Chapter V. Rache

After entering the old house, a short passage, bare planked and dusty, led to the kitchen and the living room. Two doors opened out of it to the left and to the right. One of these had obviously been closed for many weeks, due to the many spider webs crossing the doorpost. The other belonged to the study, which was the room in which the mysterious affair had occurred. Forensic officers and investigators walked in and out, wearing white plastic suits and latex gloves.

Before entering, Sherlock pulled something out of her right coat pocket and gave it to me. "Latex gloves and a hair net", she said, getting a second pair out of her left pocket. "When it comes to dead people, I like to come prepared. Nothing like catching bubonic plague because the police forgot to bring a spare set of gloves, if you catch my drift."

-"You know the bubonic plague has been eradicated in Europe for almost a century now?" I said, putting on the gloves.

"Ha, but there's always the exception, Watson. Would you like to be in the room with the exceptional corpse?"

-"With the bubonic plague? Sure, since it's easy to cure these days in with western medicine if you notice it in an early stage, which I would. Being a doctor with both theoretical and practical knowledge of the disease and its symptoms comes with advantages like that. It has clear visible symptoms that would warn me not to touch the victim on the infected areas or clothing and - most importantly- I can't catch it from a handling a corpse, because I'm vaccinated!"

Sherlock looked at me surprised.

"I've seen my fair share of epidemics in Africa," I said, focusing on getting my hairnet straight, "It's not pretty, but bubonic plague in London would be less harmless than you think these days. You're thinking of the Ebola virus, Sherlock. Let's be careful for that one, shall we?"

-"I'm rubbing off on you, am I not?"

"What do you mean?"

-"Do I really sound like that when I'm lecturing you?"

"You're way worse than that.", I said grinning.

-"I'm sorry about that."

"No, you're not."

Holmes grinned at me, turned around and walked in the room. I followed her, my temporary glee replaced with that subdued feeling in my heart, which the presence of death always inspires in me.

The study was a large square room, looking all the larger from the absence of all furniture. A vulgar, tasteless paper with flowers ornaments adorned the walls, but it was discoloured by time, blotched in places with mildew and here and there great strips had become detached and hung down, exposing the yellow plaster beneath it. Opposite the door was a showy fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece of imitation white marble. On one corner of this was stuck the stump of a red wax candle. The solitary window was so dirty that the light was hazy and uncertain, giving a dull grey tinge to everything, which was intensified by the thick layer of dust which coated the whole apartment.

All these details I observed afterwards, however. At present, my attention was fully focused upon the single grim motionless figure which lay stretched upon the boards, staring up at the discoloured ceiling with vacant sightless eyes. It was a man, about fifty-three or fifty-four years of age, middle-sized, broad shouldered, dark skinned with crisp curling black hair and a short stubbly black beard with tinges of grey coming trough. He was very well dressed in a heavy black woollen frock coat and silken waistcoat, crisp white linen trousers, and immaculate white golden cufflinks.

His hands were clenched into fists and his arms spread out left and right, while his lower limbs were interlocked as though his death struggle had been painful and long. On his rigid face there stood an expression of horror, and as it seemed to me, of hatred. It chilled me to see a dead man in so much anger. The corpses I dealt with did never had these clear expressions of rage. I have seen death in many forms, but never had it appeared to me in a more fearsome aspect than in that dark grimy apartment, which looked out upon one of the main arteries of suburban London.

Next to the corpse, a lean, short man with mousy blond hair in his mid-thirties, was bent over the corpse with camera and a notepad. He didn't seem to notice us, until Sherlock stepped on a creaking floorboard and he looked up. His expression immediately changed from concentrated to happy. Then his gaze turned to me, and a singular event took place in his face. His expressions changed in manner of seconds from surprise, to anxious, to angry before he finally composed himself in a reserved manner.

"Misses Holmes," he said, walking towards us with clear, brisk steps, "to what do I owe the pleasure of meeting you?"

Sherlock pointed her eyes at the corpse, than back to the man. Then, without looking at me, she said:

"Doctor Watson, I'd like you to meet inspector Tobias Gregson. Mister Gregson, this is professor John Watson."

I offered him my hand, which he took and shook. His grip was a bit firmer than necessary, but I didn't let him know.

"A pleasure, mister Watson. You're an acquaintance of miss Sherlock?"

-"We live together." Sherlock said off-handed, stepping passed Gregson to look at the corpse. Gergson's face looked like it got slapped in the face by a dog; totally off guard and a bit anxious.

"Live together?", he said, his voice to formal and upbeat to match his rapidly changing facial features while staring at me.

