It was indeed Lestrade, who had ascended the stairs while wewere talking, and who now entered the room. The assurance andjauntiness which generally marked his demeanour and dress were,however, wanting. His face was disturbed and troubled, whilehis clothes were disarranged and untidy. He had evidently comewith the intention of consulting with Sherlock Holmes, for onperceiving his colleague he appeared to be embarrassed and putout. He stood in the centre of the room, fumbling nervously withhis hat and uncertain what to do. “This is a most extraordinarycase,” he said at last—“a most incomprehensible affair.”
“Ah, you find it so, Mr. Lestrade!” cried Gregson, triumphantly. “Ithought you would come to that conclusion. Have you managed tofind the Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson?”
“The Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson,” said Lestrade, gravely,“was murdered at Halliday’s Private Hotel about six o’clock thismorning.”
Light in the Darkness
THE intelligence with which Lestrade greeted us was somomentous and so unexpected that we were all three fairlydumfoundered. Gregson sprang out of his chair and upset theremainder of his whiskey and water. I stared in silence at SherlockHolmes, whose lips were compressed and his brows drawn downover his eyes.
“Stangerson too!” he muttered. “The plot thickens.”
“It was quite thick enough before,” grumbled Lestrade, taking achair. “I seem to have dropped into a sort of council of war.”
“Are you—are you sure of this piece of intelligence?” stammeredGregson.
“I have just come from his room,” said Lestrade. “I was the firstto discover what had occurred.”
“We have been hearing Gregson’s view of the matter,” Holmesobserved. “Would you mind letting us know what you have seenand done?”
“I have no objection,” Lestrade answered, seating himself.
“I freely confess that I was of the opinion that Stangerson wasconcerned in the death of Drebber. This fresh development hasshown me that I was completely mistaken. Full of the one idea,I set myself to find out what had become of the Secretary. Theyhad been seen together at Euston Station about half-past eighton the evening of the third. At two in the morning Drebber hadbeen found in the Brixton Road. The question which confrontedme was to find out how Stangerson had been employed between8:30 and the time of the crime, and what had become of himafterwards. I telegraphed to Liverpool, giving a deion of theman, and warning them to keep a watch upon the American boats.
I then set to work calling upon all the hotels and lodging-housesin the vicinity of Euston. You see, I argued that if Drebber and hiscompanion had become separated, the natural course for the latterwould be to put up somewhere in the vicinity for the night, andthen to hang about the station again next morning.”
“They would be likely to agree on some meeting-placebeforehand,” remarked Holmes.
“So it proved. I spent the whole of yesterday evening in makinginquiries entirely without avail. This morning I began very early,and at eight o’clock I reached Halliday’s Private Hotel, in LittleGeorge Street. On my inquiry as to whether a Mr. Stangerson wasliving there, they at once answered me in the affirmative.
No doubt you are the gentleman whom he was expecting. they said. ‘He has been waiting for a gentleman for two days.Where is he now?’ I asked.He is upstairs in bed. He wished to be called at nine.
I will go up and see him at once,’ I said.
“It seemed to me that my sudden appearance might shake hisnerves and lead him to say something unguarded. The Bootsvolunteered to show me the room: it was on the second floor, andthere was a small corridor leading up to it. The Boots pointed outthe door to me, and was about to go downstairs again when I sawsomething that made me feel sickish, in spite of my twenty years.
experience. From under the door there curled a little red ribbonof blood, which had meandered across the passage and formed alittle pool along the skirting at the other side. I gave a cry, whichbrought the Boots back. He nearly fainted when he saw it. Thedoor was locked on the inside, but we put our shoulders to it, andknocked it in. The window of the room was open, and beside thewindow, all huddled up, lay the body of a man in his nightdress.
He was quite dead, and had been for some time, for his limbs wererigid and cold. When we turned him over, the Boots recognizedhim at once as being the same gentleman who had engaged theroom under the name of Joseph Stangerson. The cause of deathwas a deep stab in the left side, which must have penetrated theheart. And now comes the strangest part of the affair. What doyou suppose was above the murdered man?”
I felt a creeping of the flesh, and a presentiment of cominghorror, even before Sherlock Holmes answered.
“The word RACHE, written in letters of blood,” he said.
“That was it,” said Lestrade, in an awestruck voice; and we wereall silent for a while.
There was something so methodical and so incomprehensibleabout the deeds of this unknown assassin, that it imparted a freshghastliness to his crimes. My nerves, which were steady enough onthe field of battle, tingled as I thought of it.
