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.” 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.
“‘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 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.”