Sherlock Holmes - Sign of Four

All Family Resources - Read & Write

Chapter 5
HOME INDEX SEARCH EMAIL US

Chapter 5 - The Tragedy of Pondicherry Lodge

It was nearly eleven o'clock when we reached this final stage of our night's
adventures. We had left the damp fog of the great city behind us, and the night
was fairly fine. A warm wind blew from the westward, and heavy clouds moved
slowly across the sky, with half a moon peeping occasionally through the rifts. It
was clear enough to see for some distance, but Thaddeus Sholto took down one
of the sidelamps from the carriage to give us a better light upon our way.

Pondicherry Lodge stood in its own grounds and was girt round with a very high
stone wall topped with broken glass. A single narrow iron-clamped door formed
the only means of entrance. On this our guide knocked with a peculiar
postman-like rat-tat.

"Who is there?" cried a gruff voice from within.

"It is I, McMurdo. You surely know my knock by this time."

There was a grumbling sound and a clanking and jarring of keys. The door swung
heavily back, and a short, deep-chested man stood in the opening, with the yellow
light of the lantern shining upon his protruded face and twinkling, distrustful eyes.

"That you, Mr. Thaddeus? But who are the others? I had no orders about them
from the master."

"No, McMurdo? You surprise me! I told my brother last night that I should bring
some friends."

"He hain't been out o' his rooms to-day, Mr. Thaddeus, and I have no orders. You
know very well that I must stick to regula- tions. I can let you in, but your friends they
must just stop where they are."

This was an unexpected obstacle. Thaddeus Sholto looked about him in a
perplexed and helpless manner.

"This is too bad of you, McMurdo!" he said. "If I guarantee them, that is enough for
you. There is the young lady, too. She cannot wait on the pubiic road at this hour."

"Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus," said the porter inexorably. "Folk may be friends o'
yours, and yet no friend o' the master's. He pays me well to do my duty, and my
duty I'll do. I don't know none o' your friends."

"Oh, yes you do, McMurdo," cried Sherlock Holmes ge- nially. "I don't think you can
have forgotten me. Don't you remember that amateur who fought three rounds with
you at Alison's rooms on the night of your benefit four years back?"

"Not Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" roared the prize-fighter. "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.
Ah, you're one that has wasted your gifts, you have! You might have aimed high, if
you had joined the fancy."

"You see, Watson, if all else fails me, I have still one of the scientific professions
open to me," said Holmes, laughing. "Our friend won't keep us out in the cold now,
I am sure."

"In you come, sir, in you come -- you and your friends," he answered. "Very sorry,
Mr. Thaddeus, but orders are very strict. Had to be certain of your friends before I
let them in."

Inside, a gravel path wound through desolate grounds to a huge clump of a house,
square and prosaic, all plunged in shadow save where a moonbeam struck one
corner and glim- mered in a garret window. The vast size of the building, with its
gloom and its deathly silence, struck a chill to the heart. Even Thaddeus Sholto
seemed ill at ease, and the lantern quivered and rattled in his hand.

"I cannot understand it," he said. "There must be some mistake. I distinctly told
Bartholomew that we should be here, and yet there is no light in his window. I do
not know what to make of it."

"Does he always guard the premises in this way?" asked Holmes.

"Yes; he has followed my father's custom. He was the fa- vourite son you know,
and I sometimes think that my father may have told him more than he ever told me.
That is Bartholomew's window up there where the moonshine strikes. It is quite
bright, but there is no light from within, I think."

"None," said Holmes. "But I see the glint of a light in that little window beside the
door."

"Ah, that is the housekeeper's room. That is where old Mrs. Bernstone sits. She
can tell us all about it. But perhaps you would not mind waiting here for a minute or
two, for if we all go in together, and she has had no word of our coming, she may
be alarmed. But, hush! what is that?"

He held up the lantern, and his hand shook until the circles of light flickered and
wavered all round us. Miss Morstan seized my wrist, and we all stood, with
thumping hearts, straining our ears. From the great black house there sounded
through the silent night the saddest and most pitiful of sounds -- the shrill, broken
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."

He hurried, for the door and knocked in his peculiar way. We could see a tall old
woman admit him and sway with pleasure at the very sight of him.

