by Rob Nunn
“It is cocaine,” Holmes answered languidly. “A seven percent solution. Would you care to try it?”
“No, indeed. And consider the cost!” Watson said earnestly, his hand stealing towards his old war wound. “Why should you, for a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great powers with which you have been endowed? Remember that I speak not only as a comrade, but as the medical man on staff, and therefore I am answerable to your constitution.”
Putting his fingertips together, Holmes leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair. “Of course, my dear doctor. Even though we found ourselves in such an exciting chain of events with brother Mycroft just last week, here we sit with nothing on the horizon. My mind rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave mental exaltation.”
“But how can you say that there is nothing on the horizon when you create your own activities? As the head of our agency, surely you are truly the master of your own destiny.”
“You may not be aware, but our rival, Professor Moriarty, and his minions were involved in a situation in Mitcham just recently, and our current game of one-upmanship has stirred up the official forces. We must lay low. And other than our continuing counterfeit operation in Berkshire, we find ourselves in a quiet and uneventful time in London.”
“Your writings then? Couldn’t they fill this time for you?”
“My technical monographs are of interest, but do nothing for me at this time. I cannot summon up the interest in something as intricate as distinctions between ashes of various tobaccos or the use of plaster of Paris as a preserver of footprints.”
“You do have an extraordinary genius for minutiae,” Watson marveled. Hoping to keep Holmes distracted from his drug use. “Your talent is of the greatest interest to me. Would you think me impertinent if I were to put your theories to a test?”
“On the contrary, I should be delighted to look into any problem which you might submit to me.”
“I have a here a watch which has recently come into my possession. Would you have the kindness to let me have an opinion upon the character or habits of the late owner?”
Holmes balanced the watch in his hand, gazed hard at the dial, opened the back, and examined the works and then handed it back to Watson.”There are hardly any data. The watch has been recently cleaned, which robs me of my most suggestive facts,” he remarked.
“Though unsatisfactory,” he continued, “my research has not been entirely barren. Subject to your correction, I should judge that the watch belonged to your elder brother, who inherited it from your father.”
“That you gather, no doubt, from the H. W. upon the back?”
“Quite so. The W. suggests your own name. The date of the watch is nearly fifty years back, and the initials are as old as the watch: so it was made for the last generation. Jewelry usually descends to the eldest son, and he is most likely to have the same name as the father. Your father has, if I remember right, been dead many years. It has therefore, been in the hands of your eldest brother.”
“Right so far,” Watson replied. “Anything else?”
“He was a man of untidy habits - very untidy and careless. He was left with good prospects, but he threw away his chances, lived for some time in poverty with occasional short intervals of prosperity, and finally, taking to drink, he died. That is all I can gather.”
Bitterly, Watson spat, “This is unworthy of you, Holmes. If you wished to know of my family, you should have asked me, not sent out agents to make inquiries into the history of my unhappy brother, and then pretend to deduce this knowledge in some fanciful way. You cannot expect me to believe that you have read all this from his old watch!”
“Watson, pray accept my apologies. Viewing the matter as an abstract problem, I had forgotten how personal and painful a thing it might be to you. I assure you, however, that I never even knew that you had a brother until you handed me the watch. True, I have looked into your background before you came to work for me, but that was only an inquiry into your military and employment history.”
“Then how in the name of all that is wonderful did you get these facts? They are absolutely correct in every particular. Surely it could not have been mere guesswork!”
“No, no: I never guess. It is a shocking habit - destructive to the logical faculty. What seems strange to you is only so because you do not follow my train of thought or observe small facts upon which large inferences may depend. For example, I began by stating that your brother was careless. If you observe the lower part of that watchcase you notice that it is not only dented in two places, but it is cut and marked all over from the habit of keeping other hard objects, such as coins or keys, in the same pocket. Surely it is no great feat to assume that a man who inherits a watch of such value is well provided for in other aspects
“It is very customary for pawnbrokers in England,” Holmes continued, “when they take a watch, to scratch the numbers of the ticket with a pin-point upon the inside of the case. There are no less than four such numbers visible to my lens on the inside of this case. Inference - that your brother was often at low water. Secondary inference - that he had occasional bursts of prosperity, or he could not have redeemed the pledge. Finally, I ask you to look at the inner plate, which contains the keyhole. Look at the thousands of scratches all ‘round the hole marks where the key has slipped. You will never see a drunkard’s watch without them. He winds it at night, and he leaves these traces of his unsteady hand.”
Just as Watson was opening his mouth to reply, the crisp knock of Mrs. Hudson was at the door. She entered, presenting a card. “A young lady for you, sir.”
Holmes read the card aloud. “‘Miss Mary Morstan.’ Hum! I have no recollection of the name. Ask the young lady to step up.” Turning to Watson, he smiled. “We may have something to occupy us yet!”
