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Sir Arthur Conan Doyle >> The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge
This etext was prepared by David Brannan of Woodbridge, Virginia.
The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
1. The Singular Experience of Mr. John Scott Eccles
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 recognize 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 let 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, gray-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
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
let 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 tete-a-tete, 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
apologized 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 objet
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."
In 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 particulary 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."