"Oh, Mr. Thaddeus, sir, I am so glad you have come! I am so glad you have come,
Mr. Thaddeus, sir!"

We heard her reiterated rejoicings until the door was closed and her voice died
away into a muffled monotone.

Our guide had left us the lantern. Holmes swung it slowly round and peered keenly
at the house and at the great rubbish- heaps which cumbered the grounds. Miss
Morstan and I stood together, and her hand was in mine. A wondrous subtle thing
is love, for here were we two, who had never seen each other before that day,
between whom no word or even look of affec- tion had ever passed, and yet now
in an hour of trouble our hands instinctively sought for each other. I have marvelled
at it since, but at the time it seemed the most natural thing that I should go out to
her so, and, as she has often told me, there was in her also the instinct to turn to
me for comfort and protection. So we stood hand in hand like two children, and
there was peace in our hearts for all the dark things that surrounded us.

"What a strange place!" she said, looking round.

"It looks as though all the moles in England had been let loose in it. I have seen
something of the sort on the side of a hill near Ballarat, where the prospectors had
been at work."

"And from the same cause," said Holmes. "These are the traces of the
treasure-seekers. You must remember that they were six years looking for it. No
wonder that the grounds look like a gravel-pit. "

At that moment the door of the house burst open, and Thad- deus Sholto came
running out, with his hands thrown forward and terror in his eyes.

"There is something amiss with Bartholomew!" he cried. "I am frightened! My
nerves cannot stand it."

He was, indeed, half blubbering with fear, and his twitching, feeble face peeping
out from the great astrakhan collar had the helpless, appealing expression of a
terrified child.

"Come into the house," said Holmes in his crisp, firm way.

"Yes, do!" pleaded Thaddeus Sholto. "I really do not feel equal to giving
directions."

We all followed him into the housekeeper's room, which stood upon the lefthand
side of the passage. The old woman was pacing up and down with a scared look
and restless, picking fingers, but the sight of Miss Morstan appeared to have a
sooth- ing effect upon her.

"God bless your sweet, calm face!" she cried with a hysteri- cal sob. "It does me
good to see you. Oh, but I have been sorely tried this day!"

Our companion patted her thin, work-worn hand and mur- mured some few words
of kindly, womanly comfort which brought the colour back into the other's bloodless
cheeks.

"Master has locked himself in and will not answer me," she explained. "All day I
have waited to hear from him, for he often likes to be alone- but an hour ago I
feared that something was amiss, so I went up and peeped through the keyhole.
You must go up, Mr. Thaddeus -- you must go up and look for yourself. I have seen
Mr. Bartholomew Sholto in joy and in sorrow for ten long years, but I never saw him
with such a face on him as that."

Sherlock Holmes took the lamp and led the way, for Thaddeus Sholto's teeth were
chattering in his head. So shaken was he that I had to pass my hand under his arm
as we went up the stairs, for his knees were trembling under him. Twice as we
ascended, Holmes whipped his lens out of his pocket and carefully exam- ined
marks which appeared to me to be mere shapeless smudges of dust upon the
cocoanut-matting which served as a stair-carpet. He walked slowly from step to
step, holding the lamp low, and shooting keen glances to right and left. Miss
Morstan had re- mained behind with the frightened housekeeper.

The third flight of stairs ended in a straight passage of some length, with a great
picture in Indian tapestry upon the right of it and three doors upon the left. Holmes
advanced along it in the same slow and methodical way, while we kept close at
his heels, with our long black shadows streaming backward down the corridor.
The third door was that which we were seeking. Holmes knocked without receiving
any answer, and then tried to turn the handle and force it open. It was locked on the
inside, however, and by a broad and powerful bolt, as we could see when we set
our lamp up against it. The key being turned, however, the hole was not entirely
closed. Sherlock Holmes bent down to it and instantly rose again with a sharp
intaking of the breath.

"There is something devilish in this, Watson," said he, more moved than I had ever
before seen him. "What do you make of it?"

