231. Catching the Murderer
After finding the patrolman, he used his meager savings to obtain the necessary information.
Sigh, after all, he had disturbed the man's rest; he was a very reasonable person.
The patrolman described the situation. He happened to be patrolling the street when he saw candlelight coming from a house. He was initially afraid and wanted to back away.
But his sense of justice compelled him to approach, which led him to discover the body.
He quickly blew his whistle to call his colleague.
"Was there anyone else on the street at the time?" he asked.
The patrolman thought carefully for a moment, then suddenly remembered something.
"Right! There was a drunkard! I ignored him because I had just discovered the body. Normally, I would have arrested him and locked him up for a few days."
"That drunkard was very tall, with a red face, and wearing a brown overcoat."
"A drunkard? Did he have a riding crop? Or where did he go afterward?" he pressed.
"Because I just discovered the body, I didn't pay much attention. It seems there was no riding crop, and I don't know where he went after that." The patrolman scratched his head, somewhat embarrassed.
"Sigh, you need to use your brain. Congratulations, you've missed your chance to be promoted to sheriff." He sighed softly.
Then he left with Watson.
"What should we do now?" Watson asked.
"Then we can only lure him into a trap. He'll definitely return to the scene looking for something, right? And besides his business card and two letters, the only thing the deceased should have left is a ring."
"Let's write a lost and found notice. He'll come back, and maybe we can even connect him to his accomplices."
"Accomplices?" Watson was a little confused.
"Such a large carriage couldn't just disappear into thin air. If that person wasn't the driver, then someone else must have helped him move the carriage."
"Even if it's not an accomplice, it can at least provide crucial clues, right?"
He rubbed his cane as he replied.
He glanced at Watson again, then remained silent.
Back on Baker Street, he wrote and mailed a letter, then posted a lost and found notice. He had found a ring near Lauriston Garden Street and was looking for its owner.
He then prepared another, somewhat similar ring, patiently waiting for someone to fall into his trap.
Sure enough, not long after, an elderly woman, limping and hobbling, arrived.
She said her daughter had accidentally lost it while watching the circus, occasionally mentioning her daughter.
Seeing that she wouldn't stop rambling, he gave Watson a look, signaling her to give the fake ring to the old woman.
"Is this it?" Watson asked.
"Yes, this is it," the old woman replied without hesitation upon seeing the ring.
Watson's eyes met hers for a moment, then Watson saw the old woman out.
"It's most likely an accomplice. I'll go after them and see. You rest first." He impatiently chased after them.
Watson opened her mouth, but said nothing.
Around midnight, he returned, clearly empty-handed.
"How did it go?" Watson asked.
"She was faking it; she isn't a cripple. Shortly after leaving, she hailed a carriage. I secretly followed her, clinging to the back of the carriage, but she jumped off halfway. I couldn't catch her."
He seemed somewhat frustrated, perhaps because he was so close to finding the real culprit.
The next day, he got up early to continue investigating the case. Soon, he received a reply to the letter he sent the night before.
However, his front door was also pushed open. Although somewhat displeased, there was nothing he could do.
Gregson said happily that he had solved the case. The murderer was Arthur Charpentier, the son of the victim's former landlord.
Because Joseph Stangerson had threatened the victim shortly before his death.
Moreover, the deceased's assistant was also found dead in another hotel that morning, the cause of death being stabbing and excessive blood loss.
The assistant also had the word 'RACHE' written on his face, clearly indicating it was the same person who committed the crime.
He rushed to the scene with Watson. There were obvious signs of a struggle, but an inconspicuous medicine box on the table caught his attention.
There were two pills in the box. He took one out, sniffed it, and suddenly his eyes lit up.
"This is it." He put the box away and carefully examined the deceased's condition.
The money hadn't been stolen, the victim looked exactly like the deceased, and it wasn't for money; it must have been a revenge killing.
"Let's go, Watson, let's go back and test it." He led Watson away from the scene, specifically inviting Gregson to join them.
There was nothing more to investigate at the scene.
Soon, he brought back a dying dog from the old lady next door. It had been hit by a carriage and wouldn't live much longer. He took a pill from the medicine box and fed it to the dying dog.
Strangely, although the dog was sickly, it seemed fine.
Just as Gregson was about to witness a stunt, he fed the dog another pill.
A mere half-minute later, the dog died.
"This is the killer's drug," he said, watching the scene with satisfaction.
Gregson finally understood his intention and felt a chill run down his spine.
Even if the dog was dying, this was no way to end its life.
But his expression remained calm, as if he had done something insignificant.
"What are you trying to say?" Gregson asked, puzzled.
He walked over and patted Gregson on the shoulder.
"Get ready."
"?"
Just as Gregson was wondering, the doorbell rang.
A coachman walked in; he was tall and had a ruddy complexion.
"Could you please open this box for me?" he called out, his back to the coachman.
"Alright," the coachman replied impatiently.
As he stepped forward, a click was heard, and silver handcuffs were already on his wrists.
"Mr. Hope, you're under arrest," he said with a smile.
Gregson immediately checked his waist, realizing his handcuffs had been stolen!
Hope tried to resist and rushed towards the door.
Watson suddenly stepped forward and swiftly pinned Hope to the ground.
Hope struggled violently but couldn't break free from Watson's grip.
"Watson, you're quite the fighter?"
He was dumbfounded.
Hope was tall and strong, yet Watson had subdued him effortlessly.
Watson was, after all, just a young girl.
Belatedly realizing what was happening, Gregson immediately sounded the siren and arrested Hope.
"So, why would the killer come to us himself?"
Gregson couldn't understand it at all.
"Of course, I called him over." He waved the reply in his hand, which he had received that morning, concerning the deceased, Drebber's, relationships.
One of them was his rival—Hope.
...