“The main thing with people of that sort,” said Holmes, as we sat in the sheets of the wherry, “is never to let them think that their information can be of the slightest importance to you. If you do they will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them under protest, as it were, you are very likely to get what you want.”
“Our course now seems pretty clear,” said I.
“What would you do, then?”
“I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of the Aurora.”
“My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. She may have touched at any wharf on either side of the stream between here and Greenwich.158 Below the bridge159 there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places for miles. It would take you days and days to exhaust them, if you set about it alone.”
London Bridge (ca. 1890).
Victorian and Edwardian London
“Employ the police, then.”
“No. I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the last moment. He is not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything which would injure him professionally. But I have a fancy for working it out myself, now that we have gone so far.”
“Could we advertise, then, asking for information from wharfingers?”160
“Worse and worse! Our men would know that the chase was hot at their heels, and they would be off out of the country. As it is, they are likely enough to leave, but as long as they think they are perfectly safe they will be in no hurry. Jones’s energy will be of use to us there, for his view of the case is sure to push itself into the daily press, and the runaways will think that everyone is off on the wrong scent.”161
“What are we to do, then?” I asked, as we landed near Millbank Penitentiary.162
“Take this hansom, drive home, have some breakfast, and get an hour’s sleep. It is quite on the cards that we may be afoot to-night again. Stop at a telegraph office, cabby! We will keep Toby, for he may be of use to us yet.”
We pulled up at the Great Peter Street163 Post-Office, and Holmes despatched his wire.
“Whom do you think that is to?” he asked, as we resumed our journey.
“I am sure I don’t know.”
“You remember the Baker Street division of the detective police force whom I employed in the Jefferson Hope case?”
“Well?” said I, laughing.
“This is just the case where they might be invaluable. If they fail I have other resources; but I shall try them first. That wire was to my dirty little lieutenant, Wiggins,164 and I expect that he and his gang will be with us before we have finished our breakfast.”
It was between eight and nine o’clock now, and I was conscious of a strong reaction after the successive excitements of the night. I was limp and weary, befogged in mind and fatigued in body. I had not the professional enthusiasm which carried my companion on, nor could I look at the matter as a mere abstract intellectual problem. As far as the death of Bartholomew Sholto went, I had heard little good of him and could feel no intense antipathy to his murderers. The treasure, however, was a different matter. That, or part of it, belonged rightfully to Miss Morstan. While there was a chance of recovering it I was ready to devote my life to the one object. True, if I found it, it would probably put her forever beyond my reach. Yet it would be a petty and selfish love which would be influenced by such a thought as that. If Holmes could work to find the criminals, I had a tenfold stronger reason to urge me on to find the treasure.
A bath at Baker Street and a complete change freshened me up wonderfully. When I came down to our room165 I found the breakfast laid and Holmes pouring out the coffee.
“Here it is,” said he, laughing and pointing to an open newspaper. “The energetic Jones and the ubiquitous reporter have fixed it up between them. But you have had enough of the case. Better have your ham and eggs first.”
I took the paper from him and read the short notice, which was headed “Mysterious Business at Upper Norwood.”
About twelve o’clock last night [said the Standard],166 Mr. Bartholomew Sholto, of Pondicherry Lodge, Upper Norwood, was found dead in his room under circumstances which point to foul play. As far as we can learn, no actual traces of violence were found upon Mr. Sholto’s person, but a valuable collection of Indian gems which the deceased gentleman had inherited from his father has been carried off. The discovery was first made by Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, who had called at the house with Mr. Thaddeus Sholto, brother of the deceased. By a singular piece of good fortune, Mr. Athelney Jones, the well-known member of the detective police force, happened to be at the Norwood police station and was on the ground within half an hour of the first alarm. His trained and experienced faculties were at once directed towards the detection of the criminals, with the gratifying result that the brother, Thaddeus Sholto, has already been arrested, together with the housekeeper, Mrs. Bernstone, an Indian butler named Lal Rao, and a porter, or gatekeeper, named McMurdo. It is quite certain that the thief or thieves were well acquainted with the house, for Mr. Jones’s well-known technical knowledge and his powers of minute observation have enabled him to prove conclusively that the miscreants could not have entered by the door or by the window but must have made their way across the roof of the building, and so through a trap-door into a room which communicated with that in which the body was found. This fact, which has been very clearly made out, proves conclusively that it was no mere haphazard burglary. The prompt and energetic action of the officers of the law shows the great advantage of the presence on such occasions of a single vigorous and masterful mind. We cannot but think that it supplies an argument to those who would wish to see our detectives more de-centralized,167 and so brought into closer and more effective touch with the cases which it is their duty to investigate.
