The Episode of the Barrel
The police had brought a cab with them, and in this I escorted Miss
Morstan back to her home. After the angelic fashion of women, she
had borne trouble with a calm face as long as there was some one
weaker than herself to support, and I had found her bright and placid
by the side of the frightened housekeeper. In the cab, however, she
first turned faint, and then burst into a passion of weeping, so
sorely had she been tried by the adventures of the night.
She has told me since that she thought me cold and distant upon that
journey. She little guessed the struggle within my breast, or the
effort of self-restraint which held me back. My sympathies and my
love went out to her, even as my hand had in the garden. I felt that
years of the conventionalities of life could not teach me to know her
sweet, brave nature as had this one day of strange experiences. Yet
there were two thoughts which sealed the words of affection upon my
lips. She was weak and helpless, shaken in mind and nerve. It was
to take her at a disadvantage to obtrude love upon her at such a
time. Worse still she was rich. If Holmes's researches were
successful, she would be an heiress. Was it fair, was it honorable,
that a half-pay surgeon should take such advantage of an intimacy
which chance had brought about? Might she not look upon me as a mere
vulgar fortune-seeker? I could not bear to risk that such a thought
should cross her mind. This Agra treasure intervened like an
impassable barrier between us.
It was nearly two o'clock when we reached Mrs. Cecil Forrester's.
The servants had retired hours ago, but Mrs. Forrester had been so
interested by the strange message which Miss Morstan had received,
that she had sat up in the hope of her return. She opened the door
herself, a middle-aged, graceful woman, and it gave me joy to see how
tenderly her arm stole round the other's waist, and how motherly was
the voice in which she greeted her. She was clearly no mere paid
dependent, but an honored friend. I was introduced, and Mrs.
Forrester earnestly begged me to step in and to tell her our
adventures. I explained, however, the importance of my errand, and
promised faithfully to call and report any progress which we might
make with the case. As we drove away I stole a glance back, and I
still seem to see that little group on the step, the two graceful,
clinging figures, the half-opened door, the hall light shining
through stained glass, the barometer, and the bright stair-rods. It
was soothing to catch even that passing glimpse of a tranquil English
home in the midst of the wild, dark business which had absorbed us.
And the more I thought of what had happened, the wilder and darker it
grew. I reviewed the whole extraordinary sequence of events as I
rattled on through the silent, gas-lighted streets. There was the
original problem: that at least was pretty clear now. The death of
Captain Morstan, the sending of the pearls, the advertisement, the
letter--we had had light upon all those events. They had only led
us, however, to a deeper and far more tragic mystery. The Indian
treasure, the curious plan found among Morstan's baggage, the strange
scene at Major Sholto's death, the rediscovery of the treasure
immediately followed by the murder of the discoverer, the very
singular accompaniments to the crime, the footsteps, the remarkable
weapons, the words upon the card, corresponding with those upon
Captain Morstan's chart--here was indeed a labyrinth in which a man
less singularly endowed than my fellow-lodger might well despair at
ever finding the clue.
Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby two-storied brick houses in the
lower quarter of Lambeth. I had to knock for some time at No. 3
before I could make any impression. At last, however, there was the
glint of a candle behind the blind, and a face looked out at the
upper window.
"Go on, you drunken vagabond!" said the face. "If you kick up any
more row I'll open the kennels and let out forty-three dogs at you."
"If you'll let one out it's just what I have come for," said I.
"Go on!" yelled the voice. "So help me gracious, I have a wiper in
this bag, an' I'll drop it on your 'ead if you don't book it!"
"But I want a dog," I cried.
"I won't be argued with!" shouted Mr. Sherman. "Now stand clear; for
when I say 'three,' down goes the wiper."
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes--" I began; but the words had a most magical
effect, for the window instantly slammed down, and within a minute
the door was unbarred and open. Mr. Sherman was a lanky, lean old
man, with stooping shoulders, a stringy neck, and blue-tinted glasses.
