I find it recorded in my notebook that it was a bleak and windy day
towards the end of March in the year 1892. Holmes had received a
telegram while we sat at our lunch, and he had scribbled a reply. He
made no remark, but the matter remained in his thoughts, for he stood
in front of the fire afterwards with a thoughtful face, smoking his
pipe, and casting an occasional glance at the message. Suddenly he
turned upon me with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
“I suppose, Watson, we must look upon you as a man of letters,” said
he. “How do you define the word ‘grotesque’?”
“Strange—remarkable,” I suggested.
He shook his head at my definition.
“There is surely something more than that,” said he; “some underlying
suggestion of the tragic and the terrible. If you cast your mind back
to some of those narratives with which you have afflicted a
long-suffering public, you will recognise how often the grotesque has
deepened into the criminal. Think of that little affair of the
red-headed men. That was grotesque enough in the outset, and yet it
ended in a desperate attempt at robbery. Or, again, there was that most
grotesque affair of the five orange pips, which led straight to a
murderous conspiracy. The word puts me on the alert.”
“Have you it there?” I asked.
He read the telegram aloud.
“Have just had most incredible and grotesque experience. May I consult
you?
“Scott Eccles,
“Post Office, Charing Cross.”
“Man or woman?” I asked.
“Oh, man, of course. No woman would ever send a reply-paid telegram.
She would have come.”
“Will you see him?”
“My dear Watson, you know how bored I have been since we locked up
Colonel Carruthers. My mind is like a racing engine, tearing itself to
pieces because it is not connected up with the work for which it was
built. Life is commonplace, the papers are sterile; audacity and
romance seem to have passed forever from the criminal world. Can you
ask me, then, whether I am ready to look into any new problem, however
trivial it may prove? But here, unless I am mistaken, is our client.”
A measured step was heard upon the stairs, and a moment later a stout,
tall, grey-whiskered and solemnly respectable person was ushered into
the room. His life history was written in his heavy features and
pompous manner. From his spats to his gold-rimmed spectacles he was a
Conservative, a churchman, a good citizen, orthodox and conventional to
the last degree. But some amazing experience had disturbed his native
composure and left its traces in his bristling hair, his flushed, angry
cheeks, and his flurried, excited manner. He plunged instantly into his
business.
“I have had a most singular and unpleasant experience, Mr. Holmes,”
said he. “Never in my life have I been placed in such a situation. It
is most improper—most outrageous. I must insist upon some explanation.”
He swelled and puffed in his anger.
“Pray sit down, Mr. Scott Eccles,” said Holmes in a soothing voice.
“May I ask, in the first place, why you came to me at all?”
“Well, sir, it did not appear to be a matter which concerned the
police, and yet, when you have heard the facts, you must admit that I
could not leave it where it was. Private detectives are a class with
whom I have absolutely no sympathy, but none the less, having heard
your name—”
“Quite so. But, in the second place, why did you not come at once?”
Holmes glanced at his watch.
“It is a quarter-past two,” he said. “Your telegram was dispatched
about one. But no one can glance at your toilet and attire without
seeing that your disturbance dates from the moment of your waking.”
Our client smoothed down his unbrushed hair and felt his unshaven chin.
“You are right, Mr. Holmes. I never gave a thought to my toilet. I was
only too glad to get out of such a house. But I have been running round
making inquiries before I came to you. I went to the house agents, you
know, and they said that Mr. Garcia’s rent was paid up all right and
that everything was in order at Wisteria Lodge.”
“Come, come, sir,” said Holmes, laughing. “You are like my friend, Dr.
Watson, who has a bad habit of telling his stories wrong end foremost.
Please arrange your thoughts and let me know, in their due sequence,
exactly what those events are which have sent you out unbrushed and
unkempt, with dress boots and waistcoat buttoned awry, in search of
advice and assistance.”
Our client looked down with a rueful face at his own unconventional
appearance.
“I’m sure it must look very bad, Mr. Holmes, and I am not aware that in
my whole life such a thing has ever happened before. But I will tell
you the whole queer business, and when I have done so you will admit, I
am sure, that there has been enough to excuse me.”
But his narrative was nipped in the bud. There was a bustle outside,
and Mrs. Hudson opened the door to usher in two robust and
official-looking individuals, one of whom was well known to us as
Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard, an energetic, gallant, and, within
his limitations, a capable officer. He shook hands with Holmes and
introduced his comrade as Inspector Baynes, of the Surrey Constabulary.