I stooped to the hole and recoiled in horror. Moonlight was streaming into the
room, and it was bright with a vague and shifty radiance. Looking straight at me
and suspended, as it were, in the air, for all beneath was in shadow, there hung a
face -- the very face of our companion Thaddeus. There was the same high,
shining head, the same circular bristle of red hair, the same bloodless
countenance. The features were set, however, in a horrible smile, a fixed and
unnatural grin, which in that still and moonlit room was more jarring to the nerves
than any scowl or contortion. So like was the face to that of our little friend that I
looked round at him to make sure that he was indeed with us. Then I recalled to
mind that he had mentioned to us that his brother and he were twins.

"This is terrible!" I said to Holmes. "What is to be done?"

"The door must come down," he answered, and springing against it, he put all his
weight upon the lock.

It creaked and groaned but did not yield. Together we flung ourselves upon it once
more, and this time it gave way with a sudden snap, and we found ourselves within
Bartholomew Sholto's chamber.

It appeared to have been fitted up as a chemical laboratory. A double line of
glass-stoppered bottles was drawn up upon the wall opposite the door, and the
table was littered over with Bunsen burners, test-tubes, and retorts. In the corners
stood carboys of acid in wicker baskets. One of these appeared to leak or to have
been broken, for a stream of dark-coloured liquid had trickled out from it, and the
air was heavy with a peculiarly pungent, tarlike odour. A set of steps stood at one
side of the room in the midst of a litter of lath and plaster, and above them there
was an opening in the ceiling large enough for a man to pass through. At the foot
of the steps a long coil of rope was thrown carelessly together.

By the table in a wooden armchair the master of the house was seated all in a
heap, with his head sunk upon his left shoulder and that ghastly, inscrutable smile
upon his face. He was stiff and cold and had clearly been dead many hours. It
seemed to me that not only his features but all his limbs were twisted and turned in
the most fantastic fashion. By his hand upon the table there lay a peculiar
instrument -- a brown, close-grained stick, with a stone head like a hammer, rudely
lashed on with coarse twine. Beside it was a torn sheet of note-paper with some
words scrawled upon it. Holmes glanced at it and then handed it to me.

''You see," he said with a significant raising of the eyebrows.

In the light of the lantern I read with a thrill of horror, "The sign of the four."

"In God's name, what does it all mean?" I asked.

"It means murder," said he, stooping over the dead man. "Ah! I expected it. Look
here!"

He pointed to what looked like a long dark thorn stuck in the skin just above the
ear.

"It looks like a thorn," said I.

"It is a thorn. You may pick it out. But be careful, for it is poisoned."

I took it up between my finger and thumb. It came away from the skin so readily
that hardly any mark was left behind. One tiny speck of blood showed where the
puncture had been.

"This is all an insoluble mystery to me," said I. "It grows darker instead of clearer."

"On the contrary," he answered, "it clears every instant. I only require a few
missing links to have an entirely connected case."

We had almost forgotten our companion's presence since we entered the
chamber. He was still standing in the doorway, the very picture of terror, wringing
his hands and moaning to him- self. Suddenly, however, he broke out into a sharp,
querulous cry.

"The treasure is gone!" he said. "They have robbed him of the treasure! There is
the hole through which we lowered it. I helped him to do it! I was the last person
who saw him! I left him here last night, and I heard him lock the door as I came
downstairs."

"What time was that?"

"It was ten o'clock. And now he is dead, and the police will be called in, and I shall
be suspected of having had a hand in it. Oh, yes, I am sure I shall. But you don't
think so, gentlemen? Surely you don't think that it was l? Is it likely that I would have
brought you here if it were l? Oh, dear! oh, dear! I know that I shall go mad!"

He jerked his arms and stamped his feet in a kind of convul- sive frenzy.

"You have no reason for fear, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes kindly, putting his hand
upon his shoulder; "take my advice and drive down to the station to report the
matter to the police. Offer to assist them in every way. We shall wait here until your
return."

The little man obeyed in a half-stupefied fashion, and we heard him stumbling
down the stairs in the dark.

Index  TOC Chapter 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

Adventures Novels Memoirs Last Bow Pictures

All Family Resources provides a collection of Sherlock Holmes written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle between 1887 and 1925.
(Absent are those in the Case Book of Sherlock Holmes (1927), which is still covered by copyright until January 1, 2003.)

© Layout and Design by All Family Resources 1999. All Rights Reserved.