1 A Child’s Drawing

ThE DancinG MEN

Chapter 1 A Child's Drawing It was late one morning toward the end of July 1898, and I was seated in our sitting room at 221B Baker Street deep in thought. My friend and roommate, the famous detective Sherlock Holmes, was at his experimenting table in the corner, studying some green, foul-smelling substance in a test-tube. "So, Watson," he said suddenly, "you do not plan to put your money into that South African

gold mine." I gave a start of astonishment. I knew of my friend's ability to make logical leaps, but I had no idea his talents extended to mind reading. "How on earth did you know that?" I asked. He placed his test-tube on the rack and turned on his stool to face me. "Admit you're amazed," he said. "I admit it." "Good," he smiled, "because in five minutes you'll tell me it was all absurdly simple. I work, Watson, by building a chain of small deductions, each one simple by itself. Then, by jumping to the end, I reach a conclusion that can seem startling. It was by studying the groove between your left forefinger and thumb that I knew you had decided against investing in South African gold." "I don't see the connection," I said, gazing at that part of my hand and shaking my head in confusion. "Then I will show you my chain of observations and deductions," said Holmes. "One: you had chalk between your left finger and

thumb when you returned from your club last night. Two: you put chalk there when you play billiards to steady the cue. Three: you never play billiards except with Thurston. Four: you told me four weeks ago that Thurston had asked if you wanted to join him in buying shares in a South African gold mine and had given you a month to decide. Five: your accounts book is locked in my drawer and you haven't asked for the key. Six: you've decided not to invest." "How absurdly simple!" I cried.

"Quite so," sighed Holmes. "Every problem becomes absurdly simple once you have to explain it. Now here's one I can't explain. What do you make of this, Watson?" He tossed a piece of paper onto the coffee table and returned his attention to his test-tube. I frowned at the paper, which had been torn from a notebook. It showed a line of little stick men in various poses. "Why, it's just a child's drawing," I said. "Oh, do you think so?" "What else could it be?" "That is what the man who sent it to me is anxious to know," said Holmes. "He is Mr. Hilton Cubitt of Ridling Thorpe Manor in Norfolk. It arrived in this morning's post, and he promised to arrive himself by the next train... Ah, there's the doorbell now. I wouldn't be surprised if that was him."

There was a heavy step on the stairs, and a moment later a tall, pink-cheeked gentleman with earnest blue eyes entered the room. After shaking our hands, he noticed the paper on the table. "What do you think, Mr. Holmes?" he asked. "I've heard you're fond of peculiar mysteries, and I can't think of one more peculiar than that." "At first sight," said Holmes, "it strikes me as a childish prank. What I don't understand is why you're so worried about it." "I wouldn't be," said Cubitt, "only I've seen its effect on my wife. It's frightening her half to