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The papers next day were full of the “Brixton Mystery,” as they termed it. There was some information in them which was new to me.

The Daily Telegraph mentioned the German name of the victim, the absence of all other motive, and the sinister inscription on the wall; all that pointed to political refugees and revolutionists. The Standard said that the victim was an American gentleman who was staying in Camberwell.

He has his private secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson. They left their landlady upon Tuesday, the 4th., and departed to Euston Station to catch the Liverpool express. Then Mr. Drebber’s body was 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. Where is Stangerson? Nobody knows. We are glad to know that Mr. Lestrade and Mr. Gregson, of Scotland Yard, are both engaged upon the case, and they will soon throw light upon the matter.

The Daily News said that it was a political murder.

Sherlock Holmes and I read these articles at breakfast.

“What is this?” I cried, for at this moment there came the pattering of many steps in the hall and on the stairs.

“It’s the Baker Street detective police,” said my companion, gravely. As he spoke there rushed into the room half a dozen of dirty street boys.

“Hush!” cried Holmes, in a sharp tone. “In future you will send Wiggins alone to report. Any news, Wiggins?”

“No, sir,” said one of the youths.

“I knew that. Here are your wages.” He handed each of them a shilling. “Now go away and come back with a better report next time.”

They scampered away downstairs like rats.

“One of those little beggars is better than a dozen of the policemen,” Holmes remarked. “These youngsters go everywhere and hear everything.”

“Are you employing them for this Brixton case?” I asked.

“Yes. It is merely a matter of time. Oh! Here is Gregson coming down the road. He wants to visit 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.

“My dear fellow,” he cried, “congratulate me! I solved the problem.”

“Do you mean that you know the criminal?” asked Holmes.

“Sir, we have the man under lock and key!”

“And his name is?”

“Arthur Charpentier, sub-lieutenant in Her Majesty’s navy[41],” cried Gregson, pompously.

Sherlock Holmes smiled.

“Take a seat,” he said. “And please tell us everything.”

The detective seated himself in the arm-chair. Then suddenly he slapped his thigh.

“The fun of it is,” he cried, “that that fool Lestrade, who thinks himself so smart, went the wrong way. He suspects the secretary Stangerson, who has nothing with the crime.”

Gregson laughed.

“And how did you get your clue?” I asked.

“Ah, I’ll tell you all about it. Of course, Doctor Watson, this is strictly between ourselves. The first difficulty was to finding the information about the victim’s American life. Do you remember the hat beside the dead man?”

“Yes,” said Holmes; “by John Underwood and Sons, 129, Camberwell Road.”

“I had no idea that you noticed that,” said Gregson. “Well, I went to Underwood, and asked him about the customer of that hat. He looked over his books, and found him. He sent the hat to a Mr. Drebber, residing at Charpentier’s Boarding Establishment, Torquay Terrace[42]. Thus I got at his address.”

“Smart-very smart!” murmured Sherlock Holmes.

“Then I met Madame Charpentier,” continued the detective. “I found her very pale and distressed. Her daughter was in the room, too. 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-a kind of thrill in your nerves. ‘Do you know about the mysterious death of your boarder Mr. Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland?’ I asked.

The mother nodded. The daughter burst into tears[43]. ‘At what o’clock did Mr. Drebber leave your house for the train?’ I asked.

‘At eight o’clock,’ she said. ‘His secretary, Mr. Stangerson, said that there were two trains-one at 9.15 and one at 11. He wanted to catch the first.

‘And did you see him after that?’

A terrible change came over the woman’s face as I asked the question.

‘No,’ she said in a husky unnatural tone.

There was silence for a moment, and then the daughter spoke in a calm voice.

‘Please, don’t lie, mother,’ she said. ‘Let us be frank with this gentleman. We saw Mr. Drebber again.’

‘Oh!’ cried Madame Charpentier. ‘You murdered your brother!’

‘Please tell me all about it now,’ I said.

‘I will tell you all, sir!’ cried her mother, ‘Alice, leave us together. Now, sir,’ she continued, ‘I have no alternative. Mr. Drebber stayed with us nearly three weeks. He and his secretary, Mr. Stangerson, were travelling on the Continent. I noticed a “Copenhagen” label upon each of their trunks. Stangerson was a quiet reserved man, but his employer, I am sorry to say, was coarse and brutish. He drank a lot, and, indeed, after twelve o’clock he was never sober. His manners towards the maid-servants were disgustingly free and familiar. Worst of all, he assumed the same attitude towards my daughter, Alice. Once he seized her in his arms and embraced her, his own secretary reproached him for his unmanly conduct.’

‘But why did you stand all this?’ I asked.

Mrs. Charpentier blushed.

‘Money, sir,’ she said. ‘They were paying a pound a day each-fourteen pounds a week. I am a widow, and my boy in the Navy cost me much. But finally I gave Mr. Drebber’s notice to leave.’

‘Well?’

‘So he drove away. I did not tell my son anything of all this, for his temper is violent. When I closed the door behind them I felt happy. Alas, in less than an hour there was a ring at the bell. Mr. Drebber returned. He was much excited and drunk. He came way into the room, where I was sitting with my daughter. He missed his train. He then turned to Alice, and offered her to go with him. “You are big enough,” he said, “and there is no law to stop you. I have money enough and to spare. Come with me! You will live like a princess.” Poor Alice was so frightened that she shrunk away from him, but he caught her by the wrist. I screamed, and at that moment my son Arthur came into the room.

What happened then I do not know. I was too terrified to raise my head. When I looked up I saw Arthur in the doorway. He was laughing, with a stick in his hand.

“I don’t think that fellow will trouble us again,” he said. “I will go and see what he is doing at the moment.”

With those words he took his hat and went out. The next morning we heard of Mr. Drebber’s mysterious death.’

This statement came from Mrs. Charpentier’s lips with many gasps and pauses.”

“It’s very interesting,” said Sherlock Holmes, with a yawn. “What happened next?”

“When Mrs. Charpentier paused,” the detective continued, “I asked her at what hour her son returned.

‘I do not know,’ she answered. He has a key.’

‘When did you go to bed?’

‘About eleven.’

‘So your son was away at least two hours?’

‘Yes.’

‘Possibly four or five?’

‘Yes.’

‘What was he doing during that time?’

‘I do not know,’ she answered.

Of course after that I found out where Lieutenant Charpentier was, took two officers with me, and arrested him. When I touched him on the shoulder and offered him to come quietly with us, he said, ‘I suppose you are arresting me for the death of that scoundrel Drebber,’ he said. We said nothing to him about it, so this is very suspicious.”

“Very,” said Holmes.

“He still carried the heavy stick. 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. There they had a fight, in the course of which Drebber received a blow from the stick, in the pit of the stomach, perhaps, which killed him without any mark. Then 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 are just tricks to deceive the police.”

“Well done, Gregson!” said Holmes.

“Yes,” the detective answered proudly. “The young man says that Drebber perceived him, and took a cab in order to get away from him. On his way home he met an old shipmate[44], and took a long walk with him. I asked him where this old shipmate lived, but he was unable to give any satisfactory reply. But Lestrade! Just think of him! He knows nothing at all. Oh, here’s Lestrade himself!”

It was indeed Lestrade, who had ascended the stairs while we were talking, and who now entered the room. His face was disturbed and troubled, while his clothes were disarranged and untidy. He stood in the centre of the room. He was fumbling nervously with his hat.

“This is a most extraordinary case,” he said at last, “a most incomprehensible affair.”

“You think so, Mr. Lestrade!” cried Gregson, triumphantly. “Did you 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.”