Chapter Chapter 7 · 第7章

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 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

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-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 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 of 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 my 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 vagabone,” 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 the

bag, an’ 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 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 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 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 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 door-step, 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 re-ascended the stairs. The room

was as he 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 creasote. 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 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 wood-work? I

shall stay 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 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.

“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 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 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 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 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 creasote 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 grey 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 creasote 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 that 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 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 momento 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

creasote, whence comes 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 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 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

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 onwards 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 backwards and forwards 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, 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

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 creasote.

Sherlock Holmes and I looked blankly at each other, and then burst

simultaneously into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.