“We are hunting together, Mr. Holmes, and our trail lay in this
direction.” He turned his bulldog eyes upon our visitor. “Are you Mr.
John Scott Eccles, of Popham House, Lee?”
“I am.”
“We have been following you about all the morning.”
“You traced him through the telegram, no doubt,” said Holmes.
“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. We picked up the scent at Charing Cross
Post-Office and came on here.”
“But why do you follow me? What do you want?”
“We wish a statement, Mr. Scott Eccles, as to the events which led up
to the death last night of Mr. Aloysius Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge, near
Esher.”
Our client had sat up with staring eyes and every tinge of colour
struck from his astonished face.
“Dead? Did you say he was dead?”
“Yes, sir, he is dead.”
“But how? An accident?”
“Murder, if ever there was one upon earth.”
“Good God! This is awful! You don’t mean—you don’t mean that I am
suspected?”
“A letter of yours was found in the dead man’s pocket, and we know by
it that you had planned to pass last night at his house.”
“So I did.”
“Oh, you did, did you?”
Out came the official notebook.
“Wait a bit, Gregson,” said Sherlock Holmes. “All you desire is a plain
statement, is it not?”
“And it is my duty to warn Mr. Scott Eccles that it may be used against
him.”
“Mr. Eccles was going to tell us about it when you entered the room. I
think, Watson, a brandy and soda would do him no harm. Now, sir, I
suggest that you take no notice of this addition to your audience, and
that you proceed with your narrative exactly as you would have done had
you never been interrupted.”
Our visitor had gulped off the brandy and the colour had returned to
his face. With a dubious glance at the inspector’s notebook, he plunged
at once into his extraordinary statement.
“I am a bachelor,” said he, “and being of a sociable turn I cultivate a
large number of friends. Among these are the family of a retired brewer
called Melville, living at Abermarle Mansion, Kensington. It was at his
table that I met some weeks ago a young fellow named Garcia. He was, I
understood, of Spanish descent and connected in some way with the
embassy. He spoke perfect English, was pleasing in his manners, and as
good-looking a man as ever I saw in my life.
“In some way we struck up quite a friendship, this young fellow and I.
He seemed to take a fancy to me from the first, and within two days of
our meeting he came to see me at Lee. One thing led to another, and it
ended in his inviting me out to spend a few days at his house, Wisteria
Lodge, between Esher and Oxshott. Yesterday evening I went to Esher to
fulfil this engagement.
“He had described his household to me before I went there. He lived
with a faithful servant, a countryman of his own, who looked after all
his needs. This fellow could speak English and did his housekeeping for
him. Then there was a wonderful cook, he said, a half-breed whom he had
picked up in his travels, who could serve an excellent dinner. I
remember that he remarked what a queer household it was to find in the
heart of Surrey, and that I agreed with him, though it has proved a
good deal queerer than I thought.
“I drove to the place—about two miles on the south side of Esher. The
house was a fair-sized one, standing back from the road, with a curving
drive which was banked with high evergreen shrubs. It was an old,
tumbledown building in a crazy state of disrepair. When the trap pulled
up on the grass-grown drive in front of the blotched and
weather-stained door, I had doubts as to my wisdom in visiting a man
whom I knew so slightly. He opened the door himself, however, and
greeted me with a great show of cordiality. I was handed over to the
manservant, a melancholy, swarthy individual, who led the way, my bag
in his hand, to my bedroom. The whole place was depressing. Our dinner
was _tête-à-tête_, and though my host did his best to be entertaining,
his thoughts seemed to continually wander, and he talked so vaguely and
wildly that I could hardly understand him. He continually drummed his
fingers on the table, gnawed his nails, and gave other signs of nervous
impatience. The dinner itself was neither well served nor well cooked,
and the gloomy presence of the taciturn servant did not help to enliven
us. I can assure you that many times in the course of the evening I
wished that I could invent some excuse which would take me back to Lee.
“One thing comes back to my memory which may have a bearing upon the
business that you two gentlemen are investigating. I thought nothing of
it at the time. Near the end of dinner a note was handed in by the
servant. I noticed that after my host had read it he seemed even more
distrait and strange than before. He gave up all pretence at
conversation and sat, smoking endless cigarettes, lost in his own
thoughts, but he made no remark as to the contents. About eleven I was
glad to go to bed. Some time later Garcia looked in at my door—the room
was dark at the time—and asked me if I had rung. I said that I had not.
He apologised for having disturbed me so late, saying that it was
nearly one o’clock. I dropped off after this and slept soundly all
night.