“Isn’t it gorgeous!” said Holmes, grinning over his coffee cup. “What do you think of it?”
“I think that we have had a close shave ourselves of being arrested for the crime.”
“So do I. I wouldn’t answer for our safety now, if he should happen to have another of his attacks of energy.”
At this moment there was a loud ring at the bell, and I could hear Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, raising her voice in a wail of expostulation and dismay.
“By heavens, Holmes,” said I, half-rising, “I believe that they are really after us.”
“No, it’s not quite so bad as that. It is the unofficial force—the Baker Street irregulars.”168
As he spoke, there came a swift pattering of naked feet upon the stairs, a clatter of high voices, and in rushed a dozen dirty and ragged little street Arabs. There was some show of discipline among them, despite their tumultuous entry, for they instantly drew up in line and stood facing us with expectant faces. One of their number, taller and older than the others,169 stood forward with an air of lounging superiority which was very funny in such a disreputable little scarecrow.
“Got your message, sir,” said he, “and brought ’em on sharp. Three bob and a tanner170 for tickets.”
“Here you are,” said Holmes, producing some silver. “In future they can report to you, Wiggins, and you to me. I cannot have the house invaded in this way.171 However, it is just as well that you should all hear the instructions. I want to find the whereabouts of a steam launch called the Aurora, owner Mordecai Smith, black with two red streaks, funnel black with a white band. She is down the river somewhere. I want one boy to be at Mordecai Smith’s landing-stage opposite Millbank to say if the boat comes back. You must divide it out among yourselves and do both banks thoroughly. Let me know the moment you have news. Is that all clear?”
“Yes, guv’nor,” said Wiggins.
“The old scale of pay, and a guinea to the boy who finds the boat. Here’s a day in advance. Now, off you go!”
He handed them a shilling each, and away they buzzed down the stairs, and I saw them a moment later streaming down the street.
“If the launch is above water they will find her,” said Holmes as he r
ose from the table and lit his pipe. “They can go everywhere, see everything, overhear everyone. I expect to hear before evening that they have spotted her. In the meanwhile, we can do nothing but await results. We cannot pick up the broken trail until we find either the Aurora or Mr. Mordecai Smith.”
“Toby could eat these scraps, I dare say. Are you going to bed, Holmes?”
“. . . and away they buzzed down the stairs . . .”
Richard Gutschmidt, Das Zeichen der Vier (Stuttgart: Robert Lutz Verlag, 1902)
“No; I am not tired. I have a curious constitution. I never remember feeling tired by work, though idleness exhausts me completely. I am going to smoke and to think over this queer business to which my fair client has introduced us. If ever man had an easy task, this of ours ought to be. Wooden-legged men are not so common, but the other man must, I should think, be absolutely unique.”
“That other man again!”
“I have no wish to make a mystery of him to you, anyway. But you must have formed your own opinion. Now, do consider the data. Diminutive footmarks, toes never fettered by boots, naked feet, stone-headed wooden mace, great agility, small poisoned darts. What do you make of all this?”
“A savage!”172 I exclaimed. “Perhaps one of those Indians who were the associates of Jonathan Small.”
