Books at bedtime. Sherlock Holmes, the sign of the four chapter three, in quest of a solution.
It was half past five, the four homes returned. He was bright, eager, and in excellent spirits,
a mood which in his case, alternated with the fix of the blackest oppression.
There is no great mystery in this, he said, taking the cup of tea which I had poured out
for him. The facts appear to admit of only one explanation.
What? Have you solved it already?
Well, that would be too much to say. I have discovered a suggestive fact, that is all.
It is, however, very suggestive. The details are still to be added. I have just found, on
consulting the black files of the times, that major, shaltow of upper Norwood, late of
the 34th Bombay in Diffantry, died upon the 28th of April, 1882.
I may be very obtuse homes, but I fail to see what this suggests.
No, you surprise me. Look at it in this way then. Captain Morston disappears. The only
person in London whom he could have visited is Major Shaltow. Major Shaltow denies having
heard that he was in London. Four years later, Shaltow dies.
Within a week of this death, Captain Morston's daughter receives a valuable present, which
is repeated from year to year, and now culminates in a letter which describes her as a wronged
woman. What wrong can it refer to accept this deprivation of her father? And why should
the presence begin immediately after Shaltow's death, unless it is that Shaltow's heir knows
something of the mystery and desires to make compensation?
Have you any alternative theory which will meet the facts?
What a strange compensation and how strangely made. Why, too, should he write a letter now
rather than six years ago? Again, the letter speaks of giving her justice. What justice
can she have? It is too much to suppose that her father is still alive. There is no other
injustice in her case that you know of. There are difficulties. There are certainly difficulties
said Sherlock Holmes, pensively. But our expedition of tonight will solve them all.
Ah, here is a four wheeler and Miss Morston is inside. Are you already? Then we had better
go down, for it is a little past the hour. I picked up my hat and my heaviest stick, but
I observed that Holmes took his revolver from his drawer and slipped it into his pocket.
It was clear that he thought that our night's work might be a serious one. Miss Morston
was muffled in a dark cloak, and her sensitive face was composed, but pale. She must have been
more than woman if she did not feel some uneasiness at the strange enterprise upon which we were
embarking. Yet, her self-control was perfect, and she readily answered the few additional questions,
which Sherlock Holmes put to her. Major Sholto was a very particular
friend of Papar's, she said. His letters were full of allusions to the Major. He and Papar
were in command of the troops at the Andermann Islands, so they were thrown a great deal
together. By the way, a curious paper was found in Papar's desk when no one could understand.
I don't suppose that it is of the slightest importance, but I thought you might care to
see it, so I brought it with me. It is here. Holmes unfolded the paper carefully and smothered
it out upon his knee. He then very methodically examined it all over with his double lens.
It is paper of native Indian manufacturer, he remarked. 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 redding,
and above it is 3.37 from left, infaded pencil writing. In the left corner is a curious
hieroglyphic like four crosses in a line with their arms touching. Besides, is written in
very rough and coarse characters, the sign of the form. Jonathan Small, Muhammad Singh,
Abdul Akhan and Doss Agba. No, I confess that I do not see how this bears upon the matter,
yet it is evidently a document of importance. It has been kept carefully in a pocketbook
for one side is a clean as the other. It was in his pocketbook that I found it. Preserve
it carefully then, Miss Morston, 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 settled in I at first supposed.
I must consider my ideas. He lent back in the cab, and I could see by his drawn brow and
his vacant eyes that he was thinking intently. Miss Morston and I chatted in an undertone about
our present expedition and its possible outcome, but our companion maintained his impenetrable
reserve until the end of our journey. It was a September evening, and not yet seven
o'clock, but the day had been a dreary one, and a dense, drizzly fog lay low upon the great
city. Mud covered clouds droop sadly over the muddy
streets. Down the strand, the lamps were but misty splotches to fuse light, which threw
a feeble circular glimmer upon a slimy pavement. The yellow glare from the open shop window
streamed out into the steamy, faprous air and threw a murky, shifting radiance across
the crowded thoroughfare. There was, to my mind, something eerie and ghostly, in the endless
possession of faces which flitted across these narrow bars of light, sad faces and glad,
haggard and merry, like all humankind. They flitted from the gloom into the light and
so back into the gloom once more. I am not subject to impressions, but the dull, heavy
evening, with the strange business upon which we were engaged, combined to make me nervous
and depressed. I could see from Miss Morston's manner that she was suffering from the same
feeling. Holmes alone could rise superior to petty influences. He held his open notebook
upon his knee, and from time to time he chopted downed figures and memorandered in the light
of his pocket lantern. At the light's seams, the etter, the crowds were already thick of
the side entrances. In front of continuous stream of handsome and forewheeler's were rattling
up, discharging their cargos and shirt fronted men and beshalled the diamond women. We had
hardly reached the third pillar which was our rendezvous, before a small, dark, brisk
man in the dress of a coachman who costed us. Are you the parties who come with Miss Morston
and these two gentlemen are my friends, she said. He bent a pair of wonderfully penetrating
and questioning eyes upon us. You will excuse me, Miss, he said with a certain dogged
manner, but I was to ask you to give me your word that neither of your companions is a police
officer. I give you my word on that, she answered.
We gave a shrew whistle on which a street Arab led across a forewheeler and opened the door.
The man who had addressed us mounted to the box while we took our places inside. We had
hardly done so before the driver whipped up his horse and we plunged away at a furious
pace through the foggy streets. The situation was a curious one. We were driving to an unknown
place, on an unknown errand. Yet our invitation was either a complex host which was an inconceivable
hypothesis. Or else we had good reason to think that important issues might hang upon our
journey. Miss Morston's demeanor was as resolute and collected as ever. I endeavoured to
cheer and amuse her with reminisces of our adventures in Afghanistan, but to tell the truth. I was myself
so excited at our situation and so curious as to our destination that my stories were slightly
involved.
To this day, she declares that I told her one moving anecdote as to how a musket looked
into my tent at the dead of night and how I fired a double barrel tiger cab at it. At first,
I had some idea as to the direction in which we were driving, but soon, what with our pace,
the fog and my own limited knowledge of London, I lost my bearings and knew nothing saved
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 of torturous
by-streets.
Rochester Rowe said he, now Vincent Square, now we come out on the voxel bridge road. We
are making for the Surrey side apparently. Yes, I thought so. Now we're on the bridge,
we can catch a glimpse of the river. You did indeed get a fleeting view of the stretch
of the Thames with the lamps shining upon the broad silent water, but our cab dashed
on and was soon involved in our labyrinth of the streets upon the other side.
"Once were Throed," said my companion, "priority road, like hill lane, stock will place,
Robert Street, cold harbor lane. Our quest does not appear to take us to a very fashionable
region."
We had, indeed, reached a questionable and foreboding neighbourhood. Long lines of Delbric
houses were only relieved by the coarse glare of Tordry brilliancy of public houses at
the corner.
Then came rows of two storied villas, each with a fronting of miniature gardens, and then
again, interminable lines of new staring-bick buildings. The monster tentacles, which the
giant city was throwing out into the country.
At last, the cab drew up 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 singular
glimmer in the kitchen window. On our knocking, however, the door was instantly thrown open
by a Hindu 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 common
placed doorway of a third-rate suburban dwelling.
"The Saheab awaits you," said he, and even as he spoke, there came a high-piping voice from
some inner room. "Show them into me, Kit McGurr." It cried, "Show them straight into me."
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