“And now I come to the amazing part of my tale. When I woke it was
broad daylight. I glanced at my watch, and the time was nearly nine. I
had particularly asked to be called at eight, so I was very much
astonished at this forgetfulness. I sprang up and rang for the servant.
There was no response. I rang again and again, with the same result.
Then I came to the conclusion that the bell was out of order. I huddled
on my clothes and hurried downstairs in an exceedingly bad temper to
order some hot water. You can imagine my surprise when I found that
there was no one there. I shouted in the hall. There was no answer.
Then I ran from room to room. All were deserted. My host had shown me
which was his bedroom the night before, so I knocked at the door. No
reply. I turned the handle and walked in. The room was empty, and the
bed had never been slept in. He had gone with the rest. The foreign
host, the foreign footman, the foreign cook, all had vanished in the
night! That was the end of my visit to Wisteria Lodge.”
Sherlock Holmes was rubbing his hands and chuckling as he added this
bizarre incident to his collection of strange episodes.
“Your experience is, so far as I know, perfectly unique,” said he. “May
I ask, sir, what you did then?”
“I was furious. My first idea was that I had been the victim of some
absurd practical joke. I packed my things, banged the hall door behind
me, and set off for Esher, with my bag in my hand. I called at Allan
Brothers’, the chief land agents in the village, and found that it was
from this firm that the villa had been rented. It struck me that the
whole proceeding could hardly be for the purpose of making a fool of
me, and that the main object must be to get out of the rent. It is late
in March, so quarter-day is at hand. But this theory would not work.
The agent was obliged to me for my warning, but told me that the rent
had been paid in advance. Then I made my way to town and called at the
Spanish embassy. The man was unknown there. After this I went to see
Melville, at whose house I had first met Garcia, but I found that he
really knew rather less about him than I did. Finally when I got your
reply to my wire I came out to you, since I gather that you are a
person who gives advice in difficult cases. But now, Mr. Inspector, I
understand, from what you said when you entered the room, that you can
carry the story on, and that some tragedy had occurred. I can assure
you that every word I have said is the truth, and that, outside of what
I have told you, I know absolutely nothing about the fate of this man.
My only desire is to help the law in every possible way.”
“I am sure of it, Mr. Scott Eccles—I am sure of it,” said Inspector
Gregson in a very amiable tone. “I am bound to say that everything
which you have said agrees very closely with the facts as they have
come to our notice. For example, there was that note which arrived
during dinner. Did you chance to observe what became of it?”
“Yes, I did. Garcia rolled it up and threw it into the fire.”
“What do you say to that, Mr. Baynes?”
The country detective was a stout, puffy, red man, whose face was only
redeemed from grossness by two extraordinarily bright eyes, almost
hidden behind the heavy creases of cheek and brow. With a slow smile he
drew a folded and discoloured scrap of paper from his pocket.
“It was a dog-grate, Mr. Holmes, and he overpitched it. I picked this
out unburned from the back of it.”
Holmes smiled his appreciation.
“You must have examined the house very carefully to find a single
pellet of paper.”
“I did, Mr. Holmes. It’s my way. Shall I read it, Mr. Gregson?”
The Londoner nodded.
“The note is written upon ordinary cream-laid paper without watermark.
It is a quarter-sheet. The paper is cut off in two snips with a
short-bladed scissors. It has been folded over three times and sealed
with purple wax, put on hurriedly and pressed down with some flat oval
object. It is addressed to Mr. Garcia, Wisteria Lodge. It says:
“Our own colours, green and white. Green open, white shut. Main stair,
first corridor, seventh right, green baize. Godspeed. D.
“It is a woman’s writing, done with a sharp-pointed pen, but the
address is either done with another pen or by someone else. It is
thicker and bolder, as you see.”
“A very remarkable note,” said Holmes, glancing it over. “I must
compliment you, Mr. Baynes, upon your attention to detail in your
examination of it. A few trifling points might perhaps be added. The
oval seal is undoubtedly a plain sleeve-link—what else is of such a
shape? The scissors were bent nail scissors. Short as the two snips
are, you can distinctly see the same slight curve in each.”
The country detective chuckled.
“I thought I had squeezed all the juice out of it, but I see there was
a little over,” he said. “I’m bound to say that I make nothing of the
note except that there was something on hand, and that a woman, as
usual was at the bottom of it.”
Mr. Scott Eccles had fidgeted in his seat during this conversation.
“I am glad you found the note, since it corroborates my story,” said
he. “But I beg to point out that I have not yet heard what has happened
to Mr. Garcia, nor what has become of his household.”
