The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes

by Arthur Conan Doyle

  “Then I say ‘Thank God,’ too,” she whispered, as I drew her to my side.

  Whoever had lost a treasure, I knew that night that I had gained one.

  216 In American and English law, the acts of one felon in the course of committing the felony are generally attributed to all co-conspirators, and a killing in the course of a robbery is “felony-murder,” not merely manslaughter, and hence may be subject to capital punishment. In short, Small’s confidence would be misplaced.

  217 The Slang Dictionary (1865) explains: “[I]mprisoned, apprehended, or transported for a crime. From the Old Norse, LAGDA, ‘laid,’ laid by the leg.”

  218 The infamous prison in Princetown, in the Dartmoor Forest, was built in the early nineteenth century for French prisoners of war, said to have numbered 9,000 in 1811. In the war of 1812–1814, upwards of 2,000 American seamen who refused to serve in the British Navy against their country were also confined there. The prison remains in use and has a reputation for toughness, although a report by H.M. Chief Inspector of Prisons Anne Owers, made public after a visit to Dartmoor in November 2001, shows how much penal thinking has changed: “We discovered a prison which was itself imprisoned in its own past—locked into unsuitable but historic buildings and, more importantly, into an outdated culture of over-control and disrespect for prisoners.”

  219 The adjective “broad” is inserted in American texts.

  220 This was popular usage for the country of Brazil. See, e.g., Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe, wherein the hero refers to his plantation “in the Brazils.”

  221 “An obliging inspector indeed!” Ronald S. Bonn writes, in “The Problem of the Postulated Doctor.” “And what must that obliging inspector’s feelings have been, some time later—quite a long time later, Watson admits—when the doctor reappeared and coolly showed him an empty box?”

  222 Benares, then the most populous city in the North-Western Provinces of India (a political division imposed by the British in 1835), was as renowned for its gold filigree work as for its sacred funeral ghats, terraced landings leading down to the Ganges River, where it is considered propitious to die and be cremated. Visitors to Benares bring home an enduring memory of the dense, particulated smoke rising from the ghats.

  223 And yet, as Donald A. Redmond points out, in Small’s description in Chapter XII, the box is described as in “a bundle in [Achmet’s] hand, done up in a shawl.”

  224 Nathan Bengis, in “A Scandal in Baker Street, Part II,” puts forward the rather far-fetched theory that Mary Morstan was Watson’s second great love, the first being Helen Stoner, the heroine of “The Speckled Band.” To reach this conclusion, he relies on the veracity of the play The Speckled Band by Arthur Conan Doyle (first performed in 1910), in which it is disclosed that Dr. Watson knew Enid Stonor (a thinly disguised version of Helen Stoner) in India. The truth of the play, Bengis reasons, is evident from the fact that Watson did nothing to attempt to suppress its performance. (Of course, Watson may have felt that the play was so far from the truth that none of his family or friends would believe it to be anything but a work of fiction.) Bengis draws evidence from the play that Watson and Enid were lovers in India, a fact concealed in Watson’s tale of “The Speckled Band,” which, Bengis believes, was written to clear her of accusations of complicity in the death of her stepfather.

  Bengis worries that Watson does not say to Mary that his love is greater than any other man’s, only that it is equal. “It is easy to see now,” he concludes, “that [Mary Morstan], jealous as she was, must have felt that in Watson’s affections she was always second to ‘that other.’ ”

  CHAPTER

  XII

  THE STRANGE STORY OF JONATHAN SMALL

  A VERY PATIENT man was that inspector in the cab, for it was a weary time before I rejoined him. His face clouded over when I showed him the empty box.

  “There goes the reward!” said he, gloomily. “Where there is no money there is no pay. This night’s work would have been worth a tenner each to Sam Brown and me if the treasure had been there.”

  “Mr. Thaddeus Sholto is a rich man,” I said; “he will see that you are rewarded, treasure or no.”

  The inspector shook his head despondently, however.

