Chapter 6
A short passage led to the kitchen and offices.
There were two doors which led to the left and to the right.
One of these had obviously been closed for many weeks.
The other led to the dining-room, where the crime had happened.
Holmes walked in, and I followed him with that subdued feeling in my heart which the presence of death inspired.
It was a large square room, looking all the larger from the absence of all furniture.
The wallpaper was blotched with damp patches, and here and there great strips had peeled off, showing the yellow plaster beneath.
Opposite the door was a fireplace.
On one corner of the mantelpiece was a red candle.
The only window was so dirty that the light was dim, and a thick layer of dust coated the whole apartment.
All these details I observed afterwards.
At present my attention was focused upon the single grim still figure which lay stretched upon the boards.
It was a man about forty-three or forty-four years old, middle-sized, wide-shouldered, with curly black hair and a short beard.
A top hat, well brushed, was placed upon the floor beside him.
His hands were closed and his arms spread out, while his legs were crossed as if his death had been a painful one.
On his rigid face there stood an expression of horror and hatred.
I have seen death in many forms, but never has it appeared to me in a more terrifying shape than in that dark apartment.
Lestrade was standing by the doorway, and welcomed my companion and myself.
“This case will make a stir, sir,” he remarked. “It beats anything I have seen, and I’ve seen a lot in my time.”
“There is no clue(线索)?” said Gregson.
“None at all,” said Lestrade.
Sherlock Holmes approached the body, and, kneeling down, examined it carefully.
“You are sure that there is no wound?” he asked, pointing to numerous splashes of blood which lay all round.
“Positive!” cried both detectives.
“Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second individual—probably the murderer, if murder has been committed.”
As he spoke, his fingers were flying here, there, and everywhere, feeling, pressing, examining.
His eyes wore an expression of deep thought.
So quickly was the examination made that one would hardly have guessed the small details with which it was conducted.
Finally, he smelled the dead man’s lips, and then glanced at his leather boots.
“He has not been moved at all?” he asked.
“Only what was needed for the purpose of our examination.”
“You can take him to the morgue now,” he said.
“There is nothing more to be learned.”
Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand.
At his call, they entered the room, and the dead man was lifted and carried out.
As they raised him, a ring fell, making a tinkling sound as it hit the ground, and rolled across the floor.
Lestrade took it up and stared at it with a puzzled expression.
“There’s been a woman here,” he cried. “It’s a woman’s wedding-ring.”
As he spoke, he held it out upon the palm of his hand.
We all gathered round him and gazed at it.
There could be no doubt that the ring had once been on the finger of a bride.
“This complicates matters,” said Gregson.
“Heaven knows, they were complicated enough before.”
“You’re sure it doesn’t make things simpler?” said Holmes.
“There’s nothing to be learned by staring at it. What did you find in his pockets?”
“We have it all here,” said Gregson, pointing to a few of the items upon the bottom steps of the stairs.
“A gold watch by Barraud of London. A gold Albert chain, very heavy and solid.
A gold pin—bull-dog’s head, with rubies as eyes.
Russian leather card-case, with cards of Enoch J. Drebber of Cleveland, which matches the E. J. D. marked on his clothes.
No wallet, but change in the amount of seven pounds.
Two letters—one addressed to E. J. Drebber and one to Joseph Stangerson.”
“At what address?”
“American Exchange, Strand—to be left till called for.
They are both from the Guion Steamship Company, and are about the sailing times of their boats from Liverpool.
It is clear that this unfortunate man was about to return to New York.”
“Have you made any inquiries about this man, Stangerson?”
“I did so at once, sir,” said Gregson.
“I have had advertisements sent to all the newspapers, and one of my men has gone to the American Exchange, but he has not returned yet.”
“Have you contacted Cleveland?”
“Yes, this morning.”
“What did you say?”
“We simply explained the situation, and said that we should be glad of any information which could help us.”
“You did not ask for any details which appeared to you to be crucial?”
“I asked about Stangerson.”
“Nothing else? Are there details which seem to you to be important? Will you contact them again?”
“I have said all I have to say,” said Gregson, in an unhappy voice.
Sherlock Holmes laughed to himself, and appeared to be about to make some remark,
when Lestrade, who had been in the front room while we were having this conversation in the hall, returned to the scene.
He rubbed his hands in a proud and self-satisfied manner.
“Mr. Gregson,” he said, “I have just made a discovery of the highest importance, and one which would have been missed if I had not made a careful examination of the walls.”
“Come here,” he said, rushing back into the room.
The atmosphere of the room felt clearer since the removal of the dead man.
“Now, stand there!”
He struck a match on his boot and held it up against the wall.
“Look at that!” he said, proudly.
I have remarked that the wallpaper had fallen away in parts.
In one corner of the room, a large piece had peeled off, leaving a yellow square of rough plaster.
Across this bare space there was blood-red letters, a single word—
RACHE
“What do you think of that?” cried Lestrade, “this was missed because it was in the darkest corner of the room, and no one thought of looking there.
The murderer has written it with his or her own blood.
See this smear where it has trickled down the wall!
That eliminates the idea of suicide.
Why was that corner chosen to write it on? I will tell you.
See that candle on the mantelpiece.
It was lit at the time, and if it was lit this corner would be the brightest instead of the darkest part of the room.”
“And what does it mean now that you have found it?” asked Gregson in a critical voice.
“Mean? It means that the writer was going to put the female name Rachel, but was disturbed before he or she had time to finish.
Remember my words, when this case comes to be cleared up you will find that a woman named Rachel has something to do with it.
It’s all very well for you to laugh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
You may be very smart and clever, but the old dog is the best, when all is said and done.”
“I really beg your pardon!” said my companion, who had irritated the little man by bursting into laughter.
“You do have the credit of being the first of us to find this out.
As you say, it bears every mark of having been written by the murderer in last night’s mystery.
I have not had time to examine this room yet, but with your permission, I will do so now.”
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