“As to Garcia,” said Gregson, “that is easily answered. He was found
dead this morning upon Oxshott Common, nearly a mile from his home. His
head had been smashed to pulp by heavy blows of a sandbag or some such
instrument, which had crushed rather than wounded. It is a lonely
corner, and there is no house within a quarter of a mile of the spot.
He had apparently been struck down first from behind, but his assailant
had gone on beating him long after he was dead. It was a most furious
assault. There are no footsteps nor any clue to the criminals.”
“Robbed?”
“No, there was no attempt at robbery.”
“This is very painful—very painful and terrible,” said Mr. Scott Eccles
in a querulous voice, “but it is really uncommonly hard on me. I had
nothing to do with my host going off upon a nocturnal excursion and
meeting so sad an end. How do I come to be mixed up with the case?”
“Very simply, sir,” Inspector Baynes answered. “The only document found
in the pocket of the deceased was a letter from you saying that you
would be with him on the night of his death. It was the envelope of
this letter which gave us the dead man’s name and address. It was after
nine this morning when we reached his house and found neither you nor
anyone else inside it. I wired to Mr. Gregson to run you down in London
while I examined Wisteria Lodge. Then I came into town, joined Mr.
Gregson, and here we are.”
“I think now,” said Gregson, rising, “we had best put this matter into
an official shape. You will come round with us to the station, Mr.
Scott Eccles, and let us have your statement in writing.”
“Certainly, I will come at once. But I retain your services, Mr.
Holmes. I desire you to spare no expense and no pains to get at the
truth.”
My friend turned to the country inspector.
“I suppose that you have no objection to my collaborating with you, Mr.
Baynes?”
“Highly honoured, sir, I am sure.”
“You appear to have been very prompt and businesslike in all that you
have done. Was there any clue, may I ask, as to the exact hour that the
man met his death?”
“He had been there since one o’clock. There was rain about that time,
and his death had certainly been before the rain.”
“But that is perfectly impossible, Mr. Baynes,” cried our client. “His
voice is unmistakable. I could swear to it that it was he who addressed
me in my bedroom at that very hour.”
“Remarkable, but by no means impossible,” said Holmes, smiling.
“You have a clue?” asked Gregson.
“On the face of it the case is not a very complex one, though it
certainly presents some novel and interesting features. A further
knowledge of facts is necessary before I would venture to give a final
and definite opinion. By the way, Mr. Baynes, did you find anything
remarkable besides this note in your examination of the house?”
The detective looked at my friend in a singular way.
“There were,” said he, “one or two _very_ remarkable things. Perhaps
when I have finished at the police-station you would care to come out
and give me your opinion of them.”
“I am entirely at your service,” said Sherlock Holmes, ringing the
bell. “You will show these gentlemen out, Mrs. Hudson, and kindly send
the boy with this telegram. He is to pay a five-shilling reply.”
We sat for some time in silence after our visitors had left. Holmes
smoked hard, with his brows drawn down over his keen eyes, and his head
thrust forward in the eager way characteristic of the man.
“Well, Watson,” he asked, turning suddenly upon me, “what do you make
of it?”
“I can make nothing of this mystification of Scott Eccles.”
“But the crime?”
“Well, taken with the disappearance of the man’s companions, I should
say that they were in some way concerned in the murder and had fled
from justice.”
“That is certainly a possible point of view. On the face of it you must
admit, however, that it is very strange that his two servants should
have been in a conspiracy against him and should have attacked him on
the one night when he had a guest. They had him alone at their mercy
every other night in the week.”
“Then why did they fly?”
“Quite so. Why did they fly? There is a big fact. Another big fact is
the remarkable experience of our client, Scott Eccles. Now, my dear
Watson, is it beyond the limits of human ingenuity to furnish an
explanation which would cover both of these big facts? If it were one
which would also admit of the mysterious note with its very curious
phraseology, why, then it would be worth accepting as a temporary
hypothesis. If the fresh facts which come to our knowledge all fit
themselves into the scheme, then our hypothesis may gradually become a
solution.”
“But what is our hypothesis?”
Holmes leaned back in his chair with half-closed eyes.
“You must admit, my dear Watson, that the idea of a joke is impossible.
There were grave events afoot, as the sequel showed, and the coaxing of
Scott Eccles to Wisteria Lodge had some connection with them.”
“But what possible connection?”
