CHAPTER VI.

TOBIAS GREGSON SHOWS WHAT HE CAN DO.

THE papers next day were full of the "Brixton Mystery,"
as they termed it. Each had a long account of the affair,
and some had leaders upon it in addition. There was some
information in them which was new to me. I still retain in
my scrap-book numerous clippings and extracts bearing upon
the case. Here is a condensation of a few of them:--

The _Daily Telegraph_ remarked that in the history of crime
there had seldom been a tragedy which presented stranger
features. The German name of the victim, the absence of
all other motive, and the sinister inscription on the wall,
all pointed to its perpetration by political refugees and
revolutionists. The Socialists had many branches in America,
and the deceased had, no doubt, infringed their unwritten
laws, and been tracked down by them. After alluding airily
to the Vehmgericht, aqua tofana, Carbonari, the Marchioness
de Brinvilliers, the Darwinian theory, the principles of
Malthus, and the Ratcliff Highway murders, the article
concluded by admonishing the Government and advocating
a closer watch over foreigners in England.

The _Standard_ commented upon the fact that lawless outrages
of the sort usually occurred under a Liberal Administration.
They arose from the unsettling of the minds of the masses,
and the consequent weakening of all authority. The deceased
was an American gentleman who had been residing for some
weeks in the Metropolis. He had stayed at the boarding-house
of Madame Charpentier, in Torquay Terrace, Camberwell.
He was accompanied in his travels by his private secretary,
Mr. Joseph Stangerson. The two bade adieu to their landlady
upon Tuesday, the 4th inst., and departed to Euston Station
with the avowed intention of catching the Liverpool express.
They were afterwards seen together upon the platform.
Nothing more is known of them until Mr. Drebber's body was,
as recorded, discovered in an empty house in the Brixton Road,
many miles from Euston. How he came there, or how he met his
fate, are questions which are still involved in mystery.
Nothing is known of the whereabouts of Stangerson. We are
glad to learn that Mr. Lestrade and Mr. Gregson, of Scotland
Yard, are both engaged upon the case, and it is confidently
anticipated that these well-known officers will speedily
throw light upon the matter.

The _Daily News_ observed that there was no doubt as to the
crime being a political one. The despotism and hatred of
Liberalism which animated the Continental Governments had had
the effect of driving to our shores a number of men who might
have made excellent citizens were they not soured by the
recollection of all that they had undergone. Among these men
there was a stringent code of honour, any infringement of
which was punished by death. Every effort should be made to
find the secretary, Stangerson, and to ascertain some
particulars of the habits of the deceased. A great step had
been gained by the discovery of the address of the house at
which he had boarded -- a result which was entirely due to
the acuteness and energy of Mr. Gregson of Scotland Yard.

Sherlock Holmes and I read these notices over together at
breakfast, and they appeared to afford him considerable
amusement.

"I told you that, whatever happened, Lestrade and Gregson
would be sure to score."

"That depends on how it turns out."

"Oh, bless you, it doesn't matter in the least. If the man
is caught, it will be _on account_ of their exertions; if he
escapes, it will be _in spite_ of their exertions. It's heads
I win and tails you lose. Whatever they do, they will have
followers. `Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot qui l'admire.'"

"What on earth is this?" I cried, for at this moment there
came the pattering of many steps in the hall and on the
stairs, accompanied by audible expressions of disgust upon
the part of our landlady.

"It's the Baker Street division of the detective police
force," said my companion, gravely; and as he spoke there
rushed into the room half a dozen of the dirtiest and most
ragged street Arabs that ever I clapped eyes on.

"'Tention!" cried Holmes, in a sharp tone, and the six dirty
little scoundrels stood in a line like so many disreputable
statuettes. "In future you shall send up Wiggins alone to
report, and the rest of you must wait in the street.
Have you found it, Wiggins?"

"No, sir, we hain't," said one of the youths.

"I hardly expected you would. You must keep on until you do.
Here are your wages. {13} He handed each of them a shilling.
"Now, off you go, and come back with a better report next time."