-"Yes, I gave up the single, solitary life and decided it was time for some male companionship! Now, could you tell me all you know about the gentleman laying before us, if you wouldn't mind?" Sherlock knelt down next to the body and examined it intently.

"This case will make a stir, miss," he remarked, finally breaking his stare at me and walking towards the corpse. Resuming his work seemed to give him his confidence back. "It beats anything I have seen, and I am no chicken."

"There is no clue." said Lestrade, who entered the room behind me.

"None at all," chimed in Gregson.

"You are sure that there is no wound or signs of outward trauma?" she asked.

"Positive!" cried both detectives.

As she spoke, her nimble fingers were flying here, there, and everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while her eyes wore the same far-away expression which I have already remarked upon when she played the cello. So swiftly was the examination made, that one would hardly have guessed the minuteness with which it was conducted. Finally, she sniffed the dead man's lips, and then glanced at the soles of his patent leather shoes.

"He has not been moved at all? Did you take anything?" she asked.

-"No more than was necessary for the purposes of our examination."

"Then, I presume you found both cell phone and his wedding ring?", she said, indicating the slightly increased band of flesh on his right finger.

"Those complicated matters a lot," said Gregson. "Heaven knows, they were complicated enough before."

"You're sure they didn't simplify them?" observed Holmes. "There's nothing to be learned by staring at it. What did you find in his pockets?"

"We have it all here," said Gregson, pointing to a litter of objects upon one of the bottom steps of the stairs. "A kinetic watch, Seiko Kinetic Perpetual 7D56. Gold ring, with engraving 'Michella – 1987',"

-"Probably the name of his wife," Lestrade commented, "we're trying to contact her now, but we weren't lucky so far."

-"Golden tie pin—abstract design infusing the letters 'E', 'J' and 'D', all separated with a ruby. Carbon card-case, covered in Russian leather..."

-"Moroccan leather.", Sherlock observed. The detectives looked at her with a mix of annoyance and curiosity. "This is dyed goatskin, not cowhide." she said, by way of explaining herself.

"Moroccan leather," Gregson continued, slightly annoyed, "filled with credit cards, airline tickets and a passport. All registered to the name of Enoch J. Drebber of São Paulo in Brazil, corresponding with the E. J. D. design of the tie pin. Cell phone is a Blackberry 9900. No purse, but some change in his left trouser pocket to the extent of seventeen pounds thirteen. And a hotel business card."

"At what address?"

" Torquay Terrace 4, Camberwell. The man was working in P.R. for a pharmaceutical company in Brazil. He was here with an associate, a woman called Elisa Stangerson. It is clear that this unfortunate man was about to return to São Paulo yesterday night."

"Is she your main suspect, detective?"

-"She is.", Gregson answered.

"Have you made any inquiries as to this Stangerson?"

"I did it at once, miss," said Lestrade. "I have had messages sent to all hospitals, airports and harbour security, and one of my men has gone to the Brazilian Embassy, but he has not returned yet."

"You did instruct your men to ask for particulars on any point which appeared to you to be crucial?"

"I asked about Stangerson."

"Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which this whole case appears to hinge which you forgot to mention?"

"I have said all I have to say to you, Sherlock. Don't push your luck, okay?" said Lestrade, in an offended voice.

Sherlock Holmes chuckled to herself, and appeared to be about to make some remark, when a forensics officer tapped detective Lestrade on the shoulder – which was quite an accomplishment seeing the size of the detective - rubbing his hands in a pompous and self-satisfied manner.

"Mister Lestrade, mister Gregson, Miss Holmes." he said, nodding to each of them in a respectful manner. "I have just made a discovery of the highest importance, and one which would have been overlooked had I not made a careful examination of the walls."

The little man's eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was evidently in a state of suppressed exultation at having scored a point in front of his superiors.

"Please, gentlemen and lady. If you would stand there please!"

He took a small flashlight out of his tool belt and shone it against the wall.

"Look at that!" he said, triumphantly.

In the particular space he was pointing at, a large piece of wallpaper had peeled off, leaving a yellow square of coarse plastering. Across this bare space there was scrawled in blood-red letters a single word—

RACHE.

"What do you think of that?" cried the detective, with the air of a showman exhibiting his show. "This was overlooked because it was in the darkest corner of the room, and no one thought of looking there since it's so far away from the body. Since there's no blood on the victim, we can conclude that the murderer has written this with his or her own blood! See this smear where it has trickled down the wall! That disposes of the idea of suicide anyhow."

"And what does it mean now that you have found it?" I asked the inspector, not understanding this revelation at all.

