The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge (2 page)

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 browns 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 inadmissable. 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 massage 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."