  “It’s a bad job,” he repeated; “and so Mr. Athelney Jones will think.”

  His forecast proved to be correct for the detective looked blank enough when I got to Baker Street and showed him the empty box. They had only just arrived, Holmes, the prisoner, and he, for they had changed their plans so far as to report themselves at a station upon the way. My companion lounged in his armchair with his usual listless expression, while Small sat stolidly opposite to him with his wooden leg cocked over his sound one. As I exhibited the empty box he leaned back in his chair and laughed aloud.

  “This is your doing, Small,” said Athelney Jones angrily.

  “Yes, I have put it away where you shall never lay hand on it,” he cried exultantly. “It is my treasure, and if I can’t have the loot I’ll take darned good care that no one else does. I tell you that no living man has any right to it, unless it is three men who are in the Andaman convict-barracks and myself. I know now that I cannot have the use of it, and I know that they cannot. I have acted all through for them as much as for myself. It’s been the sign of four with us always. Well, I know that they would have had me do just what I have done, and throw the treasure into the Thames rather than let it go to kith or kin of Sholto or Morstan.225 It was not to make them rich that we did for Achmet. You’ll find the treasure where the key is and where little Tonga is. When I saw that your launch must catch us, I put the loot away in a safe place.226 There are no rupees227 for you this journey.”

  “You are deceiving us, Small,” said Athelney Jones, sternly; “if you had wished to throw the treasure into the Thames, it would have been easier for you to have thrown box and all.”

  “Easier for me to throw, and easier for you to recover,” he answered, with a shrewd, side-long look. “The man that was clever enough to hunt me down is clever enough to pick an iron box from the bottom of a river. Now that they are scattered over five miles or so, it may be a harder job. It went to my heart to do it, though. I was half mad when you came up with us. However, there’s no good grieving over it. I’ve had ups in my life, and I’ve had downs, but I’ve learned not to cry over spilled milk.”

  “This is a very serious matter, Small,” said the detective. “If you had helped justice, instead of thwarting it in this way, you would have had a better chance at your trial.”

  “Justice!” snarled the ex-convict. “A pretty justice! Whose loot is this, if it is not ours? Where is the justice that I should give it up to those who have never earned it? Look how I have earned it! Twenty long years in that fever-ridden swamp, all day at work under the mangrove-tree, all night chained up in the filthy convict-huts, bitten by mosquitoes, racked with ague, bullied by every cursed black-faced policeman who loved to take it out of a white man. That was how I earned the Agra treasure, and you talk to me of justice because I cannot bear to feel that I have paid this price only that another may enjoy it! I would rather swing a score of times, or have one of Tonga’s darts in my hide, than live in a convict’s cell and feel that another man is at his ease in a palace with the money that should be mine.”

  Small had dropped his mask of stoicism, and all this came out in a wild whirl of words, while his eyes blazed, and the handcuffs clanked together with the impassioned movement of his hands. I could understand, as I saw the fury and the passion of the man, that it was no groundless or unnatural terror which had possessed Major Sholto when he first learned that the injured convict was upon his track.

  “You forget that we know nothing of all this,” said Holmes, quietly. “We have not heard your story, and we cannot tell how far justice may originally have been on your side.”

  “Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken to me, though I can see that I have you to thank that I have these bracelets upon my wris
ts. Still, I bear no grudge for that. It is all fair and above-board. If you want to hear my story, I have no wish to hold it back. What I say to you is God’s truth, every word of it. Thank you, you can put the glass beside me here, and I’ll put my lips to it if I am dry.

  “I am a Worcestershire man myself, born near Pershore.228 I dare say you would find a heap of Smalls living there now if you were to look. I have often thought of taking a look round there, but the truth is that I was never much of a credit to the family, and I doubt if they would be so very glad to see me. They were all steady, chapel-going folk, small farmers, well known and respected over the country-side, while I was always a bit of a rover. At last, however, when I was about eighteen, I gave them no more trouble, for I got into a mess over a girl and could only get out of it again by taking the Queen’s shilling229 and joining the Third Buffs,230 which was just starting for India.

