Chapter Four
An hour later, we were back in our lodgings at 221B, Baker Street. Holmes was playing the violin in his room, while I smoked some tobacco in the sitting-room. There was a peal at the doorbell, many knocks, and Sherlock Holmes rushing into the room. “Watson, do you remember the Baker Street Irregulars?” he asked me.
“Of course,” I said, stifling a laugh as they came in and lined up. My friend was sterner than he usually was.
“Next time, Wiggins, they must report to you, and you alone are to come to me. Your usual pay and ten guineas to the boy who collects the most information.” said Holmes. “You must go to Upper Norwood. Sneak around and get every bit of information you can about a murder around there. Now, off with you!” They scurried out of the room like a bunch of mice. I could not help laughing after they left the room. “Holmes, do you have anything bearing on the case?” I asked.
“Yes, Watson. I checked with people in Norwood, and a cabby says that he saw a dark man with strong features near the house. Surely this cannot be the weak, young, and fair-haired Henry Brown? I think if we can identify him and his whereabouts, we can catch the murderer. The cabby also said that he could not see anything else because the man wore a bloodstained mask. ”
I was astonished to hear how quick the case was coming to an end. Holmes had fallen into one of those deep chains of thought from which you cannot rouse a man from until he has reached his object.
Suddenly, a loud knock roused Holmes. “Dear me, do I hear the knock of friend Gregson?” he said. Gregson came into the room. His face was white.
“Holmes, I sent a report out to all the ports. They’re blocked. Do you want to come with me to look over the crime again?” the fair-haired inspector asked.
“Of course I will. Watson, get your things ready.” In half an hour, we reached the little drab house. Holmes began inspecting the front lawn. “Aha!” he said, “I have a clear description of the man in five minutes.” Even to me, this was too much. “Holmes!” I yelled.
“My dear Watson, I will at present make you familiar with this man and how I reached him. I am pretty sure you will say ‘It is so simple’ at the end. He is six feet tall, about my height, and has square boots with nails on them. He has big hands and a long cloak. First of all, I deduced the height with my special method of calculating between two footprints. Second, I identified a footprint here which no one has noticed. It has square edges, and the marks of nails are visible. The hand size I know because he left a fingerprint right on the fence where nobody would think of looking. The fingerprint alone is huge. How big then, must be the hand? Finally, there is a long line behind every pair of footprints. This must be a long cloak that the criminal wears.” Holmes explained. Suddenly I was stupefied and saw how simple the explanation was.
“Why, it is so simple!” I said.
“Precisely, Watson. As I often say, you see, but do not observe.” replied Holmes with a warm tone. “Gregson, report this description to all the port-towns. I fear we are too late. Let us be quick.”
A few days later, Gregson came into our room. He looked gleeful. “Mr. Holmes, I have identified the criminal. He is Mr. John Sherman, who was one of the traitors to England in the Indian Mutiny. He was pardoned for his actions and was sent to work as a minor laborer in the army. Now, he has escaped and arrived here, where he has killed the poor Mr. Mortimer. I got a telegram from Bristol’s local sheriff. He said that the constables caught who looked exactly like your description of the criminal. He was immediately arrested and brought here. He is downstairs in a cab. I will bring him here.” Thus saying, Gregson went out of the room.
“Dear Me!” cried Holmes, “Friend Gregson has done quite some work. And, Watson, do not leave. We might need your help.” When he finished speaking, Gregson opened the door and introduced to us a tall, sunburnt man. His beard was very thick and shaggy. He wore a long cloak. His boots, I noticed, had nails on them. Most interesting was a little box in Gregson’s hand that he had obviously confiscated from the prisoner. It read:
‘Toxic: Use with care.’
Holmes spoke to the prisoner. “Mr. Sherman, I would like to hear your story. Please sit down and have a cigarette. Now, sir, tell me all that happened at four-fifty, at Num. 566 Hampton Road. Mind you, all that happened.” Sherman sat down and took the cigarette that Holmes offered him. Then, he began to tell his story.
Anay Ganesh 