The Sign of the Four
“It was a piece of very simple reasoning.”
“Oh, come, now, come! Never be ashamed to own up. But what is all this?
Bad business! Bad business! Stern facts here,—no room for theories. How
lucky that I happened to be out at Norwood over another case! I was at
the station when the message arrived. What d’you think the man died
of?”
“Oh, this is hardly a case for me to theorise over,” said Holmes,
dryly.
“No, no. Still, we can’t deny that you hit the nail on the head
sometimes. Dear me! Door locked, I understand. Jewels worth half a
million missing. How was the window?”
“Fastened; but there are steps on the sill.”
“Well, well, if it was fastened the steps could have nothing to do with
the matter. That’s common sense. Man might have died in a fit; but then
the jewels are missing. Ha! I have a theory. These flashes come upon me
at times.—Just step outside, sergeant, and you, Mr. Sholto. Your friend
can remain.—What do you think of this, Holmes? Sholto was, on his own
confession, with his brother last night. The brother died in a fit, on
which Sholto walked off with the treasure. How’s that?”
“On which the dead man very considerately got up and locked the door on
the inside.”
“Hum! There’s a flaw there. Let us apply common sense to the matter.
This Thaddeus Sholto _was_ with his brother; there _was_ a quarrel; so
much we know. The brother is dead and the jewels are gone. So much also
we know. No one saw the brother from the time Thaddeus left him. His
bed had not been slept in. Thaddeus is evidently in a most disturbed
state of mind. His appearance is—well, not attractive. You see that I
am weaving my web round Thaddeus. The net begins to close upon him.”
“You are not quite in possession of the facts yet,” said Holmes. “This
splinter of wood, which I have every reason to believe to be poisoned,
was in the man’s scalp where you still see the mark; this card,
inscribed as you see it, was on the table; and beside it lay this
rather curious stone-headed instrument. How does all that fit into your
theory?”
“Confirms it in every respect,” said the fat detective, pompously.
“House is full of Indian curiosities. Thaddeus brought this up, and if
this splinter be poisonous Thaddeus may as well have made murderous use
of it as any other man. The card is some hocus-pocus,—a blind, as like
as not. The only question is, how did he depart? Ah, of course, here is
a hole in the roof.” With great activity, considering his bulk, he
sprang up the steps and squeezed through into the garret, and
immediately afterwards we heard his exulting voice proclaiming that he
had found the trap-door.
“He can find something,” remarked Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. “He
has occasional glimmerings of reason. _Il n’y a pas des sots si
incommodes que ceux qui ont de l’esprit!_”
“You see!” said Athelney Jones, reappearing down the steps again.
“Facts are better than mere theories, after all. My view of the case is
confirmed. There is a trap-door communicating with the roof, and it is
partly open.”
“It was I who opened it.”
“Oh, indeed! You did notice it, then?” He seemed a little crestfallen
at the discovery. “Well, whoever noticed it, it shows how our gentleman
got away. Inspector!”
“Yes, sir,” from the passage.
“Ask Mr. Sholto to step this way.—Mr. Sholto, it is my duty to inform
you that anything which you may say will be used against you. I arrest
you in the Queen’s name as being concerned in the death of your
brother.”
“There, now! Didn’t I tell you!” cried the poor little man, throwing
out his hands, and looking from one to the other of us.
“Don’t trouble yourself about it, Mr. Sholto,” said Holmes. “I think
that I can engage to clear you of the charge.”
“Don’t promise too much, Mr. Theorist,—don’t promise too much!” snapped
the detective. “You may find it a harder matter than you think.”
“Not only will I clear him, Mr. Jones, but I will make you a free
present of the name and description of one of the two people who were
in this room last night. His name, I have every reason to believe, is
Jonathan Small. He is a poorly-educated man, small, active, with his
right leg off, and wearing a wooden stump which is worn away upon the
inner side. His left boot has a coarse, square-toed sole, with an iron
band round the heel. He is a middle-aged man, much sunburned, and has
been a convict. These few indications may be of some assistance to you,
coupled with the fact that there is a good deal of skin missing from
the palm of his hand. The other man—”
“Ah! the other man—?” asked Athelney Jones, in a sneering voice, but
impressed none the less, as I could easily see, by the precision of the
other’s manner.
“Is a rather curious person,” said Sherlock Holmes, turning upon his
heel. “I hope before very long to be able to introduce you to the pair
of them.—A word with you, Watson.”
He led me out to the head of the stair. “This unexpected occurrence,”
he said, “has caused us rather to lose sight of the original purpose of
our journey.”
“I have just been thinking so,” I answered. “It is not right that Miss
Morstan should remain in this stricken house.”
“No. You must escort her home. She lives with Mrs. Cecil Forrester, in
Lower Camberwell: so it is not very far. I will wait for you here if
you will drive out again. Or perhaps you are too tired?”
“By no means. I don’t think I could rest until I know more of this
fantastic business. I have seen something of the rough side of life,
but I give you my word that this quick succession of strange surprises
to-night has shaken my nerve completely. I should like, however, to see
the matter through with you, now that I have got so far.”