  “I wasn’t destined to do much soldiering, however. I had just got past the goose-step and learned to handle my musket, when I was fool enough to go swimming in the Ganges. Luckily for me, my company sergeant, John Holder,231 was in the water at the same time, and he was one of the finest swimmers in the service. A crocodile took me just as I was half-way across and nipped off my right leg as clean as a surgeon could have done it, just above the knee. What with the shock and the loss of blood, I fainted, and should have been drowned if Holder had not caught hold of me and paddled for the bank. I was five months in hospital over it, and when at last I was able to limp out of it with this timber toe strapped to my stump, I found myself invalided out of the Army and unfitted for any active occupation.

  Recruiting sergeants at Westminster.

  Street Life in London (1877)

  “I was, as you can imagine, pretty down on my luck at this time, for I was a useless cripple, though not yet in my twentieth year. However, my misfortune soon proved to be a blessing in disguise. A man named Abel White, who had come out there as an indigo-planter, wanted an overseer to look after his coolies232 and keep them up to their work. He happened to be a friend of our colonel’s, who had taken an interest in me since the accident. To make a long story short, the colonel recommended me strongly for the post, and, as the work was mostly to be done on horseback, my leg was no great obstacle, for I had enough thigh233 left to keep a good grip on the saddle. What I had to do was to ride over the plantation, to keep an eye on the men as they worked, and to report the idlers. The pay was fair, I had comfortable quarters, and altogether I was content to spend the remainder of my life in indigo-planting. Mr. Abel White was a kind man, and he would often drop into my little shanty and smoke a pipe with me, for white folk out there feel their hearts warm to each other as they never do here at home.

  “Well, I was never in luck’s way long. Suddenly, without a note of warning, the great mutiny234 broke upon us. One month India lay as still and peaceful, to all appearance, as Surrey or Kent; the next there were two hundred thousand black devils let loose, and the country was a perfect hell. Of course you know all about it, gentlemen—a deal more than I do, very like, since reading is not in my line. I only know what I saw with my own eyes. Our plantation was at a place called Muttra,235 near the border of the North-West Provinces.236 Night after night the whole sky was alight with the burning bungalows, and day after day we had small companies of Europeans passing through our estate with their wives and children, on their way to Agra, where were the nearest troops. Mr. Abel White was an obstinate man. He had it in his head that the affair had been exaggerated, and that it would blow over as suddenly as it had sprung up. There he sat on his veranda, drinking whisky-pegs237 and smoking cheroots, while the country was in a blaze about him. Of course we stuck by him, I and Dawson, who, with his wife, used to do the book-work and the managing. Well, one fine day the crash came. I had been away on a distant plantation and was riding slowly home in the evening, when my eye fell upon something all huddled together at the bottom of a steep nullah.238 I rode down to see what it was, and the cold struck through my heart when I found it was Dawson’s wife, all cut into ribbons and half-eaten by jackals and native dogs. A little further up the road Dawson himself was lying on his face, quite dead, with an empty revolver in his hand, and four Sepoys239 lying across each other in front of him. I reined up my horse, wondering which way I should turn; but at that moment I saw thick smoke curling up from Abel White’s bungalow and the flames beginning to burst through the roof. I knew then that I could do my employer no good, but would only throw my own life away if I meddled in the matter. From where I stood I could see hundreds of the black fiends, with their red coats still on their backs, dancing and howling round the burning house. Some of them pointed at me, and a couple of bullets sang past my head: so I broke away across the paddy-fields, and found myself late at night safely within the walls at Agra.