He waved his hand, and they scampered away downstairs like so
many rats, and we heard their shrill voices next moment in
the street.

"There's more work to be got out of one of those little
beggars than out of a dozen of the force," Holmes remarked.
"The mere sight of an official-looking person seals men's
lips. These youngsters, however, go everywhere and hear
everything. They are as sharp as needles, too; all they want
is organisation."

"Is it on this Brixton case that you are employing them?" I asked.

"Yes; there is a point which I wish to ascertain. It is
merely a matter of time. Hullo! we are going to hear some
news now with a vengeance! Here is Gregson coming down the
road with beatitude written upon every feature of his face.
Bound for us, I know. Yes, he is stopping. There he is!"

There was a violent peal at the bell, and in a few seconds
the fair-haired detective came up the stairs, three steps
at a time, and burst into our sitting-room.

"My dear fellow," he cried, wringing Holmes' unresponsive hand,
"congratulate me! I have made the whole thing as clear as day."

A shade of anxiety seemed to me to cross my companion's
expressive face.

"Do you mean that you are on the right track?" he asked.

"The right track! Why, sir, we have the man under lock and key."

"And his name is?"

"Arthur Charpentier, sub-lieutenant in Her Majesty's navy,"
cried Gregson, pompously, rubbing his fat hands and inflating
his chest.

Sherlock Holmes gave a sigh of relief, and relaxed into a smile.

"Take a seat, and try one of these cigars," he said.
"We are anxious to know how you managed it. Will you have some
whiskey and water?"

"I don't mind if I do," the detective answered.
"The tremendous exertions which I have gone through during
the last day or two have worn me out. Not so much bodily
exertion, you understand, as the strain upon the mind.
You will appreciate that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for we are both
brain-workers."

"You do me too much honour," said Holmes, gravely.
"Let us hear how you arrived at this most gratifying result."

The detective seated himself in the arm-chair, and puffed
complacently at his cigar. Then suddenly he slapped his
thigh in a paroxysm of amusement.

"The fun of it is," he cried, "that that fool Lestrade,
who thinks himself so smart, has gone off upon the wrong track
altogether. He is after the secretary Stangerson, who had no
more to do with the crime than the babe unborn. I have no
doubt that he has caught him by this time."

The idea tickled Gregson so much that he laughed until he choked.

"And how did you get your clue?"

"Ah, I'll tell you all about it. Of course, Doctor Watson,
this is strictly between ourselves. The first difficulty
which we had to contend with was the finding of this
American's antecedents. Some people would have waited until
their advertisements were answered, or until parties came
forward and volunteered information. That is not Tobias
Gregson's way of going to work. You remember the hat beside
the dead man?"

"Yes," said Holmes; "by John Underwood and Sons, 129,
Camberwell Road."

Gregson looked quite crest-fallen.

"I had no idea that you noticed that," he said.
"Have you been there?"

"No."

"Ha!" cried Gregson, in a relieved voice; "you should never
neglect a chance, however small it may seem."

"To a great mind, nothing is little," remarked Holmes,
sententiously.

"Well, I went to Underwood, and asked him if he had sold a
hat of that size and description. He looked over his books,
and came on it at once. He had sent the hat to a Mr. Drebber,
residing at Charpentier's Boarding Establishment,
Torquay Terrace. Thus I got at his address."

"Smart -- very smart!" murmured Sherlock Holmes.

"I next called upon Madame Charpentier," continued the
detective. "I found her very pale and distressed. Her
daughter was in the room, too -- an uncommonly fine girl she
is, too; she was looking red about the eyes and her lips
trembled as I spoke to her. That didn't escape my notice.
I began to smell a rat. You know the feeling, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, when you come upon the right scent -- a kind of
thrill in your nerves. `Have you heard of the mysterious
death of your late boarder Mr. Enoch J. Drebber, of
Cleveland?' I asked.

"The mother nodded. She didn't seem able to get out a word.
The daughter burst into tears. I felt more than ever that
these people knew something of the matter.

