The Dancing Men

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One late morning near the end of July 1898, I was sitting in our living room at 221B Baker Street, thinking deeply. My friend and roommate, the famous detective Sherlock Holmes, was at his experiment table in the corner. He was studying a green, bad-smelling substance in a test tube.

"Watson," he said suddenly, "you are not going to invest your money in that South African gold mine."

I was very surprised. I knew my friend was good at making logical guesses, but I did not know he could read minds.

"How did you know that?" I asked.

He put his test tube on the rack and turned to face me. "Admit you're amazed," he said.

"I admit it," I replied.

"Good," he smiled, "because in five minutes you'll tell me it was all very simple. I work, Watson, by making a chain of small guesses, each one simple by itself. Then, by jumping to the end, I reach a conclusion that can seem surprising. I knew you had decided against investing in South African gold by looking at the groove between your left forefinger and thumb."

"I don’t understand," I said, looking at that part of my hand and shaking my head in confusion.

"Then I will show you how I figured it out," said Holmes. "First: you had chalk between your left finger and thumb when you came back from your club last night. Second: you use chalk when you play billiards to steady the cue. Third: you only play billiards with Thurston. Fourth: four weeks ago, you told me Thurston had asked if you wanted to join him in buying shares in a South African gold mine and gave you a month to decide. Fifth: your accounts book is locked in my drawer, and you haven’t asked for the key. Sixth: you’ve decided not to invest."

"How simple!" I exclaimed.

"Exactly," sighed Holmes. "Every problem seems simple once it is explained. Now, here’s something I can’t explain. What do you think of this, Watson?" He tossed a piece of paper onto the coffee table and went back to his test tube.

I frowned at the paper, which had been torn from a notebook. It showed a line of little stick figures in different 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 wants to know," said Holmes. "He is Mr. Hilton Cubitt of Ridling Thorpe Manor in Norfolk. It arrived in this morning’s mail, and he promised to come 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 man with pink cheeks and serious blue eyes came into 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 like strange mysteries, and I can’t think of one stranger than this.”

“At first glance,” said Holmes, “it looks like a childish prank. What I don’t understand is why you’re so worried about it.”

“I wouldn’t be,” said Cubitt, “except I’ve seen how it affects my wife. It’s scaring her terribly. She says nothing, but I can see the fear in her eyes. That’s why I need to find out what’s going on.”

“Maybe,” suggested Holmes, “it would be best if you told your story from the beginning.”