"A friend of Mr. Sherlock is always welcome," said he. "Step in,
sir. Keep clear of the badger; for he bites. Ah, naughty, naughty!
would you take a nip at the gentleman?" This to a stoat which thrust
its wicked head and red eyes between the bars of its cage. "Don't
mind that, sir; it's only a slow-worm. It hain't got no fangs, so I
gives it the run o' the room, for it keeps the beetles down. You
must not mind my bein' just a little short wi' you at first, for I'm
guyed by the children, and there's many a one just comes down this
lane to rouse me up. What was it that Mr. Sherlock Holmes wanted,
sir?"
"He wanted a dog of yours."
"Ah! that would be Toby."
"Yes, Toby was the name."
"Toby lives at No. 7, on the left here." He moved slowly forward
with his candle among the queer animal family which he had gathered
round him. In the uncertain, shadowy light I could see dimly that
there were glancing, glimmering eyes peeping down at us from every
cranny and corner. Even the rafters above our heads were lined by
solemn fowls, who lazily shifted their weight from one leg to the
Other as our voices disturbed their slumbers.
Toby proved to be an ugly, long-haired, lop-eared creature, half
spaniel and half lurcher, brown and white in color, with a very
clumsy waddling gait. It accepted, after some hesitation, a lump of
sugar which the old naturalist handed to me, and having thus sealed
an alliance, it followed me to the cab, and made no difficulties
about accompanying me. It had just struck three on the Palace clock
when I found myself back once more at Pondicherry Lodge. The
ex-prize-fighter, McMurdo, had, I found, been arrested as an
accessory, and both he and Mr. Sholto had been marched off to the
station. Two constables guarded the narrow gate, but they allowed me
to pass with the dog on my mentioning the detective's name.
Holmes was standing on the doorstep, with his hands in his pockets,
smoking his pipe.
"Ah, you have him there!" said he. "Good dog, then! Athelney Jones
has gone. We have had an immense display of energy since you left.
He has arrested not only friend Thaddeus, but the gatekeeper, the
housekeeper, and the Indian servant. We have the place to ourselves
but for a sergeant upstairs. Leave the dog here and come up."
We tied Toby to the hall table, and reascended the stairs. The room
was as we had left it, save that a sheet had been draped over the
central figure. A weary-looking police-sergeant reclined in the
corner.
"Lend me your bull's-eye, sergeant," said my companion. "Now tie
this bit of card round my neck, so as to hang it in front of me.
Thank you. Now I must kick off my boots and stockings. Just you
carry them down with you, Watson. I am going to do a little
climbing. And dip my handkerchief into the creosote. That will do.
Now come up into the garret with me for a moment."
We clambered up through the hole. Holmes turned his light once more
upon the footsteps in the dust.
"I wish particularly to notice these foot-marks," he said. "Do you
observe anything noteworthy about them?"
"They belong," I said, "to a child or a small woman."
"Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"
"They appear to be much as other foot-marks."
"Not at all. Look here! This is the print of a right foot in the
dust. Now I make one with my naked foot beside it. What is the
chief difference?"
"Your toes are all cramped together. The other print has each toe
distinctly divided."
"Quite so. That is the point. Bear that in mind. Now, would you
kindly step over to that flap-window and smell the edge of the
woodwork? I shall stay over here as I have this handkerchief in my
hand."
I did as he directed, and was instantly conscious of a strong tarry
smell.
"That is where he put his foot in getting out. If you can trace him,
I should think that Toby will have no difficulty. Now run
downstairs, loose the dog, and look out for Blondin."
By the time that I got out into the grounds, Sherlock Holmes was on
the roof, and I could see him like an enormous glowworm crawling very
slowly along the ridge. I lost sight of him behind a stack of
chimneys, but he presently reappeared, and then vanished once more
upon the opposite side. When I made my way round there I found him
seated at one of the corner eaves.
"That you, Watson?" he cried.
"Yes."
"This is the place. What is that black thing down there?'
"A water-barrel."