“Let us take it link by link. There is, on the face of it, something
unnatural about this strange and sudden friendship between the young
Spaniard and Scott Eccles. It was the former who forced the pace. He
called upon Eccles at the other end of London on the very day after he
first met him, and he kept in close touch with him until he got him
down to Esher. Now, what did he want with Eccles? What could Eccles
supply? I see no charm in the man. He is not particularly
intelligent—not a man likely to be congenial to a quick-witted Latin.
Why, then, was he picked out from all the other people whom Garcia met
as particularly suited to his purpose? Has he any one outstanding
quality? I say that he has. He is the very type of conventional British
respectability, and the very man as a witness to impress another
Briton. You saw yourself how neither of the inspectors dreamed of
questioning his statement, extraordinary as it was.”
“But what was he to witness?”
“Nothing, as things turned out, but everything had they gone another
way. That is how I read the matter.”
“I see, he might have proved an alibi.”
“Exactly, my dear Watson; he might have proved an alibi. We will
suppose, for argument’s sake, that the household of Wisteria Lodge are
confederates in some design. The attempt, whatever it may be, is to
come off, we will say, before one o’clock. By some juggling of the
clocks it is quite possible that they may have got Scott Eccles to bed
earlier than he thought, but in any case it is likely that when Garcia
went out of his way to tell him that it was one it was really not more
than twelve. If Garcia could do whatever he had to do and be back by
the hour mentioned he had evidently a powerful reply to any accusation.
Here was this irreproachable Englishman ready to swear in any court of
law that the accused was in the house all the time. It was an insurance
against the worst.”
“Yes, yes, I see that. But how about the disappearance of the others?”
“I have not all my facts yet, but I do not think there are any
insuperable difficulties. Still, it is an error to argue in front of
your data. You find yourself insensibly twisting them round to fit your
theories.”
“And the message?”
“How did it run? ‘Our own colours, green and white.’ Sounds like
racing. ‘Green open, white shut.’ That is clearly a signal. ‘Main
stair, first corridor, seventh right, green baize.’ This is an
assignation. We may find a jealous husband at the bottom of it all. It
was clearly a dangerous quest. She would not have said ‘Godspeed’ had
it not been so. ‘D’—that should be a guide.”
“The man was a Spaniard. I suggest that ‘D’ stands for Dolores, a
common female name in Spain.”
“Good, Watson, very good—but quite inadmissible. A Spaniard would write
to a Spaniard in Spanish. The writer of this note is certainly English.
Well, we can only possess our soul in patience until this excellent
inspector come back for us. Meanwhile we can thank our lucky fate which
has rescued us for a few short hours from the insufferable fatigues of
idleness.”
An answer had arrived to Holmes’s telegram before our Surrey officer
had returned. Holmes read it and was about to place it in his notebook
when he caught a glimpse of my expectant face. He tossed it across with
a laugh.
“We are moving in exalted circles,” said he.
The telegram was a list of names and addresses:
Lord Harringby, The Dingle; Sir George Ffolliott, Oxshott Towers; Mr.
Hynes Hynes, J.P., Purdley Place; Mr. James Baker Williams, Forton Old
Hall; Mr. Henderson, High Gable; Rev. Joshua Stone, Nether Walsling.
“This is a very obvious way of limiting our field of operations,” said
Holmes. “No doubt Baynes, with his methodical mind, has already adopted
some similar plan.”
“I don’t quite understand.”
“Well, my dear fellow, we have already arrived at the conclusion that
the message received by Garcia at dinner was an appointment or an
assignation. Now, if the obvious reading of it is correct, and in order
to keep the tryst one has to ascend a main stair and seek the seventh
door in a corridor, it is perfectly clear that the house is a very
large one. It is equally certain that this house cannot be more than a
mile or two from Oxshott, since Garcia was walking in that direction
and hoped, according to my reading of the facts, to be back in Wisteria
Lodge in time to avail himself of an alibi, which would only be valid
up to one o’clock. As the number of large houses close to Oxshott must
be limited, I adopted the obvious method of sending to the agents
mentioned by Scott Eccles and obtaining a list of them. Here they are
in this telegram, and the other end of our tangled skein must lie among
them.”
It was nearly six o’clock before we found ourselves in the pretty
Surrey village of Esher, with Inspector Baynes as our companion.
Holmes and I had taken things for the night, and found comfortable
quarters at the Bull. Finally we set out in the company of the
detective on our visit to Wisteria Lodge. It was a cold, dark March
evening, with a sharp wind and a fine rain beating upon our faces, a
fit setting for the wild common over which our road passed and the
tragic goal to which it led us.