Miss Morstan entered the room with an outward composure, a young blonde lady, small, dainty, well-gloved, and dressed in the most perfect taste. Her large blue eyes accentuated her sweet and amiable expression. Even though Watson had an experience of women extending over many nations and three continents, he was smitten with the refined and sensitive face he looked upon that day.
“I have come to you, Mr. Holmes,” Miss Morstan said, “because you once enabled my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, to unravel a little domestic complication. She was much impressed by your skill.”
“Mrs. Cecil Forrester,” Holmes repeated thoughtfully. “Yes, I believe that I was of some slight service to her. The problem, however, as I remember it, was a very simple one. State your case,” he said in a brisk, businesslike tone.
Miss Morstan laid her tale for the two men. In 1878, her father, an officer in the Bombay Infantry, telegraphed her to meet him at the Langham Hotel. When she arrived, she found that her father had gone out the previous night and never come back. Although she asked an old comrade of his, Major Sholto, and had tried everything else she could think of, no trace was ever found of her father.
Four years later, an advertisement appeared in the Times asking for her address. After she provided it, she received a large pearl in the mail, and continued to do so every year for six years from an unknown source. She showed the two men her collection of pearls. But that morning, Miss Morstan received a letter stating that she was a wronged woman and if she would meet her unknown benefactor at the Lyceum Theater that night, she would have justice. She was allowed to bring two friends, but no police.
After the mention of pearls, Holmes became more interested in the young lady’s story. “You trust this person?” he asked her.
“I’m not sure, Mr. Holmes. But the writer’s hesitance at police involvement made Mrs. Forrester think that you would be an appropriate
chaperone for tonight.”
“Ah, then you understand that my methods may not always follow the letter of the law?”
“I understand and upon Mrs. Forrester’s recommendation, I place my trust in your judgement.”
“Very well then, Miss Morstan. Judging from the pearls you have shown us, treasure of some sort awaits you at the other end of this mystery.”
“I care not for the treasure, Mr. Holmes. I will gladly give you a significant portion of it if you are able to find out what happened to my father ten years ago! Will you go tonight?”
“I believe your offer would suit me. We shall most certainly go - you and I and - yes, why Dr. Watson is the very man.”
“You are both very kind,” she replied.
“We shall look out for you, then, at six,” Holmes said, “Au revoir, then.”
With a bright, kindly glance at the two men, Miss Morstan hurried away.
Watching her walk briskly down the street, Watson exclaimed, “What a very attractive woman!”
“Is she?” Holmes responded, leaning back in his chair with his pipe. “I did not observe.”
“You really are an automaton - a calculating machine! There is something positively inhuman in you at times.”
Holmes smiled. “It is of the first importance not to allow your judgement to be biased by personal qualities. A client is to me a mere unit, a factor in a problem. The emotional qualities are antagonistic to clear reasoning.”
“In this case, however-”
Holmes held up his hand to stop his friend. “I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the rule. I am going out now. I have some few references to make.”
Returning to Baker Street that evening, Holmes stated, “There is no great mystery in this matter. The facts appear to admit of only one explanation. Major Sholto died upon the 28th of April, 1882.”
“I may be obtuse, Holmes, but I fail to see what this suggests.”
“You surprise me. Look at it in this way, then. Captain Morstan disappears. The only person in London whom he could have visited is Major Sholto. Major Sholto denies having heard that he was in London. Four years later Sholto dies. Within a week of his death Morstan’s daughter receives a valuable present, which is repeated each year and now culminates in a letter which describes her as a wronged woman. What wrong can it refer to except this deprivation of her father? And why should the presents begin immediately after Sholto’s death, unless Sholto’s heir knows something of the mystery and desires to make compensation?”
“Why should he write a letter now, rather than six years ago? What justice can she have? It is too much to suppose that her father is still alive.”
“There are certainly difficulties, but our expedition of tonight will solve them all.”
Miss Morstan arrived in a four wheeler and answered all of the questions about her father and Major Sholto that Holmes asked her.
“By the way, a curious paper was found in Papa’s desk which no one could understand,” she said. “I don’t suppose that it is of the slightest importance, but I thought you might care to see it.”
Holmes took the paper. “It is of native Indian manufacture. It has at some time been pinned to a board. The diagram upon it appears to be a plan of part of a large building with numerous halls, corridors, and passages. At one point is a small cross done in red ink, and above it is ‘3.37 from left’ in faded pencil writing. In the left hand corner is a curious hieroglyphic like four crosses in a line with their arms touching. Beside it is written, in very rough and coarse characters, ‘The sign of the four - Jonathan Small, Mahomet Singh, Abdullah Khan, Dost Akbar.’ It is evidently a document of importance. Preserve it carefully, Miss Morstan, for it may prove to be of use to us. I begin to suspect that this matter may turn out to be much deeper and more subtle than I at first supposed, I must reconsider my ideas.”
The party of three was hardly at the meeting spot at the Lyceum Theater when a small, dark man came up to them. After assuring the man that they were not police officers, he ushered them into a cab and mounted the front of it himself. As they drove, Holmes muttered the names of the streets that they passed, making their way out of fashionable districts of London.