  “As it proved, however, there was no great safety there, either. The whole country was up like a swarm of bees. Wherever the English could collect in little bands, they held just the ground that their guns commanded. Everywhere else they were helpless fugitives. It was a fight of the millions against the hundreds; and the cruellest part of it was that these men that we fought against, foot, horse, and gunners, were our own picked troops, whom we had taught and trained, handling our own weapons and blowing our own bugle-calls. At Agra there were the 3rd Bengal Fusiliers,240 some Sikhs,241 two troops of horse, and a battery of artillery. A volunteer corps of clerks and merchants had been formed, and this I joined, wooden leg and all. We went out to meet the rebels at Shahgunge242 early in July, and we beat them back for a time, but our powder gave out, and we had to fall back upon the city.

  “I broke away across the paddy-fields.”

  Richard Gutschmidt, Das Zeichen der Vier (Stuttgart: Robert Lutz Verlag, 1902)

  “Nothing but the worst news came to us from every side—which is not to be wondered at, for if you look at the map you will see that we were right in the heart of it. Lucknow is rather better than a hundred miles to the east, and Cawnpore about as far to the south. From every point on the compass there was nothing but torture and murder and outrage.

  “The city of Agra is a great place, swarming with fanatics and fierce devil-worshippers of all sorts.243 Our handful of men were lost among the narrow, winding streets. Our leader moved across the river, therefore, and took up his position in the old fort of Agra. I don’t know if any of you gentlemen have ever read or heard anything of that old fort. It is a very queer place—the queerest that ever I was in, and I have been in some rum corners, too. First of all, it is enormous in size. I should think that the enclosure must be acres and acres. There is a modern part, which took all our garrison, women, children, stores, and everything else, with plenty of room over. But the modern part is nothing like the size of the old quarter, where nobody goes, and which is given over to the scorpions and the centipedes. It is all full of great, deserted halls, and winding passages, and long corridors twisting in and out, so that it is easy enough for folk to get lost in it. For this reason it was seldom that anyone went into it, though now and again a party with torches might go exploring.

  Charge of the Highlanders before Kawnpore under General Havelock (ca. 1857).

  Plan of Agra Fort.

  “The river washes along the front of the old fort, and so protects it, but on the sides and behind there are many doors, and these had to be guarded, of course, in the old quarter as well as in that which was actually held by our troops. We were short-handed, with hardly men enough to man the angles of the building and to serve the guns. It was impossible for us, therefore, to station a strong guard at every one of the innumerable gates. What we did was to organize a central guard-house in the middle of the fort, and to leave each gate under the charge of one white man and two or three natives. I was selected to take charge during certain hours of the night of a small isolated door upon the south-west side of the building. Two Sikh troopers were placed under my command, and I was instructed if anything went wrong to fire my musket
, when I might rely upon help coming at once from the central guard. As the guard was a good two hundred paces away, however, and as the space between was cut up into a labyrinth of passages and corridors, I had great doubts as to whether they could arrive in time to be of any use in case of an actual attack.

  “Well, I was pretty proud at having this small command given me, since I was a raw recruit, and a game-legged one at that. For two nights I kept the watch with my Punjabees.244 They were tall, fierce-looking chaps, Mahomet Singh and Abdullah Khan by name, both old fighting-men, who had borne arms against us at Chilian Wallah.245 They could talk English pretty well, but I could get little out of them. They preferred to stand together and jabber all night in their queer Sikh lingo. For myself, I used to stand outside the gateway, looking down on the broad, winding river and on the twinkling lights of the great city. The beating of drums, the rattle of tom-toms, and the yells and howls of the rebels, drunk with opium and with bhang,246 were enough to remind us all night of our dangerous neighbours across the stream. Every two hours the officer of the night used to come round to all the posts, to make sure that all was well.

  “The third night of my watch was dark and dirty, with a small driving rain. It was dreary work standing in the gateway hour after hour in such weather. I tried again and again to make my Sikhs talk, but without much success. At two in the morning the rounds passed and broke for a moment the weariness of the night. Finding that my companions would not be led into conversation, I took out my pipe and laid down my musket to strike the match. In an instant the two Sikhs were upon me. One of them snatched my firelock247 up and levelled it at my head, while the other held a great knife to my throat and swore between his teeth that he would plunge it into me if I moved a step.