“Hardly that,” said he. “When first I saw signs of strange weapons, I was inclined to think so; but the remarkable character of the footmarks caused me to reconsider my views. Some of the inhabitants of the Indian Peninsula are small men, but none could have left such marks as that. The Hindoo proper has long and thin feet. The sandal-wearing Mohammedan has the great toe well separated from the others, because the thong is commonly passed between. These little darts, too, could only be shot in one way. They are from a blow-pipe. Now, then, where are we to find our savage?”
“They can go everywhere, see everything, overhear everyone.”
De Fryas Tecken (Stockholm: Aftonbladets Tryckerj, 1928)
“South America,” I hazarded.
He stretched his hand up and took down a bulky volume from the shelf.
“This is the first volume of a gazetteer which is now being published. It may be looked upon as the very latest authority.173 What have we here? ‘Andaman Islands, situated 340 miles to the north of Sumatra, in the Bay of Bengal.’ Hum! hum! What’s all this? ‘Moist climate, coral reefs, sharks, Port Blair,174 convict barracks, Rutland Island, cottonwoods’—Ah, here we are! ‘The aborigines of the Andaman Islands may perhaps claim the distinction of being the smallest race upon this earth, though some anthropologists prefer the Bushmen of Africa, the Digger Indians of America,175 and the Tierra del Fuegians.176 The average height is rather below four feet, although many full-grown adults may be found who are very much smaller than this. They are a fierce, morose, and intractable people, though capable of forming most devoted friendships when their confidence has once been gained.’ Mark that, Watson. Now, then listen to this.
“ ‘They are naturally hideous, having large, misshapen heads, small, fierce eyes, and distorted features. Their feet and hands, however, are remarkably small. So intractable and fierce are they, that all the efforts of the British officials have failed to win them over in any degree. They have always been a terror to shipwrecked crews, braining the survivors with their stone-headed clubs or shooting them with their poisoned arrows. These massacres are invariably concluded by a cannibal feast.’ Nice, amiable people, Watson!177 If this fellow had been left to his own unaided devices, this affair might have taken an even more ghastly turn. I fancy that, even as it is, Jonathan Small would give a good deal not to have employed him.”
“But how came he to have so singular a companion?”
“Ah, that is more than I can tell. Since, however, we had already determined that Small had come from the Andamans, it is not so very wonderful that this islander should be with him. No doubt we shall know all about it in time. Look here, Watson; you look regularly done. Lie down there on the sofa, and see if I can put you to sleep.”
He took up his violin from the corner, and as I stretched myself out he began to play some low, dreamy, melodious air—his own, no doubt, for he had a remarkable gift for improvisation. I have a vague remembrance of his gaunt limbs, his earnest face, and the rise and fall of his bow. Then I seemed to be floated peacefully away upon a soft sea of sound, until I found myself in dreamland, with the sweet face of Mary Morstan looking down upon me.
“Miss Morstan.”
Artist unknown, Sherlock Holmes Series, Vol. I (New York & London: Harper & Bros., 1904)
155 “… of Belmont Place, Prince’s Street and Broad Street there was no trace,” Charles Merriman reports. Prince’s Street, explains Bernard Davies, “survives as the eastern half of Black Prince Road, Lambeth, but Belmont Place is, alas, no more. It was, however, a similar row of buildings opposite Knight’s Place at the corner of Nine Elms Lane, long since rebuilt.” There is a gap in Watson’s account, Davies notes, between Belmont Place, which the correct trail evidently passed, and Prince’s Street. The actual route may have involved the re-crossing of Kennington Lane and then a detour, “possibly via Tyers Street, until the riverside pier was reached ‘at the end of Broad Street’” (which Davies identifies as now Black Prince Road, West).