When they arrived at the only inhabited house on a questionable and foreboding street, the door was thrown open by an Indian servant, and the three guests were led down a poorly lit hall to a door on the right, where a small man with a very high forehead stood.
The balding man wrung his hands together. “Your servant, Miss Morstan. Your servant, gentlemen,” his thin high voice said. “Pray step into my little sanctum. Mr. Thaddeus Sholto, that is my name. You are Miss Morstan, of course. And these gentlemen...”
“This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Watson,” she answered.
“A doctor, eh!” Sholto cried. “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.”
Watson glanced at Holmes, who shrugged his shoulders. He listened to the man’s heart and replied, “It appears to be normal. You have no cause for uneasiness.”
“You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Morstan,” Sholto remarked airily, “I am a great sufferer. Had you father refrained from throwing a strain upon his heart, he might have been alive now.”
Enraged at the man’s callous and offhand reference to so delicate a matter, Watson took a step forward to strike Sholto across the face, but he was stopped by Miss Morstan’s words.
“Please, no, Doctor. I knew in my heart that he was dead.”
“I can give you every information,” Sholto said. “What is more, I can do you justice; and I will, whatever Brother Bartholomew may say. We can show a bold front to Brother Bartholomew in Norwood. But let us have no outsiders - no police or officials. We can settle everything satisfactorily among ourselves.”
Everyone agreed. Sholto began to fidget with a hookah and prattle on about French paintings.
“Excuse me, Mr. Sholto,” Miss Morstan cut in, “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.”
“Yes,” Watson added. “If we are to go to Norwood, it would perhaps be as well to start at once.”
“That would hardly do!” Sholto cried. “No, I must prepare you by showing you how we all stand to each other.”
Sholto explained to his visitors that his father was Major Sholto, a friend to Miss Morstan’s father. In 1882, Major Sholto received a letter and, as his health declined, he hoped to reveal all to his sons. On his deathbed, Major Sholto told his two sons that Captain Morstan had visited him the night of his disappearance, as they had arranged to divide a considerable treasure that they brought back from their time in India. The men argued, and in a fit of anger, Morstan suffered a heart attack and died. The treasure was a secret between the two men, so Major Sholto and his servant disposed of the body. He showed his sons a chaplet of pearls, saying that he wished them to go to Morstan’s orphan.
As he was about to tell the location of the remaining treasure to his sons, Major Sholto began to scream at something in the window. The sons turned around to see a bearded face with wild, cruel eyes pressed against the window. When they turned back to their father, he was dead. The two sons searched outside for evidence of the intruder, but only found a single footprint. The next morning, the window to Major Sholto’s room was opened, the room had been ravaged, and a piece of paper lay on the dead man’s chest with ‘The sign of the four’ scrawled across it.
Since that day, the brothers had searched the family home, Pondicherry Lodge, for the Indian treasure. Just the day before, Bartholomew had found it. Thaddeus quickly communicated with Miss Morstan. And now that the
story had been told, the four of them headed to Pondicherry Lodge.
When the party arrived, Sholto knocked on the door and it was answered by a short, deep-chested man. “That you, Mr. Thaddeus? But who are the others? I had no orders about them from the master. He hain’t been out o’ his room today and I have no orders to let anyone else in. I can let you in, but your friends they must just stop where they are. I don’t know none o’ your friends.”
“Oh, yes, you do, McMurdo,” cried Holmes genially, stepping into the light. “I don’t think you can have forgotten me.”
“Not Mr. Sherlock Holmes! God’s truth! How could I have mistook you? If instead o’ standin’ there so quiet you had just stepped up and given me that cross-hit of yours under the jaw, I’d ha’ known you without a question. In you come, sir, in you come - you and your friends. Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus, but orders are very strict. Had to be certain of your friends before I let them in.”
As McMurdo closed the door behind them, they heard the shrill whimpering of a frightened woman.
“It is Mrs. Bernstone,” said Sholto. “She is the only woman in the house. Wait here. I shall be back in a moment.”
As Thaddeus disappeared to talk to the housekeeper, Holmes picked up a lantern to peer at the house. In the past few hours, Mary Morstan’s questions had been answered, but the treasure was still to be split. In her time of distress, Miss Morstan reached out and grasped Watson’s hand with her own, needing the feeling of comfort and protection.
“There is something amiss with Bartholomew!” Sholto cried as he rushed back towards them.
Leaving Miss Morstan to sit with the housekeeper, the three men made their way to Bartholomew’s room, only to find it locked from the inside. Holmes looked through the keyhole and with a sharp intake of breath rose and asked Watson’s opinion. Watson peered in and saw a face that mirrored Thaddeus Sholto’s fixed in a horrid, unnatural grin as the body lay prostrate in a chair.
“The door must come down,” Holmes stated. He and Watson threw all their weight against it and the door gave way with a sudden snap.