"Top on it?"
"Yes."
"No sign of a ladder?"
"No."
"Confound the fellow! It's a most break-neck place, I ought to be
able to come down where he could climb up. The water-pipe feels
pretty firm. Here goes, anyhow."
There was a shuffling of the feet, and the lantern began to come
steadily down the side of the wall. Then with a light spring he came
on to the barrel, and from there to the earth.
"It was easy to follow him," he said, drawing on his stockings and
boots. "Tiles were loosened the whole way along, and in his hurry he
had dropped this. It confirms my diagnosis, as you doctors express
it."
The object which he held up to me was a small pocket or pouch woven
out of colored grasses and with a few tawdry beads strung round it.
In shape and size it was not unlike a cigarette-case. Inside were
half a dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end and rounded at the
other, like that which had struck Bartholomew Sholto.
"They are hellish things," said he. "Look out that you don't prick
yourself. I'm delighted to have them, for the chances are that they
are all he has. There is the less fear of you or me finding one in
our skin before long. I would sooner face a Martini bullet myself.
Are you game for a six-mile trudge, Watson?"
"Certainly," I answered.
"Your leg will stand it?"
"Oh, yes."
"Here you are, doggy! Good old Toby! Smell it, Toby; smell it!" He
pushed the creosote handkerchief under the dog's nose, while the
creature stood with its fluffy legs separated, and with a most
comical cock to its head, like a connoisseur sniffing the bouquet of
a famous vintage. Holmes then threw the handkerchief to a distance,
fastened a stout cord to the mongrel's collar, and led him to the
foot of the water-barrel. The creature instantly broke into a
succession of high, tremulous yelps, and, with his nose on the ground
and his tail in the air, pattered off upon the trail at a pace which
strained his leash and kept us at the top of our speed.
The east had been gradually whitening, and we could now see some
distance in the cold, gray light. The square, massive house, with
its black, empty windows and high, bare walls, towered up, sad and
forlorn, behind us. Our course led right across the grounds, in and
out among the trenches and pits with which they were scarred and
intersected. The whole place, with its scattered dirt-heaps and
ill-grown shrubs, had a blighted, ill-omened look which harmonized
with the black tragedy which hung over it.
On reaching the boundary wall Toby ran along, whining eagerly,
underneath its shadow, and stopped finally in a corner screened by a
young beech. Where the two walls joined, several bricks had been
loosened, and the crevices left were worn down and rounded upon the
lower side, as though they had frequently been used as a ladder.
Holmes clambered up, and, taking the dog from me, he dropped it over
upon the other side.
"There's the print of wooden-leg's hand," he remarked, as I mounted
up beside him. "You see the slight smudge of blood upon the white
plaster. What a lucky thing it is that we have had no very heavy
rain since yesterday! The scent will lie upon the road in spite of
their eight-and-twenty hours' start."
I confess that I had my doubts myself when I reflected upon the great
traffic which had passed along the London road in the interval. My
fears were soon appeased, however. Toby never hesitated or swerved,
but waddled on in his peculiar rolling fashion. Clearly, the pungent
smell of the creosote rose high above all other contending scents.
"Do not imagine," said Holmes, "that I depend for my success in this
case upon the mere chance of one of these fellows having put his foot
in the chemical. I have knowledge now which would enable me to trace
them in many different ways. This, however, is the readiest, and,
since fortune has put it into our hands, I should be culpable if I
neglected it. It has, however, prevented the case from becoming the
pretty little intellectual problem which it at one time promised to
be. There might have been some credit to be gained out of it but for
this too palpable clue."
"There is credit, and to spare," said I. "I assure you, Holmes, that
I marvel at the means by which you obtain your results in this case,
even more than I did in the Jefferson Hope murder. The thing seems
to me to be deeper and more inexplicable. How, for example, could
you describe with such confidence the wooden-legged man?"
