Sherlock Holmes - Sign of Four

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Chapter 7

Chapter 7 - 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 someone weaker than herself to support, and I had
found her bright and placid by the side of the frightened housekeeper. ln the cab,
however, she first turned faint and then burst into a passion of weeping -- so sorely
had she been tried by the adven- tures 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 honourable, 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 dependant
but an honoured friend. I was introduced, and Mrs. Forrester earnestly begged me
to step in and tell her our adventures. I explained, however, the impor- tance 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-lit streets. There was the original problem: that at least was pretty clear
now. The death of Captain Morstan, the sending of the pearls, the adver- tisement,
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 of ever find- ing 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 upon 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, and I'll
drop it on your 'ead if you don't hook 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 slowworm. 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 at by the children, and
there's many a one just comes down this lane to knock 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 uncer- tain, 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

Toby proved to be an ugly, long-haired, lop-eared creature, half spaniel and half
lurcher, brown and white in colour, 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

"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 you particularly to notice these footmarks," 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 footmarks."

"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

"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

By the time that I got out into the grounds Sherlock Holmes was on the roof, and I
could see him like an enormous glow- worm 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.


"This is the place. What is that black thing down there?"

"A water-barrel."

"Top on it?"


"No sign of a ladder?"


"Confound the fellow! It's a most breakneck place. I ought to be able to come
down where he could climb up. The water-pipe feels pretty firm. Here goes,

There was a scuffling of 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 stock- ings 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
coloured 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

"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 handker- chief 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 ea- gerly, 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 wili 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 intellectuai 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 associa- tion 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 Hindoos 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 con- sider 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 someone in- side 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 deathbed. ln 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 win- dow, 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 valu- able
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 sun-
burned 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 are 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 man's real greatness lies in his
perception of his own small- ness. It argues, you see, a power of comparison and
of apprecia- tion 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 labourers and dockmen were already
astir, and slatternly women were taking down shutters and brushing door- steps. At
the square-topped corner public-houses 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 determi- nation 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, sprang 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 apprecia- tion.
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 blankly at each other and then burst simultaneously
into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

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All Family Resources provides a collection of Sherlock Holmes written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle between 1887 and 1925.
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