"Yes. He knows that I am his superior, and acknowledges it to me; buthe would cut his tongue out before he would own it to any third person.However, we may as well go and have a look. I shall work it out on myown hook. I may have a laugh at them if I have nothing else. Come on!"
He hustled on his overcoat, and bustled about in a way that showed thatan energetic fit had superseded the apathetic one.
"Get your hat," he said.
"You wish me to come?"
"Yes, if you have nothing better to do." A minute later we were both ina hansom, driving furiously for the Brixton Road.
It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a dun-coloured veil hung over thehouse-tops, looking like the reflection of the mud-coloured streetsbeneath. My companion was in the best of spirits, and prattled awayabout Cremona fiddles, and the difference between a Stradivarius andan Amati. As for myself, I was silent, for the dull weather and themelancholy business upon which we were engaged, depressed my spirits.
"You don't seem to give much thought to the matter in hand," I said atlast, interrupting Holmes' musical disquisition.
"No data yet," he answered. "It is a capital mistake to theorize beforeyou have all the evidence. It biases the judgment."
"You will have your data soon," I remarked, pointing with my finger;"this is the Brixton Road, and that is the house, if I am not very muchmistaken."
"So it is. Stop, driver, stop!" We were still a hundred yards or so fromit, but he insisted upon our alighting, and we finished our journey uponfoot.
Number 3, Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and minatory look. It wasone of four which stood back some little way from the street, two beingoccupied and two empty. The latter looked out with three tiers of vacantmelancholy windows, which were blank and dreary, save that here andthere a "To Let" card had developed like a cataract upon the blearedpanes. A small garden sprinkled over with a scattered eruption of sicklyplants separated each of these houses from the street, and was traversedby a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour, and consisting apparently of amixture of clay and of gravel. The whole place was very sloppy from therain which had fallen through the night. The garden was bounded by athree-foot brick wall with a fringe of wood rails upon the top, andagainst this wall was leaning a stalwart police constable, surrounded bya small knot of loafers, who craned their necks and strained their eyesin the vain hope of catching some glimpse of the proceedings within.
I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have hurried into thehouse and plunged into a study of the mystery. Nothing appeared to befurther from his intention. With an air of nonchalance which, under thecircumstances, seemed to me to border upon affectation, he lounged upand down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the ground, the sky, theopposite houses and the line of railings. Having finished his scrutiny,he proceeded slowly down the path, or rather down the fringe of grasswhich flanked the path, keeping his eyes riveted upon the ground. Twicehe stopped, and once I saw him smile, and heard him utter an exclamationof satisfaction. There were many marks of footsteps upon the wet clayeysoil, but since the police had been coming and going over it, I wasunable to see how my companion could hope to learn anything from it.Still I had had such extraordinary evidence of the quickness of hisperceptive faculties, that I had no doubt that he could see a great dealwhich 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 rushed forward andwrung my companion's hand with effusion. "It is indeed kind of you tocome," he said, "I have had everything left untouched."
"Except that!" my friend answered, pointing at the pathway. "If a herdof buffaloes had passed along there could not be a greater mess. Nodoubt, however, you had drawn your own conclusions, Gregson, before youpermitted this."
"I have had so much to do inside the house," the detective saidevasively. "My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here. I had relied upon himto l
ook after this."
Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically. "With twosuch men as yourself and Lestrade upon the ground, there will not bemuch for a third party to find out," he said.
Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. "I think we have doneall that can be done," he answered; "it's a queer case though, and Iknew 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 inconsequent remark hestrode on into the house, followed by Gregson, whose features expressedhis astonishment.
A short passage, bare planked and dusty, led to the kitchen and offices.Two doors opened out of it to the left and to the right. One of thesehad obviously been closed for many weeks. The other belonged to thedining-room, which was the apartment in which the mysterious affair hadoccurred. Holmes walked in, and I followed him with that subdued feelingat my heart which the presence of death inspires.
It was a large square room, looking all the larger from the absenceof all furniture. A vulgar flaring paper adorned the walls, but it wasblotched in places with mildew, and here and there great strips hadbecome detached and hung down, exposing the yellow plaster beneath.Opposite the door was a showy fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece ofimitation white marble. On one corner of this was stuck the stump of ared wax candle. The solitary window was so dirty that the light washazy and uncertain, giving a dull grey tinge to everything, which wasintensified by the thick layer of dust which coated the whole apartment.
All these details I observed afterwards. At present my attention wascentred upon the single grim motionless figure which lay stretched uponthe boards, with vacant sightless eyes staring up at the discolouredceiling. It was that of a man about forty-three or forty-four years ofage, middle-sized, broad shouldered, with crisp curling black hair, anda short stubbly beard. He was dressed in a heavy broadcloth frock coatand waistcoat, with light-coloured trousers, and immaculate collarand cuffs. A top hat, well brushed and trim, was placed upon the floorbeside him. His hands were clenched and his arms thrown abroad, whilehis lower limbs were interlocked as though his death struggle had been agrievous one. On his rigid face there stood an expression of horror,and as it seemed to me, of hatred, such as I have never seen upon humanfeatures. This malignant and terrible contortion, combined with the lowforehead, blunt nose, and prognathous jaw gave the dead man a singularlysimious and ape-like appearance, which was increased by his writhing,unnatural posture. I have seen death in many forms, but never hasit appeared to me in a more fearsome aspect than in that dark grimyapartment, which looked out upon one of the main arteries of suburbanLondon.
Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was standing by the doorway, andgreeted my companion and myself.
"This case will make a stir, sir," he remarked. "It beats anything Ihave seen, and I am no chicken."
"There is no clue?" said Gregson.
"None at all," chimed in Lestrade.