The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Veiled Detective

Fourteen

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER

On leaving Lauriston Gardens, we first called at the nearest telegraph office, where Holmes despatched a long telegram. We then continued our journey to Audley Court to interview John Rance, the constable who had discovered the body.

“I doubt if we’ll learn anything from this cove,” Holmes said, as we alighted from the cab. “The intelligence of the average man on the beat is not terribly high.”

Audley Court was not an attractive locality. The narrow passage led us into a quadrangle paved with flags and lined with sordid dwellings. We picked our way among groups of dirty children, and through lines of grey and discoloured linen, until we came to Number 46, the door of which was decorated with a small tarnished slip of brass engraved with the name of Rance. From a small, emaciated-looking woman, whom Iassumed was Rance’s wife, we learned that the constable was still in bed, and we were shown into a cramped and dowdy front parlour while she went off to rouse him.

He appeared presently, looking a little irritable at having been disturbed in his slumbers.

“I made my report at the office,” he said sharply, as though that were the end of the matter.

Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket and played with it pensively.

“We thought that we should like to hear it from your own lips,” he said, flipping the coin in the air.

For a moment an avaricious light flamed in the disgruntled constable’s eyes. “I shall be most happy to tell you anything I can,” he said.

“Just let us hear it all in your own way, as it occurred.”

Rance sat on the horsehair sofa, and knitted his brows, as though determined not to omit any detail in his narrative.

“I’ll tell it ye from the beginning,” he said, with enthusiasm.

He was as good as his word; for some five minutes he took us through the course of his evening, from when he came on duty at around ten o’clock. He even rambled on about clearing some roughs away from outside a pawnshop and helping to deal with a fight at The White Hart.

Holmes waited patiently through this irrelevant recital until he reached the part of his narrative we had come to hear: “It had come on to rain just after two, and I thought I’d take a look round and see that all was right down the Brixton Road. It was precious dirty and lonely. Not a soul did I meet all the way down, though a cab or two went past me. I was wet and miserable, gents, and as I was strollin’, between ourselves, I was thinkin’ how uncommon handy a four of gin-hot would be, when suddenly the glint of a light caught my eye in the window of that same house. Now, I knows that those dwellings in Lauriston Gardens are empty, on account of him that owns them won’t have the drains seen to, though the last tenant died of typhoid fever. I was knocked all in a heap, therefore, at seeing a light in the window, and I suspected something was wrong.”

“There was no one else in the street at the time?”

“Not a soul, sir, nor as much as a dog.”

“Pray continue.”

“I went up the path and pushed the door open. I can tell you, my heart was fair bumpin’ inside my uniform. All seemed quiet inside, so I went into the room where the light was a-burnin’. There was a candle flickering on the mantelpiece — a red wax one — and by its light I saw...”

“Yes, yes, I know what you saw. You walked round the room several times, and you knelt by the body, and then you walked through and tried the kitchen door and then—”

John Rance shifted uneasily. “Where was you hid to see all this? It seems you know a great deal more of this matter than you should!”

Holmes smiled. “I am a detective, assisting Mr Gregson and Mr Lestrade. I am one of the hounds, not the fox.’ He leaned forward, and lowered his voice for emphasis. ‘I detected your actions. Now, please continue.”

Rance resumed his narrative, but retained his suspicious expression. “I went back to the gate and sounded my whistle. That brought three other constables to the spot.”

“Was the street still empty?”

“Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good goes.”

“What do you mean?”

The constable’s features broadened into a grin. “I’ve seen many a drunk chap in my time,” he said, “but never anyone so cryin’ drunk as that blighter. He was at the gate when I came out, a-leanin’ up ag’in the railings, and a-singin’ at the pitch o’ his lungs about Columbine’s Newfangled Banner, or some such stuff. He couldn’t stand, far less help.”

“What sort of a man was he?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

John Rance appeared to be somewhat irritated at this digression. “He was an uncommon drunk sort o’ man,” he said. “He’d have found himself in the station if we hadn’t been so took up.”

“His face — his dress — didn’t you notice them?” Holmes broke in impatiently.

“I should think I did notice them, seeing that I had to prop him up. He was a long chap, with a red face, the lower part was muffled round—”

“That will do!” cried Holmes. “What became of him?”

“We’d enough to do without looking after him,” the policeman said, in an aggrieved voice. “I’ll wager he found his way home eventually.”

“How was he dressed?”

“A brown overcoat.”

“Had he a whip in his hand?”

“A whip — no.”

“He must have left it behind,” muttered my companion. “You didn’t happen to see or hear a cab after that?”

“No.”

“There’s half a sovereign for you,” said Holmes with a sigh, standing up and taking his hat. “I am afraid, Rance, that you will never rise in the force. That head of yours should be for use as well as ornament. You might have gained your sergeant’s stripes last night, if you’d had your wits about you. The man you dismissed as an innocent drunkard is the man who holds the key to this mystery. The man we are seeking.”

“You mean the murderer?”

“The same. Come along, Doctor.”

We started off for the cab together, leaving our informant incredulous, but obviously uncomfortable.

“The blundering fool!” Holmes exclaimed bitterly, as we drove back to our lodgings.

I was still a little puzzled. I knew that the drunken man tallied with Holmes’ description of the murderer, but why had he returned to the house after committing his crime? My companion read my thoughts.

“It was to get the ring, of course. That was why our man came back. It obviously has great significance for him. So much so that he was prepared to risk capture to regain it. And it is by the ring we shall catch him.”

“How?”

“By using it as bait. You shall see.” And then he laughed at my mystified expression. “But, Doctor,” he added, patting my arm, a smile lighting his gaunt features, “I am so glad you came with me to share this business. It’s the finest study I ever came across: a study in scarlet, eh? Why not use a little art jargon? There’s a scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every inch of it.”

Late that afternoon, Jefferson Hope rested his weary bones in The Turk’s Head while he sipped a tankard of ale and perused the newspaper in a lazy fashion. He was waiting for the night, the thick darkness when he could complete his mission. As his eyes ran over the small print, one advertisement in the Found column sent his pulse racing:

In Brixton Road this morning, a plain gold wedding-ring, found in the roadway between the White Hart Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Doctor Watson, 221B, Baker Street between seven and eight this evening.

Hope took a gulp of beer. This was his ring. Without a doubt. The one he risked all to retrieve the previous night. His grin faded a little as he considered the times stated. By eight o’clock it would be dark and Stangerson might well be making a move. Could he risk going to Baker Street before returning to Halliday’s Hotel? If he didn’t, he might lose the ring. Some chancer might convince this Doctor Watson that it was his. Surely Stangerson would wait until the streets were quiet before making his escape? He glanced once more at the advertisement. It was a risk he would have to take.