_In Quest of a Solution_
It was half-past five before Holmes returned. He was bright, eager,
and in excellent spirits--a mood which in his case alternated with
fits of the blackest depression.
"There is no great mystery in this matter," he said, taking the cup
of tea which I had poured out for him. "The facts appear to admit of
only one explanation."
"What! you have solved it already?"
"Well, that will 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 back
files of the 'Times,' that Major Sholto of Upper Norwood, late of the
Thirty-fourth Bombay Infantry, died upon the 28th of April, 1882."
"I may be very obtuse, Holmes, but I fail to see what this suggests."
"No? 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_, Captain Morstan'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 except
this deprivation of her father? And why should the presents begin
immediately after Sholto's death, unless it is that Sholto's heir
knows something of the mystery, and desires to make compensation?
Have you any alternative theory which will meet the facts?"
"But 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 to-night will
solve them all. Ah, here is a four-wheeler, and Miss Morstan is
inside. Are you all ready? 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 our night's work might be a serious one.
Miss Morstan 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 papa's," she said.
"His letters were full of allusions to the major. He and papa were
in command of the troops at the Andaman Islands, so they were thrown
a great deal together. By the way, a curious paper was found in
papa's desk which no one can 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 smoothed it out upon his
knee. He then very methodically examined it all over with his double
lens.
"It is paper of native Indian manufacture," 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 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.' 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 pocket-book; for the one
side is as clean as the other."
"It was in his pocket-book that we found it."
"Preserve it carefully, then, 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." He leaned back in the cab, and I could see by
his drawn brow and his vacant eye that he was thinking intently.
Miss Morstan 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, drizzling fog lay low upon the
great city. Mud-colored clouds drooped sadly over the muddy streets.
Down the Strand the lamps were but misty splotches of diffused light
which threw a feeble circular glimmer upon the slimy pavement. The
yellow glare from the shop-windows streamed out into the steamy,
vaporous air, and threw a murky, shifting radiance across the crowded
thoroughfare. There was to my mind something eery and ghost-like in
the endless procession of faces which flitted across these narrow
bars of light--sad faces and glad, haggard and merry. Like all human
kind, 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
Morstan's manner that she was suffering from the same feeling.
Holmes alone could rise superior to petty influences. He held his
open note-book upon his knee, and from time to time he jotted down
figures and memoranda in the light of his pocket-lantern.
At the Lyceum Theatre the crowds were already thick at the
side-entrances. In front a continuous stream of hansoms and
four-wheelers were rattling up, discharging their cargoes of
shirt-fronted men and beshawled, bediamonded women. We had hardly
reached the third pillar, which was our rendezvous, before a small,
dark, brisk man, in the dress of a coachman, accosted us.
"Are you the parties who come with Miss Morstan?" he asked.
"I am Miss Morstan, and these two gentlemen are my friends," said she.
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.
He gave a shrill whistle, on which a street Arab led across a
four-wheeler, 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
complete hoax, which was an inconceivable hypothesis, or else we had
good reason to think that important issues might hang upon our
journey. Miss Morstan's demeanor was as resolute and collected as
ever. I endeavored to cheer and amuse her by reminiscences of my
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-barreled tiger cub 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, save 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 by tortuous by-streets.
"Rochester Row," said he. "Now Vincent Square. Now we come out on
the Vauxhall Bridge Road. We are making for the Surrey side
apparently. Yes, I thought so. Now we are on the bridge. You can
catch glimpses of the river."
We did indeed get a fleeting view of a stretch of the Thames, with
the lamps shining upon the broad, silent water; but our cab dashed
on, and was soon involved in a labyrinth of streets upon the other
side.
"Wordsworth Road," said my companion. "Priory Road. Lark Hall Lane.
Stockwell Place. Robert Street. Cold Harbor Lane. Our quest does
not appear to take us to very fashionable regions."
We had, indeed, reached a questionable and forbidding neighborhood.
Long lines of dull brick houses were only relieved by the coarse
glare and tawdry brilliancy of public-houses at the corner. Then
came rows of two-storied villas, each with a fronting of miniature
garden, and then again interminable lines of new staring brick
buildings--the monster tentacles which the giant city was throwing
out into the country. At last the cab drew up at the third house in
a new terrace. None of the other houses was inhabited, and that at
which we stopped was as dark as its neighbors, save for a single
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
commonplace doorway of a third-rate suburban dwelling-house.
"The sahib awaits you," said he, and even as he spoke there came a
high piping voice from some inner room. "Show them in to me,
khitmutgar," it cried. "Show them straight in to me."