“Your presence will be of great service to me,” he answered. “We shall
work the case out independently, and leave this fellow Jones to exult
over any mare’s-nest which he may choose to construct. When you have
dropped Miss Morstan I wish you to go on to No. 3, Pinchin Lane, down
near the water’s edge at Lambeth. The third house on the right-hand
side is a bird-stuffer’s: Sherman is the name. You will see a weasel
holding a young rabbit in the window. Knock old Sherman up, and tell
him, with my compliments, that I want Toby at once. You will bring Toby
back in the cab with you.”
“A dog, I suppose.”
“Yes,—a queer mongrel, with a most amazing power of scent. I would
rather have Toby’s help than that of the whole detective force of
London.”
“I shall bring him, then,” said I. “It is one now. I ought to be back
before three, if I can get a fresh horse.”
“And I,” said Holmes, “shall see what I can learn from Mrs. Bernstone,
and from the Indian servant, who, Mr. Thaddeus tell me, sleeps in the
next garret. Then I shall study the great Jones’s methods and listen to
his not too delicate sarcasms. ‘_Wir sind gewohnt dass die Menschen
verhöhnen was sie nicht verstehen._’ Goethe is always pithy.”
Chapter VII
The Episode of the Barrel
The police had brought a cab with them, and in this I escorted Miss
Morstan back to her home. After the angelic fashion of women, she had
borne trouble with a calm face as long as there was some one weaker
than herself to support, and I had found her bright and placid by the
side of the frightened housekeeper. In the cab, however, she first
turned faint, and then burst into a passion of weeping,—so sorely had
she been tried by the adventures of the night. She has told me since
that she thought me cold and distant upon that journey. She little
guessed the struggle within my breast, or the effort of self-restraint
which held me back. My sympathies and my love went out to her, even as
my hand had in the garden. I felt that years of the conventionalities
of life could not teach me to know her sweet, brave nature as had this
one day of strange experiences. Yet there were two thoughts which
sealed the words of affection upon my lips. She was weak and helpless,
shaken in mind and nerve. It was to take her at a disadvantage to
obtrude love upon her at such a time. Worse still, she was rich. If
Holmes’s researches were successful, she would be an heiress. Was it
fair, was it honourable, that a half-pay surgeon should take such
advantage of an intimacy which chance had brought about? Might she not
look upon me as a mere vulgar fortune-seeker? I could not bear to risk
that such a thought should cross her mind. This Agra treasure
intervened like an impassable barrier between us.
It was nearly two o’clock when we reached Mrs. Cecil Forrester’s. The
servants had retired hours ago, but Mrs. Forrester had been so
interested by the strange message which Miss Morstan had received that
she had sat up in the hope of her return. She opened the door herself,
a middle-aged, graceful woman, and it gave me joy to see how tenderly
her arm stole round the other’s waist and how motherly was the voice in
which she greeted her. She was clearly no mere paid dependant, but an
honoured friend. I was introduced, and Mrs. Forrester earnestly begged
me to step in and tell her our adventures. I explained, however, the
importance of my errand, and promised faithfully to call and report any
progress which we might make with the case. As we drove away I stole a
glance back, and I still seem to see that little group on the step, the
two graceful, clinging figures, the half-opened door, the hall-light
shining through stained glass, the barometer, and the bright
stair-rods. It was soothing to catch even that passing glimpse of a
tranquil English home in the midst of the wild, dark business which had
absorbed us.
And the more I thought of what had happened, the wilder and darker it
grew. I reviewed the whole extraordinary sequence of events as I
rattled on through the silent gas-lit streets. There was the original
problem: that at least was pretty clear now. The death of Captain
Morstan, the sending of the pearls, the advertisement, the letter,—we
had had light upon all those events. They had only led us, however, to
a deeper and far more tragic mystery. The Indian treasure, the curious
plan found among Morstan’s baggage, the strange scene at Major Sholto’s
death, the rediscovery of the treasure immediately followed by the
murder of the discoverer, the very singular accompaniments to the
crime, the footsteps, the remarkable weapons, the words upon the card,
corresponding with those upon Captain Morstan’s chart,—here was indeed
a labyrinth in which a man less singularly endowed than my
fellow-lodger might well despair of ever finding the clue.
Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby two-storied brick houses in the lower
quarter of Lambeth. I had to knock for some time at No. 3 before I
could make my impression. At last, however, there was the glint of a
candle behind the blind, and a face looked out at the upper window.
“Go on, you drunken vagabone,” said the face. “If you kick up any more
row I’ll open the kennels and let out forty-three dogs upon you.”
“If you’ll let one out it’s just what I have come for,” said I.
“Go on!” yelled the voice. “So help me gracious, I have a wiper in the
bag, an’ I’ll drop it on your ’ead if you don’t hook it.”
“But I want a dog,” I cried.
“I won’t be argued with!” shouted Mr. Sherman. “Now stand clear, for
when I say ‘three,’ down goes the wiper.”
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes—” I began, but the words had a most magical
effect, for the window instantly slammed down, and within a minute the
door was unbarred and open. Mr. Sherman was a lanky, lean old man, with
stooping shoulders, a stringy neck, and blue-tinted glasses.
“A friend of Mr. Sherlock is always welcome,” said he. “Step in, sir.
Keep clear of the badger; for he bites. Ah, naughty, naughty, would you
take a nip at the gentleman?” This to a stoat which thrust its wicked