"Pshaw, my dear boy! it was simplicity itself. I don't wish to be
theatrical. It is all patent and above-board. Two officers who are
in command of a convict-guard learn an important secret as to buried
treasure. A map is drawn for them by an Englishman named Jonathan
Small. You remember that we saw the name upon the chart in Captain
Morstan's possession. He had signed it in behalf of himself and his
associates--the sign of the four, as he somewhat dramatically called
it. Aided by this chart, the officers--or one of them--gets the
treasure and brings it to England, leaving, we will suppose, some
condition under which he received it unfulfilled. Now, then, why did
not Jonathan Small get the treasure himself? The answer is obvious.
The chart is dated at a time when Morstan was brought into close
association with convicts. Jonathan Small did not get the treasure
because he and his associates were themselves convicts and could not
get away."
"But this is mere speculation," said I.
"It is more than that. It is the only hypothesis which covers the
facts. Let us see how it fits in with the sequel. Major Sholto
remains at peace for some years, happy in the possession of his
treasure. Then he receives a letter from India which gives him a
great fright. What was that?"
"A letter to say that the men whom he had wronged had been set free."
"Or had escaped. That is much more likely, for he would have known
what their term of imprisonment was. It would not have been a
surprise to him. What does he do then? He guards himself against a
wooden-legged man--a white man, mark you, for he mistakes a white
tradesman for him, and actually fires a pistol at him. Now, only one
white man's name is on the chart. The others are Hindus or
Mohammedans. There is no other white man. Therefore we may say with
confidence that the wooden-legged man is identical with Jonathan
Small. Does the reasoning strike you as being faulty?"
"No; it is clear and concise."
"Well, now, let us put ourselves in the place of Jonathan Small. Let
us look at it from his point of view. He comes to England with the
double idea of regaining what he would consider to be his rights and
of having his revenge upon the man who had wronged him. He found out
where Sholto lived, and very possibly he established communications
with some one inside the house. There is this butler, Lal Rao, whom
we have not seen. Mrs. Bernstone gives him far from a good
character. Small could not find out, however, where the treasure was
hid, for no one ever knew, save the major and one faithful servant
who had died. Suddenly Small learns that the major is on his
death-bed. In a frenzy lest the secret of the treasure die with him,
he runs the gauntlet of the guards, makes his way to the dying man's
window, and is only deterred from entering by the presence of his two
sons. Mad with hate, however, against the dead man, he enters the
room that night, searches his private papers in the hope of
discovering some memorandum relating to the treasure, and finally
leaves a memento of his visit in the short inscription upon the card.
He had doubtless planned beforehand that should he slay the major he
would leave some such record upon the body as a sign that it was not
a common murder, but, from the point of view of the four associates,
something in the nature of an act of justice. Whimsical and bizarre
conceits of this kind are common enough in the annals of crime, and
usually afford valuable indications as to the criminal. Do you
follow all this?"
"Very clearly."
"Now, what could Jonathan Small do? He could only continue to keep a
secret watch upon the efforts made to find the treasure. Possibly he
leaves England and only comes back at intervals. Then comes the
discovery of the garret, and he is instantly informed of it. We
again trace the presence of some confederate in the household.
Jonathan, with his wooden leg, is utterly unable to reach the lofty
room of Bartholomew Sholto. He takes with him, however, a rather
curious associate, who gets over this difficulty, but dips his naked
foot into creosote, whence come Toby, and a six-mile limp for a
half-pay officer with a damaged tendo Achillis."
"But it was the associate, and not Jonathan, who committed the crime."
"Quite so. And rather to Jonathan's disgust, to judge by the way he
stamped about when he got into the room. He bore no grudge against
Bartholomew Sholto, and would have preferred if he could have been
simply bound and gagged. He did not wish to put his head in a
halter. There was no help for it, however; the savage instincts of
his companion had broken out, and the poison had done its work; so
Jonathan Small left his record, lowered the treasure-box to the
ground, and followed it himself. That was the train of events as far
as I can decipher them. Of course as to his personal appearance he
must be middle-aged, and must be sunburned after serving his time in
such an oven as the Andamans. His height is readily calculated from
the length of his stride, and we know that he was bearded. His
hairiness was the one point which impressed itself upon Thaddeus
Sholto when he saw him at the window. I don't know that there is
anything else."
