedup, you will find that a woman named Rachel has something to dowith it. It’s all very well for you to laugh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
You may be very smart and clever, but the old hound is the best,when all is said and done.”
“I really beg your pardon!” said my companion, who had ruffledthe little man’s temper by bursting into an explosion of laughter.