2 The Scene of the Crime

Chapter 2 TheScene oftheCrime Holmes put on his coat. "Come with me, Watson, if you've nothing better to do." Intrigued to see Holmes use his methods in action, I agreed, and a moment later we were in a hansom cab, driving toward Brixton. Number 3 Lauriston Gardens was a terraced house with empty windows and a melancholy air. At the door, we were met by the tall, pale, fair-haired Tobias Gregson. "It's good of you to come, Holmes," he said. "I've left everything untouched." "Except that!" Holmes pointed at the many muddy footsteps on the walkway. "A herd of buffaloes wouldn't have caused greater mess. I trust you checked the walkway for footprints before you allowed this?"

"I was too busy inside," said Gregson. "I left that to Lestrade." "Lestrade's here, too?" Holmes glanced at me, smiling. "Did either of you come here in a cab?" "No, sir." "Good, then let us inspect the room." Gregson and I followed him into the house, both puzzled by his odd question about the cab. The dining room was large and entirely empty of furniture. A layer of dust lay over everything. Lying stretched upon the bare floorboards was the body of a man —he was quite dead. The man was in his mid-forties with black hair and a short beard, and wore an expensive coat. His rigid face wore a look of horror, his fists were clenched, and his arms

thrown wide, as if his death struggle had been extremely unpleasant. Lestrade appeared at the door. "We've found no clues, Mr. Holmes," he said. "None whatsoever," confirmed Gregson. "Are you sure there's no wound?" "Positive!" cried both detectives. "Then this blood belongs to someone else—presumably the murderer." Holmes pointed to a splash of blood on the floor. He began examining the body. "You can take him to the mortuary now," he finally declared. Gregson ordered a stretcher and four men. As they raised the body, something rolled across the floor. Lestrade picked it up. "It's a woman's wedding ring!" "What did you find in his pockets?" asked Holmes.

Gregson showed him a box containing some odds and ends, including a letter to Enoch Drebber and Joseph Stangerson, confirming their places on a steamship voyage from Liverpool to New York. "Have you made queries about these men, Gregson?" asked Holmes. "Yes, but we've learned nothing yet." "Wait! I've found something!" cried Lestrade. We joined him in a gloomy corner of the room. Lestrade was holding a match up to the wall. There, on a bare piece of plaster, a single word had been scrawled in blood: RACHE. "This is an important discovery, which would have been overlooked but for my eagle eye," said Lestrade.

"And what does it mean now you've found it?" asked Gregson disdainfully. "Mean? The writer was going to write the name Rachel, but was disturbed before they could finish. You mark my words, when this case is solved, you'll find there's a woman named Rachel involved."

Holmes took out a tape measure and magnifying glass and began examining the room. For the next twenty minutes he moved about, studying virtually invisible marks and taking measurements. At one point, he carefully gathered a pile of dust from the floor and stored it in an envelope. Gregson and Lestrade looked on in bemusement. "What do you think, sir?" asked Gregson finally. "I wouldn't presume to offer you my help since you're both doing so well," answered Holmes. "But I'd like to speak to the policeman who found the body." "It was Constable John Rance," said Lestrade. He gave him the address.