The Sign of the Four
our pace, the fog, and my own limited knowledge of London, I lost my
bearings, and knew nothing, save that we seemed to be going a very long
way. Sherlock Holmes was never at fault, however, and he muttered the
names as the cab rattled through squares and in and out by tortuous
by-streets.
“Rochester Row,” said he. “Now Vincent Square. Now we come out on the
Vauxhall Bridge Road. We are making for the Surrey side, apparently.
Yes, I thought so. Now we are on the bridge. You can catch glimpses of
the river.”
We did indeed get a fleeting view of a stretch of the Thames with the
lamps shining upon the broad, silent water; but our cab dashed on, and
was soon involved in a labyrinth of streets upon the other side.
“Wordsworth Road,” said my companion. “Priory Road. Lark Hall Lane.
Stockwell Place. Robert Street. Cold Harbor Lane. Our quest does not
appear to take us to very fashionable regions.”
We had, indeed, reached a questionable and forbidding neighbourhood.
Long lines of dull brick houses were only relieved by the coarse glare
and tawdry brilliancy of public houses at the corner. Then came rows of
two-storied villas each with a fronting of miniature garden, and then
again interminable lines of new staring brick buildings,—the monster
tentacles which the giant city was throwing out into the country. At
last the cab drew up at the third house in a new terrace. None of the
other houses were inhabited, and that at which we stopped was as dark
as its neighbours, save for a single glimmer in the kitchen window. On
our knocking, however, the door was instantly thrown open by a Hindoo
servant clad in a yellow turban, white loose-fitting clothes, and a
yellow sash. There was something strangely incongruous in this Oriental
figure framed in the commonplace doorway of a third-rate suburban
dwelling-house.
“The Sahib awaits you,” said he, and even as he spoke there came a high
piping voice from some inner room. “Show them in to me, khitmutgar,” it
cried. “Show them straight in to me.”
Chapter IV
The Story of the Bald-Headed Man
We followed the Indian down a sordid and common passage, ill-lit and
worse furnished, until he came to a door upon the right, which he threw
open. A blaze of yellow light streamed out upon us, and in the centre
of the glare there stood a small man with a very high head, a bristle
of red hair all round the fringe of it, and a bald, shining scalp which
shot out from among it like a mountain-peak from fir-trees. He writhed
his hands together as he stood, and his features were in a perpetual
jerk, now smiling, now scowling, but never for an instant in repose.
Nature had given him a pendulous lip, and a too visible line of yellow
and irregular teeth, which he strove feebly to conceal by constantly
passing his hand over the lower part of his face. In spite of his
obtrusive baldness, he gave the impression of youth. In point of fact
he had just turned his thirtieth year.
“Your servant, Miss Morstan,” he kept repeating, in a thin, high voice.
“Your servant, gentlemen. Pray step into my little sanctum. A small
place, miss, but furnished to my own liking. An oasis of art in the
howling desert of South London.”
We were all astonished by the appearance of the apartment into which he
invited us. In that sorry house it looked as out of place as a diamond
of the first water in a setting of brass. The richest and glossiest of
curtains and tapestries draped the walls, looped back here and there to
expose some richly-mounted painting or Oriental vase. The carpet was of
amber-and-black, so soft and so thick that the foot sank pleasantly
into it, as into a bed of moss. Two great tiger-skins thrown athwart it
increased the suggestion of Eastern luxury, as did a huge hookah which
stood upon a mat in the corner. A lamp in the fashion of a silver dove
was hung from an almost invisible golden wire in the centre of the
room. As it burned it filled the air with a subtle and aromatic odour.
“Mr. Thaddeus Sholto,” said the little man, still jerking and smiling.
“That is my name. You are Miss Morstan, of course. And these
gentlemen—”
“This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Watson.”
“A doctor, eh?” cried he, much excited. “Have you your stethoscope?
Might I ask you—would you have the kindness? I have grave doubts as to
my mitral valve, if you would be so very good. The aortic I may rely
upon, but I should value your opinion upon the mitral.”
I listened to his heart, as requested, but was unable to find anything
amiss, save indeed that he was in an ecstasy of fear, for he shivered
from head to foot. “It appears to be normal,” I said. “You have no
cause for uneasiness.”
“You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Morstan,” he remarked, airily. “I am
a great sufferer, and I have long had suspicions as to that valve. I am
delighted to hear that they are unwarranted. Had your father, Miss
Morstan, refrained from throwing a strain upon his heart, he might have
been alive now.”
I could have struck the man across the face, so hot was I at this
callous and off-hand reference to so delicate a matter. Miss Morstan
sat down, and her face grew white to the lips. “I knew in my heart that
he was dead,” said she.
“I can give you every information,” said he, “and, what is more, I can
do you justice; and I will, too, whatever Brother Bartholomew may say.
I am so glad to have your friends here, not only as an escort to you,
but also as witnesses to what I am about to do and say. The three of us
can show a bold front to Brother Bartholomew. But let us have no
outsiders,—no police or officials. We can settle everything
satisfactorily among ourselves, without any interference. Nothing would
annoy Brother Bartholomew more than any publicity.” He sat down upon a
low settee and blinked at us inquiringly with his weak, watery blue
eyes.