"`At what o'clock did Mr. Drebber leave your house for the
train?' I asked.

"`At eight o'clock,' she said, gulping in her throat to keep
down her agitation. `His secretary, Mr. Stangerson, said
that there were two trains -- one at 9.15 and one at 11.
He was to catch the first. {14}

"`And was that the last which you saw of him?'

"A terrible change came over the woman's face as I asked the
question. Her features turned perfectly livid. It was some
seconds before she could get out the single word `Yes' -- and
when it did come it was in a husky unnatural tone.

"There was silence for a moment, and then the daughter spoke
in a calm clear voice.

"`No good can ever come of falsehood, mother,' she said.
`Let us be frank with this gentleman. We _did_ see Mr. Drebber
again.'

"`God forgive you!' cried Madame Charpentier, throwing up her
hands and sinking back in her chair. `You have murdered your
brother.'

"`Arthur would rather that we spoke the truth,' the girl
answered firmly.

"`You had best tell me all about it now,' I said.
`Half-confidences are worse than none. Besides, you do not
know how much we know of it.'

"`On your head be it, Alice!' cried her mother; and then,
turning to me, `I will tell you all, sir. Do not imagine
that my agitation on behalf of my son arises from any fear
lest he should have had a hand in this terrible affair.
He is utterly innocent of it. My dread is, however, that in
your eyes and in the eyes of others he may appear to be
compromised. That however is surely impossible. His high
character, his profession, his antecedents would all forbid it.'

"`Your best way is to make a clean breast of the facts,'
I answered. `Depend upon it, if your son is innocent he will
be none the worse.'

"`Perhaps, Alice, you had better leave us together,' she said,
and her daughter withdrew. `Now, sir,' she continued,
`I had no intention of telling you all this, but since my
poor daughter has disclosed it I have no alternative. Having
once decided to speak, I will tell you all without omitting
any particular.'

"`It is your wisest course,' said I.

"`Mr. Drebber has been with us nearly three weeks. He and
his secretary, Mr. Stangerson, had been travelling on the
Continent. I noticed a "Copenhagen" label upon each of their
trunks, showing that that had been their last stopping place.
Stangerson was a quiet reserved man, but his employer, I am
sorry to say, was far otherwise. He was coarse in his habits
and brutish in his ways. The very night of his arrival he
became very much the worse for drink, and, indeed, after
twelve o'clock in the day he could hardly ever be said to be
sober. His manners towards the maid-servants were
disgustingly free and familiar. Worst of all, he speedily
assumed the same attitude towards my daughter, Alice, and
spoke to her more than once in a way which, fortunately, she
is too innocent to understand. On one occasion he actually
seized her in his arms and embraced her -- an outrage which
caused his own secretary to reproach him for his unmanly conduct.'

"`But why did you stand all this,' I asked. `I suppose that
you can get rid of your boarders when you wish.'

"Mrs. Charpentier blushed at my pertinent question. `Would
to God that I had given him notice on the very day that he
came,' she said. `But it was a sore temptation. They were
paying a pound a day each -- fourteen pounds a week, and this
is the slack season. I am a widow, and my boy in the Navy has
cost me much. I grudged to lose the money. I acted for the
best. This last was too much, however, and I gave him notice
to leave on account of it. That was the reason of his going.'

"`Well?'

"`My heart grew light when I saw him drive away. My son is
on leave just now, but I did not tell him anything of all
this, for his temper is violent, and he is passionately fond
of his sister. When I closed the door behind them a load
seemed to be lifted from my mind. Alas, in less than an hour
there was a ring at the bell, and I learned that Mr. Drebber
had returned. He was much excited, and evidently the worse
for drink. He forced his way into the room, where I was
sitting with my daughter, and made some incoherent remark
about having missed his train. He then turned to Alice, and
before my very face, proposed to her that she should fly with
him. "You are of age," he said, "and there is no law to stop
you. I have money enough and to spare. Never mind the old
girl here, but come along with me now straight away. You
shall live like a princess." Poor Alice was so frightened
that she shrunk away from him, but he caught her by the wrist
and endeavoured to draw her towards the door. I screamed,
and at that moment my son Arthur came into the room. What
happened then I do not know. I heard oaths and the confused
sounds of a scuffle. I was too terrified to raise my head.
When I did look up I saw Arthur standing in the doorway
laughing, with a stick in his hand. "I don't think that fine
fellow will trouble us again," he said. "I will just go
after him and see what he does with himself." With those
words he took his hat and started off down the street.
The next morning we heard of Mr. Drebber's mysterious death.'

