Mortality is high but day after day we are working to reclaim swamp land and eventually disease dies out with the drying of the land. Then we are set to forest clearance.
In 1872 an English lord – the sixth Earl of Mayo, Viceroy Richard Southwell Bourke - visits the island. A Muslim brother, a Pathan from Afghanistan, attacks and kills him. We do not know why. This causes uproar among our captors and they come down very hard on us, especially Major Sholto.
We forget thoughts of escape for months at a time. We have heard that there are convicts spread now in another island group, named by our captors Nicobar. There are some ten thousand of us. Three hundred Indian soldiers and one hundred and forty British troops garrison the islands with over six hundred police organised as a military battalion. There are villages where the civilians live – traders and their families, clerical and departmental staff.
One night the English comes to us with food.
“My friends,” he says as we gorge ourselves. “I have made a decision I must discuss with you. It is driving me mad – as I know it must drive you mad – that we live here in these abject circumstances whilst on the mainland we own treasure that will make us the kings of the world.”
We nod in agreement.
“I have resolved that I am going to confide in two of the warders – Major Sholto and Captain Marston – about the treasure.”
“No!” Singh cries. “Sholto has no honour. He cannot be trusted.”
“I think you are harsh,” the English says. “Sholto can be rough, I grant you, but I believe him to be honest. And he is in need of funds – he is always the loser at cards.”
“He will steal our treasure,” Singh says.
“It is only ours if we are free,” the English says. “I will strike a bargain with them. They will get a fifth share if – and only if – they help us escape from this island to enjoy our wealth.”
“Why would they honour that bargain?” Mahomet Akbar says.
“They are Englishmen,” the English says.
Akbar snorts. Mohammad Singh says:
“You will go with them?”
“I will. And I will keep a close eye on Sholto. Besides Marston is a decent man – he will also see fair play.”
“Mahomet and Dost,” I say. “Each of us has made the Sign of the Four. We can trust our English friend.”
Sholto goes on leave alone. The English comes to us again one night.
“You have let that man go alone,” Singh says, rage in his voice. “You said the three of you would go.”
“Don’t be alarmed,” the English says. “It was the only negotiation our jailers would accept. I gave him a map of the fort marked with the location of the treasure. When he is satisfied it is as I said he will return with a boat then we will all leave together and dig up the treasure.”
We look from the English to each other in amazement.
“The sun has boiled your brain,” Singh says, spitting in the dirt. “We will never see the Major or our treasure again.”
The English stands, a stern look on his face.
“You impugn the honour of an English officer with that suggestion. Major Sholto will return.”
But he never does.
Chapter Fourteen
Escape from Andaman
1880-1890
More months pass. The English does not visit us with food or news. From a distance we see him going about his easy duties whilst we slave. Then, another night visit. The English, running the brim of his straw hat through his fingers.
“My friends of the Sign of the Four, I was a fool. I make a plea for your forgiveness. Morstan has just received a communication from England. Sholto has resigned his commission and returned home a wealthy man. A legacy, he says. Our treasure, say I.”
Singh grinds his teeth and tugs at his great black beard.
“I will tear his head off with my bare hands. I will hack off his limbs and feed them to pigs –“
“Morstan is going to England to confront him,” the English says. “He can be relied upon.”
In 1880, Captain Morstan goes to England. We hear no more of him.
When the English next approaches Singh rushes at him. He pushes him in the chest and the one-legged man topples backwards to the earth.
“No more honey words,” Singh snarls. “These dogs learn our secret and each in turn go to profit from it. Do not dare to tell us you are going next and you can be trusted.”
“I can get off this island,” the English says, holding out his hand for Singh to help him up. “I am in a better position than you to do so.”
Singh looks down at him, eyes blazing. The English keeps his arm extended. Reluctantly, Singh takes his hand and hauls him to his feet. The English staggers for a moment before he gets his wooden leg properly placed. He looks into Singh’s fierce visage.
“We are the Sign of the Four. We took a solemn oath. I will not break it, I swear that again now.”
“We can go together,” Akbar says.
The English shakes his head.
“No. In India we can disappear but I need to confront him in England and you, my friends, would stand out too much there.”
“So help us escape this place,” Akbar says, “and we will wait for you in India.”
The English looks from one to the other of us. He nods.
“Very well. You have my word. But it may take some time.”
It takes two years for English to arrange a way off the island, with the help of a devilish little islander. One day, in 1882, the alarm is raised. After twenty years on the island, the English has escaped. Without us, of course.
More years pass before we can follow his example. We have been imprisoned on the island for thirty years when we three finally break free. It happens this way. By now long term prisoners are spread through many villages working to support themselves. Security is lax, largely as it is believed there is no way off the islands but also because the police trust too much on Morse code signalling to keep each other informed.
There are an increasing number of boats plying the waters of Port Blair harbour: ferries and launches for transporting goods between the islands of the group.