“For my part,” said Holmes, “whatever you may choose to say will go no
further.”
I nodded to show my agreement.
“That is well! That is well!” said he. “May I offer you a glass of
Chianti, Miss Morstan? Or of Tokay? I keep no other wines. Shall I open
a flask? No? Well, then, I trust that you have no objection to
tobacco-smoke, to the mild balsamic odour of the Eastern tobacco. I am
a little nervous, and I find my hookah an invaluable sedative.” He
applied a taper to the great bowl, and the smoke bubbled merrily
through the rose-water. We sat all three in a semi-circle, with our
heads advanced, and our chins upon our hands, while the strange, jerky
little fellow, with his high, shining head, puffed uneasily in the
centre.
“When I first determined to make this communication to you,” said he,
“I might have given you my address, but I feared that you might
disregard my request and bring unpleasant people with you. I took the
liberty, therefore, of making an appointment in such a way that my man
Williams might be able to see you first. I have complete confidence in
his discretion, and he had orders, if he were dissatisfied, to proceed
no further in the matter. You will excuse these precautions, but I am a
man of somewhat retiring, and I might even say refined, tastes, and
there is nothing more unæsthetic than a policeman. I have a natural
shrinking from all forms of rough materialism. I seldom come in contact
with the rough crowd. I live, as you see, with some little atmosphere
of elegance around me. I may call myself a patron of the arts. It is my
weakness. The landscape is a genuine Corot, and, though a connoisseur
might perhaps throw a doubt upon that Salvator Rosa, there cannot be
the least question about the Bouguereau. I am partial to the modern
French school.”
“You will excuse me, Mr. Sholto,” said Miss Morstan, “but I am here at
your request to learn something which you desire to tell me. It is very
late, and I should desire the interview to be as short as possible.”
“At the best it must take some time,” he answered; “for we shall
certainly have to go to Norwood and see Brother Bartholomew. We shall
all go and try if we can get the better of Brother Bartholomew. He is
very angry with me for taking the course which has seemed right to me.
I had quite high words with him last night. You cannot imagine what a
terrible fellow he is when he is angry.”
“If we are to go to Norwood it would perhaps be as well to start at
once,” I ventured to remark.
He laughed until his ears were quite red. “That would hardly do,” he
cried. “I don’t know what he would say if I brought you in that sudden
way. No, I must prepare you by showing you how we all stand to each
other. In the first place, I must tell you that there are several
points in the story of which I am myself ignorant. I can only lay the
facts before you as far as I know them myself.
“My father was, as you may have guessed, Major John Sholto, once of the
Indian army. He retired some eleven years ago, and came to live at
Pondicherry Lodge in Upper Norwood. He had prospered in India, and
brought back with him a considerable sum of money, a large collection
of valuable curiosities, and a staff of native servants. With these
advantages he bought himself a house, and lived in great luxury. My
twin-brother Bartholomew and I were the only children.
“I very well remember the sensation which was caused by the
disappearance of Captain Morstan. We read the details in the papers,
and, knowing that he had been a friend of our father’s, we discussed
the case freely in his presence. He used to join in our speculations as
to what could have happened. Never for an instant did we suspect that
he had the whole secret hidden in his own breast,—that of all men he
alone knew the fate of Arthur Morstan.
“We did know, however, that some mystery—some positive danger—overhung
our father. He was very fearful of going out alone, and he always
employed two prize-fighters to act as porters at Pondicherry Lodge.
Williams, who drove you to-night, was one of them. He was once
light-weight champion of England. Our father would never tell us what
it was he feared, but he had a most marked aversion to men with wooden
legs. On one occasion he actually fired his revolver at a wooden-legged
man, who proved to be a harmless tradesman canvassing for orders. We
had to pay a large sum to hush the matter up. My brother and I used to
think this a mere whim of my father’s, but events have since led us to
change our opinion.
“Early in 1882 my father received a letter from India which was a great
shock to him. He nearly fainted at the breakfast-table when he opened
it, and from that day he sickened to his death. What was in the letter
we could never discover, but I could see as he held it that it was
short and written in a scrawling hand. He had suffered for years from
an enlarged spleen, but he now became rapidly worse, and towards the
end of April we were informed that he was beyond all hope, and that he
wished to make a last communication to us.
“When we entered his room he was propped up with pillows and breathing
heavily. He besought us to lock the door and to come upon either side
of the bed. Then, grasping our hands, he made a remarkable statement to
us, in a voice which was broken as much by emotion as by pain. I shall
try and give it to you in his own very words.
“‘I have only one thing,’ he said, ‘which weighs upon my mind at this
supreme moment. It is my treatment of poor Morstan’s orphan. The cursed
greed which has been my besetting sin through life has withheld from
her the treasure, half at least of which should have been hers. And yet
I have made no use of it myself,—so blind and foolish a thing is
avarice. The mere feeling of possession has been so dear to me that I
could not bear to share it with another. See that chaplet dipped with
pearls beside the quinine-bottle. Even that I could not bear to part