"This statement came from Mrs. Charpentier's lips with many
gasps and pauses. At times she spoke so low that I could
hardly catch the words. I made shorthand notes of all that
she said, however, so that there should be no possibility of
a mistake."

"It's quite exciting," said Sherlock Holmes, with a yawn.
"What happened next?"

"When Mrs. Charpentier paused," the detective continued,
"I saw that the whole case hung upon one point. Fixing her
with my eye in a way which I always found effective with women,
I asked her at what hour her son returned.

"`I do not know,' she answered.

"`Not know?'

"`No; he has a latch-key, and he let himself in.'

"`After you went to bed?'

"`Yes.'

"`When did you go to bed?'

"`About eleven.'

"`So your son was gone at least two hours?'

"`Yes.'

"`Possibly four or five?'

"`Yes.'

"`What was he doing during that time?'

"`I do not know,' she answered, turning white to her very lips.

"Of course after that there was nothing more to be done.
I found out where Lieutenant Charpentier was, took two officers
with me, and arrested him. When I touched him on the
shoulder and warned him to come quietly with us, he answered
us as bold as brass, `I suppose you are arresting me for
being concerned in the death of that scoundrel Drebber,'
he said. We had said nothing to him about it, so that his
alluding to it had a most suspicious aspect."

"Very," said Holmes.

"He still carried the heavy stick which the mother described
him as having with him when he followed Drebber. It was a
stout oak cudgel."

"What is your theory, then?"

"Well, my theory is that he followed Drebber as far as the
Brixton Road. When there, a fresh altercation arose between
them, in the course of which Drebber received a blow from the
stick, in the pit of the stomach, perhaps, which killed him
without leaving any mark. The night was so wet that no one
was about, so Charpentier dragged the body of his victim into
the empty house. As to the candle, and the blood, and the
writing on the wall, and the ring, they may all be so many
tricks to throw the police on to the wrong scent."

"Well done!" said Holmes in an encouraging voice. "Really,
Gregson, you are getting along. We shall make something of
you yet."

"I flatter myself that I have managed it rather neatly,"
the detective answered proudly. "The young man volunteered a
statement, in which he said that after following Drebber some
time, the latter perceived him, and took a cab in order to
get away from him. On his way home he met an old shipmate,
and took a long walk with him. On being asked where this old
shipmate lived, he was unable to give any satisfactory reply.
I think the whole case fits together uncommonly well. What
amuses me is to think of Lestrade, who had started off upon
the wrong scent. I am afraid he won't make much of {15}
Why, by Jove, here's the very man himself!"

It was indeed Lestrade, who had ascended the stairs while we
were talking, and who now entered the room. The assurance
and jauntiness which generally marked his demeanour and dress
were, however, wanting. His face was disturbed and troubled,
while his clothes were disarranged and untidy. He had
evidently come with the intention of consulting with Sherlock
Holmes, for on perceiving his colleague he appeared to be
embarrassed and put out. He stood in the centre of the room,
fumbling nervously with his hat and uncertain what to do.
"This is a most extraordinary case," he said at last --
"a most incomprehensible affair."

"Ah, you find it so, Mr. Lestrade!" cried Gregson,
triumphantly. "I thought you would come to that conclusion.
Have you managed to find the Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson?"

"The Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson," said Lestrade gravely,
"was murdered at Halliday's Private Hotel about six o'clock
this morning."