"Mean?", said Gregson, with a twinkle in his eyes. "It could mean a lot of things! 'Rache,' is the German for 'revenge'. This clue has just revealed this was an act of retaliation! Why are you laughing at me, Garry! Just admit the fact that you didn't think of this first."

-"I'm sorry, Tobias," he said, laughing loudly at the flustered face of his smaller colleague. "But aren't you thinking too far ahead? Why would there be a German message on the wall in a London apartment, near a Brazilian body?"

"Then what's your theory, then?", asked Gregson, staring daggers at Lestrade.

-"I think it's far simpler than that! The writer was going to put the female name 'Rachel' there, but was disturbed before he or she had time to finish! You mark my words, when this case comes to be cleared up you will find that a woman named Rachel has something to do with it. It's all very well for you to laugh, miss Holmes. You may be very smart and clever, but the old hound is the best, when all is said and done."

"I really beg your pardon!" said my companion, who had ruffled Lestrade temper by bursting into an explosion of laughter. "You both certainly have the credit of being the first of us to find this out, and, as you say, it bears every mark of having been written by the other participant in last night's mystery. I have not had time to examine this room yet, but with your permission I shall do so now."

As she spoke, she whipped a tape measure and a large round magnifying glass from her pocket. With these two implements she trotted noiselessly about the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally kneeling, and once lying flat upon her face. So engrossed was she with her occupation that she appeared to have forgotten our presence. She chattered away to herself under her breath the whole time, keeping up a running fire of exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive of encouragement and of hope. As I watched her I was irresistibly reminded of a pure-blooded well-trained hunting dog, dashing back and forwards through the bramble, whining in its eagerness, until it comes across the lost scent.

For twenty minutes or more she continued her researches, measuring with the most exact care the distance between marks which were entirely invisible to me. Gregson and Lestrade were watching the manoeuvres of their amateur companion with considerable curiosity and some contempt. They evidently failed to appreciate the fact, which I had begun to realize, that Sherlock Holmes' smallest actions were all directed towards some definite and practical end.

Occasionally, she applied her tape to the walls in an equally incomprehensible manner. In one place, she very carefully gathered up a little pile of grey dust from the floor, and packed it away in a plastic bag. Finally, she examined with the word upon the wall with her glass, going over every letter of it with the most minute exactness. This done, she appeared to be satisfied, for she replaced the tape and her glass in back in her pocket.

"They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains," she remarked with a smile. "It's a very bad definition, but it does apply to detective work." "You can take him to the mortuary now," she said. "There is nothing more to be learned." Gregson called for a stretcher and four men came in, covering the man with a cloth and taking him away.

"What do you think of it then?" they both asked.

"It would be robbing you of the credit of the case if I was to presume to help you," remarked my friend. "You are doing so well now that it would be a pity for anyone to interfere." There was a world of sarcasm in her voice as she spoke. "If you will let me know how your investigations go," she continued, "I shall be happy to give you any help I can. In the meantime I should like to speak to the policeman who found the body. Can you give me his name and address?"

Lestrade glanced at his notebook. "John Rance," he said. "He is off duty now. You will find him at 46, Audley Court, Kennington Park Gate."

Holmes took a note of the address in her own notebook and nodded.

"Come along, doctor," she said; "we shall go and look him up. I'll tell you one thing which may help you in the case," she continued, turning to the two detectives. "This is a murder case, done by a man. He was more than six feet high, but with small feet for his height. He was in the prime of life, wore coarse, square-toed boots and smoked filtered menthol cigarettes. He came here with his victim in a cab, who followed him without into the house without signs of struggle. In all probability the murderer had a florid face, and the finger-nails of his right hand were remarkably long. These are only a few indications, but they may assist you."

Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with an incredulous smile.

"If this man was murdered, how was it done?" asked the former.

"Poison," said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode off. "Oh, and one other thing, detectives," he added, turning round at the door: "You're right that 'Rache' is the German for 'revenge' and the start of 'Rachel'. But since this man is Brazilian, isn't it safe to assume that the message refers to the Portuguese word 'rache', which is the first-person singular present subjunctive of the verb 'rachar'? Rache means 'I crack', 'I cleave' or 'I split' in the victims native tongue after all. If I were you, I wouldn't lose your time looking for Miss Rachel or a revenge plot. I would look for someone with a split lip or fractures nose that would have bled quiet a lot. Maybe even enough to write a message on the wall with?"

After which she smiled, said "Gentlemen.", turned around she walked away, leaving the two rivals open-mouthed behind her. I hid a smile, showed my respect to the detectives in charge, and walked behind her, leaving the house into a drizzling afternoon rain.


A.N. Sorry for the delay on this one. I struggled a lot with the 'Rache clue'. I hope you'll enjoy the result though.