One stormy night we steal a launch and cross roiling seas to the Ross Island lighthouse. There we take a bigger boat and – with trepidation but great determination - throw ourselves upon the mercy of the tides.
We make land a long day later, the longest and most frightening of my life. I vow I will never go on the water again; to this day I keep that vow.
It takes a further two years to make our way home. We walk and work our way up the length of India back to our village in the Punjab. On the way we are threatened by droikas and harried by thuggees. When we attempt to shelter under the protection of large parties of travellers they chase us away, believing us to be thuggees ourselves.
We reach home in 1890. Our families are not overjoyed to see us. My wife is dead, Mahomet’s and Dost’s are old and grey. Our children are parents themselves. Our sons are fighting for the British in Afghanistan.
We have sent letters home over many years and at each stage of our journey, not sure if they will arrive. We have told our full story, sometimes to the wide-eyed alarm of the scribes we dictate to.
At our last stop, whilst the scribe perched on his little stool writes that we will be home within the month, I wander over to watch a conjurer. He has a back like a camel and his ribs are all awry yet his hands are most dexterous. He produces a ragged scarf from the air and a pebble he has swallowed he takes from someone’s ear.
Some young boys are taunting him for his crippled body and throwing handfuls of dust at him. He tries to ignore them or barks some words of Urdu, though his accent is strange.
I cuff one of the boys and send them all packing.
When he has finished he gets scarcely a coin. I have none to give but on an impulse I give him the last of my food – it is but rice and roti. He thanks me in his queer accent and for my assistance with the bo
ys.
“God go with you,” I say, for there is something in his ravaged face and tortured body that speaks of suffering worse even than my own. On impulse I say it in English. I have noticed that though his skin is burnt brown his flashing palms as he performs his tricks are white.
“I thank you, sir,” he says in a clear English voice, immediately biting into the food.
“You are English. Your Urdu is good but I suspected your accent.”
“You might not think it to see me now,” the conjurer says through a mouthful of food, “me looking so ragged and broken-bodied. But there was a time when Corporal Henry Wood was the smartest man in the Royal Mallows – the 117th Foot to you.”
“What befell you?”
“What we English called the Indian Mutiny – though I know you might have another name for it. I was captured by rebels. Severely treated. Enslaved here in North India. Now I wander Afghanistan and the Punjab as a conjurer hoping to find a way to return home.”
“My friends and I fought on the side of the English during those troubled times. It ended badly for us too, though it was of our own doing.”
The conjurer finishes the small parcel of food. He crumples the wrapping, tosses it in the air and it disappears. I laugh.
“Making the food disappear is a happier trick,” the corporal says, attempting a smile that his face is clearly unfamiliar with. “Where did you fight?”
“We were stationed at Agra, besieged in the fort.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Agra? Indeed?”
He reaches into a worn canvas bag at his waist, passes me the crumpled food wrapping that has just disappeared in the air then produces a tattered book. He proffers it to me. For a brief period the English taught us to decipher English writing, letter by letter. I look at the cover and start at the title: The Sign of The Four.
“I miss my language so I bartered a few tricks for this at a bookstall for colonials further south. It is written by a doctor. The narrative is dependent upon incidents at the besieged fort of Agra.”
“May I call my friends over?”
It is a strange experience for us to hear this crippled conjurer with the perfect English accent explain about the English – his name is given as Jonathan Small - and his murderous activities at Agra in the company of three Sikhs. Three Sikhs? We are two Muslims and a Sikh but, never mind, he mistakes our names too – they are garbled in the telling.
The conjurer recounts the whole story, like one of our own storytellers. We are astounded to hear of Mary Morstan the daughter of Captain Morstan. The fate of Sholto – dead in his bed - pleases us. The fate of Captain Morstan – killed in a struggle with Sholto - less so. The fate of the great Agra treasure – thrown by Small into the deep and fast flowing river Thames – not at all.
Our treasure is no more. All our travails have been for nothing. We have been determined to follow Small, Morstan and Sholto to England to claim our treasure and take our revenge.
Now all that remains is revenge.
Chapter Fifteen
September 1916
The Interview
The vicar of Ormond Sacker visited the good doctor at his suite in the Grand.
“Thank you for seeing me, Hamish.”
“The least I could do,” the doctor said with a distinct lack of warmth. “What do you think you look like?”
“The Reverend Sherrinford.”
Watson barked a laugh.
“Jesu – I suppose it’s more money you seek?”
The vicar spread his hands.
“Times are difficult.”
“Times are difficult because you spend all that you have on your addiction.”
The vicar shook his head wearily.
“That is not true, old fellow, nor has it ever been.”
“I am not your Old Fellow. I am a man who has made your career and has done well out of the project himself but I owe you nothing more. That you have squandered your talents, such as they were, and your money is not of my doing.”
“My money? I earned but a pittance. My professional charges were on a fixed scale and, as you know, I did not vary them save when I remitted them altogether.”