"The associate?"
"Ah, well, there is no great mystery in that. But you will know all
about it soon enough. How sweet the morning air is! See how that
one little cloud floats like a pink feather from some gigantic
flamingo. Now the red rim of the sun pushes itself over the London
cloud-bank. It shines on a good many folk, but on none, I dare bet,
who is on a stranger errand than you and I. How small we feel with
our petty ambitions and strivings in the presence of the great
elemental forces of nature! Are you well up in your Jean Paul?"
"Fairly so. I worked back to him through Carlyle."
"That was like following the brook to the parent lake. He makes one
curious but profound remark. It is that the chief proof of a man's
real greatness lies in his perception of his own smallness. It
argues, you see, a power of comparison and of appreciation, which is
in itself a proof of nobility. There is much food for thought in
Richter. You have not a pistol, have you?"
"I have my stick."
"It is just possible that we may need something of the sort if we get
to their lair. Jonathan I shall leave to you, but if the other turns
nasty I shall shoot him dead." He took out his revolver as he spoke,
and, having loaded two of the chambers, he put it back into the
right-hand pocket of his jacket.
We had during this time been following the guidance of Toby down the
half-rural, villa-lined roads which lead to the metropolis. Now,
however, we were beginning to come among continuous streets, where
laborers and dockmen were already astir, and slatternly women were
taking down shutters and brushing doorsteps. At the square-topped
corner public-house business was just beginning, and rough-looking
men were emerging, rubbing their sleeves across their beards after
their morning wet. Strange dogs sauntered up, and stared wonderingly
at us as we passed, but our inimitable Toby looked neither to the
right nor to the left, but trotted onward with his nose to the ground
and an occasional eager whine, which spoke of a hot scent.
We had traversed Streatham, Brixton, Camberwell, and now found
ourselves in Kennington Lane, having borne away through the side
streets to the east of the Oval. The men whom we pursued seemed to
have taken a curiously zigzag road, with the idea probably of
escaping observation. They had never kept to the main road if a
parallel side street would serve their turn. At the foot of
Kennington Lane they had edged away to the left through Bond Street
and Miles Street. Where the latter street turns into Knight's Place,
Toby ceased to advance, but began to run backward and forward with
one ear cocked and the other drooping, the very picture of canine
indecision. Then he waddled round in circles, looking up to us from
time to time, as if to ask for sympathy in his embarrassment.
"What the deuce is the matter with the dog?" growled Holmes. "They
surely would not take a cab, or go off in a balloon."
"Perhaps they stood here for some time," I suggested.
"Ah! it's all right. He's off again," said my companion, in a tone
of relief.
He was indeed off; for, after sniffing round again, he suddenly made
up his mind, and darted away with an energy and determination such as
he had not yet shown. The scent appeared to be much hotter than
before, for he had not even to put his nose on the ground, but tugged
at his leash, and tried to break into a run. I could see by the
gleam in Holmes's eyes that he thought we were nearing the end of our
journey.
Our course now ran down Nine Elms until we came to Broderick and
Nelson's large timber-yard, just past the White Eagle tavern. Here
the dog, frantic with excitement, turned down through the side gate
into the enclosure, where the sawyers were already at work. On the
dog raced through sawdust and shavings, down an alley, round a
passage, between two wood-piles, and finally, with a triumphant yelp,
sprung upon a large barrel, which still stood upon the hand-trolley
on which it had been brought. With lolling tongue and blinking eyes,
Toby stood upon the cask, looking from one to the other of us for
some sign of appreciation. The staves of the barrel and the wheels
of the trolley were smeared with a dark liquid, and the whole air was
heavy with the smell of creosote.
Sherlock Holmes and I looked at each other, and then burst
simultaneously into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.