156 Not a beverage—this is carbonised coal, used as a fuel in furnaces.
157 A light row-boat, pointed at both ends.
158 Greenwich is situated on the Thames, about six miles below London Bridge, and was the site of a culinary rite of spring known as the Whitebait Dinner, celebrated by Cabinet Ministers and other Government members on or around Trinity Sunday (a week after Whitsunday, the seventh Sunday or fiftieth day after Easter) at the Ship tavern, the West India Dock Tavern, or the Trafalgar Tavern. Whitebait, a form of herring, is not much more than an inch in length and was considered a great delicacy, to be eaten with cayenne pepper, lemon juice, brown bread and butter, and fine hock (white Rhine wine, or Hochheimer). As the consumption of hock began to overshadow that of whitebait, administrations condemned the dinner’s excess, and it was cancelled, sometimes for whole decades, but kept being resumed as the urge arose again. William Gladstone is reputed to have done away with the bacchanalia more than once, and then for good between 1892 and 1894, but ministerial revellers demanded its reinstatement in 1895.
159 Mordecai Smith’s house was between Vauxhall Bridge and Lambeth Bridge, and while “below the bridge” seems to refer to the stretch of the river between Lambeth Bridge and Greenwich, in casually referring to “the bridge,” Holmes probably meant London Bridge, the last bridge in the metropolis (until the Tower Bridge opened in 1894).
160 Wharf owners.
161 After a short delay, Holmes took Watson’s suggestion without acknowledging the source. See note 182, below.
162 Millbank Penitentiary stood on seven acres on the north bank of the Thames, near Vauxhall Bridge, between Chelsea and Westminster. Built from designs by philosopher-jurist Jeremy Bentham (1748–1832) and described variously as round, octagonal, and shaped like a six-point star, the building’s design grew out of Bentham’s invention of the 24-hour Panopticon surveillance system, wherein prisoners would ideally internalise the guards’ all-seeing eye as their own private behaviour monitor. Most of the Millbank population, which included women, was destined for Australian deportation. Prisoners observed complete and utter silence and wore strangely designed caps pulled down over half their faces, which prevented them from seeing others or being looked at in the eye. They made shoes and mail bags, a reflection of Bentham’s belief that industry led to social rehabilitation. The prison was torn down sometime between 1890 and 1903, and the site now houses the Tate Collection (Tate Britain). Peter Mark Roget, author of the famous Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases (1852), was a physician at the Penitentiary in 1823.
163 In the south of Westminster. This seems somewhat out of the way for Holmes and Watson, headed homeward to the north-west, but perhap
s traffic considerations made it convenient.
164 How exactly does one address a telegram to a “street Arab,” so as to effect delivery?
165 Christopher Morley notes that this remark suggests that Dr. Watson’s bedroom was on an upper floor. Other commentators place Holmes’s bed-chamber adjoining the sitting room. Alternatively, the bath could have been on the floor above. See this editor’s “Layout of a ‘Most Desirable Residence.’ ”
166 Evidently the Standard was taken regularly by the lodgers, for Watson’s scrapbooks contained clippings from it (see A Study in Scarlet, note 166 and accompanying text).
167 It is unclear what the author of the comment is addressing. The Detective Department of the Metropolitan Police, founded in 1842, was initially composed of two inspectors and six sergeants, dressed in civilian clothes. When, in 1878, the corruption of its three chief inspectors was exposed, it was reorganised into the “Criminal Investigation Department.” (The term “Scotland Yard,” the name for police headquarters, is often used when only the CID itself is meant.) For no discernible reason, the police’s criminal investigation unit is referred to as the CID only in “The Mazarin Stone,” “The Three Garridebs,” and here (the former two taking place after the turn of the century). In all other cases, Holmes prefers “the Yard.” While the CID had its central office in Scotland Yard, officers of the department were placed in the various divisions of the district, and officers of the detective department travelled everywhere in the performance of their various duties, including to foreign states and the colonies, as needed. Thus it may be said that by 1888, the CID was already “de-centralized.”
168 The “Baker Street boys,” or “Baker Street irregulars,” notwithstanding their near-mythic status, are mentioned only in A Study in Scarlet (see text accompanying note 179, above), The Sign of Four, and “The Crooked Man.” Cartwright, who assisted Holmes in The Hound of the Baskervilles (see text accompanying note 75, below), was not a street Arab but a District Messenger. Those irregulars who are named are Wiggins (A Study in Scarlet and here) and Simpson (“The Crooked Man”).
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