“Those big fees – the Duke of Holderness –“
“Were figments of your over-excited imagination. And I have never forgiven you for saying that I rubbed my hands with glee at sight of the Duke’s cheque.”
The doctor said nothing. The vicar thrust his head forward pugnaciously.
“You on the other hand –“
“Enough of this. Does your brother not still send you an annuity?”
“Scarcely enough to keep the roof of the cottage from falling in on my head. And why I am exiled from the city I love I have no clear idea. It is very confusing.”
“And you say you are no longer dependent on your drug,” Watson sneered. “Dispense with the services of Mrs Hudson – you would save some money there and could fend for yourself.” The doctor laughed mirthlessly. “I still remember that appetising dish you offered me in your cave on Dartmoor.”
“An apt reminder of our comparative lives – me sleeping on the granite floor of a chilly cave, you the house guest of Lord Baskerville, the largest landowner in the county.” The vicar wrung his hands together. “For God’s sake, man. Mrs Hudson left me months ago, owed almost six months wages.”
“Write another story yourself,” the doctor said, a smirk beneath his moustache.
“You know I have no talent for that.”
“Oh I don’t know,” the doctor said, swirling the brandy in its snifter and inhaling it beneath his nose. “Having a jellyfish as the villain in the last one I read was a masterstroke. Almost as ingenious as Poe blaming an orang-utan.”
He sipped his brandy.
“Just a small loan. Foodstuffs are increasingly hard to come by and are therefore expensive. And you can afford it.”
“Eat honey, why don’t you? Or go back to work. The reputation I have given you will ensure you have clients.”
“But not necessarily results. You know you excluded from your accounts those cases in which I made no headway.”
“You should have learned by now to stand on your own two feet.” Dr Watson tugged his watch from his pocket. “Now I have a private dinner with Lady F--. I cannot afford to be late.”
“What of this investigation?”
“What of it?”
“What if Poiret stumbles upon something?”
“With your help, you mean? Is it blackmail you’ve come for?”
“No, though I know you lied to him in your account of your escape at the battle of Maiwand.”
“You, of all people, are calling me a liar?”
“Not at all. I’m sure you were playing a game with him.”
“In what respect?”
“Towards the close of your account, when you mentioned the colonel breaking his sword and a little earlier the poor beggar pleading for mercy.”
Watson chewed on his moustache.
“Go on.”
“It is some while since I’ve read Kipling’s Barrack Room Ballads but I’m sure I recognised something of them there.”
“And you think that is worth payment?”
“I wondered why you did not tell it straight.”
Watson walked over to his desk and picked up his jacket from the chair. He called over his shoulder:
“It is as you say: I was playing a game with the jumped-up Belgian.”
“Frenchman,” the vicar murmured.
Watson drew from the inside pocket of his jacket a wallet and extracted some notes. The vicar stepped forward and received them in his outstretched hand.
“Not for your silence, Holmes. Simply a gift to an old comrade fallen on hard times.”
“Your old comrade is grateful and will be scrupulous in his gratitude.” The vicar looked at Watson and his eyes might have welled with tears. “We had some times, did we not?”
“We did - but not now, there’s
a good fellow. Lady F-- is waiting.”
“I will walk with you to the dining rooms.”
Watson touched his moustache.
“I told you it is a private dinner.”
He indicated the door, a gesture of dismissal. The vicar looked at him for another moment.
“Thank you, Watson.”
“It is nothing. But be warned: I have helped you enough, man. Please do not bother me again.”
Sherlock Holmes, as bowed as the vicar he played, turned and left the room.
Chapter Sixteen
Tea at the Grand
The vicar of Ormond Sacker took the lift to the ground floor of the Grand and walked slowly out into the bright sunlight. To left and right of the main entrance, on the veranda overlooking the King’s Road, people were taking tea and cakes. He recognised a couple of plump war profiteers and at least three members of European minor royalty.
A man sitting alone near the entrance waved at him. The vicar looked and before he could look away again the man called:
“Monsieur – please. Join me?”
The vicar pointed at himself, a quizzical look on his face.
“Yes, yes, you, Reverend Sherrinford.”
Jules Poiret stood as the vicar slowly approached. The vicar said:
“I’m afraid I have not had the pleasure –“
“Don’t be foolish,” Poiret said, resuming his seat and lowering his voice. Other people were watching the mismatched pair. “Do try not to draw attention to yourself more than you have already achieved, Mr Holmes.”
The vicar looked at the bright red carnation blossoming in the buttonhole of the foreign detective’s loudly pinstriped suit. He lowered his voice as he lowered himself into the seat opposite Poiret.
“We have a saying about pots and kettles in this country, Poiret – do you know it?”
“They never boil if they are watched?”
“Not that one.”
“Are fish somehow involved? Fish for some reason swimming in a kettle?”
Sherlock Holmes sighed.
The Belgian and The Beekeeper Page 7
