IV
Sherlock Holmes found that the tense quiet of the assembly hall made it more difficult to concentrate than the chaotic streets he had recently traveled in the company of his associate, John Watson. He marveled at the pursed lips and furrowed brows of the frustrated businessmen. In fact, he was certain that never before in his life had he seen so many identical expressions of worry and concentration.
Watson's, apparently, was no exception. The creases in his forehead were so unusually pronounced that Holmes supposed they gave his face the odd, uneven texture of a corrugated rooftop. Himself, he felt no real dissatisfaction with the loss of the ship or, more importantly, its valuable cargo. Perhaps were he not fortunate enough to enjoy the generosity of numerous anonymous benefactors, he might share some of their concern. But this was not the case; and even if it were, he decided, he would not be bothered by something as natural and ordinary as a shipwreck. Accidents of the natural variety happened every day. Nature and fate combined to instigate them. There was no real culprit, or—in any case—the culprit was a blind and guiltless one: water, wind, gravity, buoyancy, et cetera. Who could blame the sea for sinking ships?
Watson looked at him pointedly, which he recognized as his cue to speak. He stood up to address the assembly, flinching involuntarily as all the distressed faces turned toward him. "Well, sirs," he began, "I do feel rather like Moses would have felt in this moment." He chuckled, though Watson only shook his head in silent, if unsurprised, disapproval. "Might you all be looking to me for your deliverance? Do you suppose—and you should suppose, and I believe the cleverest among you have indeed alreadysupposed—that I have a plan? Well sirs, I do. Believe me I do. I not only have it, sirs; I have even written it down. And naturally I disclosed its contents to my good friend, Mr. John H. Watson, who will recite it to you presently." He promptly returned to his seat, grinning with an unbearable smugness, and watched as Watson fretted with the buttons of his coat, his expression blank and petrified.
"I—you see, I've made—or, rather, Mr. Holmes has made a few—er—a few cursory calculations, to the effect that…that—." His honest unpreparedness was delightful.
"Do speak up, Watson," called Sherlock from his seat.
"Well the figures suggest, gentlemen, that it would be in our best interest to finance an additional expedition—a salvaging expedition—to recover the lost goods in Bermuda. The plans are already underway. A sizable faction of investors has already contracted a crew of sailors," he bluffed, "and now the one remaining question—which is not the decisive question, but is nevertheless a relevant one—is who among you believes that he stands to profit from this voyage?"
Sherlock stood up quickly and joined Watson in the nave. He noted his companion's flushed face and uncertain expression, and he congratulated himself for the successful implementation of a plan he had assembled only extemporaneously. Surely only a handful of investors would participate; the appeal was convincing, but not quite convincing enough.
"Yes, gentlemen," said Sherlock, "Mr. Watson is right. I would stake my reputation as a respected game theorist"—he smirked at Watson—"on the success of this voyage."
Sherlock directed the subsequent gaggle of questions to Watson and, meanwhile, allowed his thoughts to wander. Already he had discovered an odd coincidence from which his mind could not fully withdraw. He clung to it, desperate for another clue. These murders had become so personal that no territory of his life was exempt from investigation; no coincidence, however removed, could pass unremarked upon and unexamined.
This coincidence, surely, was a telling one. Bermuda—the Bermuda what?—somewhere faint in his consciousness, he felt a keen awareness of a connection that had not yet been forged, of a future revelation that had not yet reached him. He considered the geography, the mystery, and the notoriety of the region; what set it apart? Where was its apex, its boundary? He imagined a globe populated with earth's continents; these were familiar to him: the shapes of the landmasses, the coastlines, the sprawling Atlantic. He fought to perceive something utterly incomprehensible, something dream-like and formless; and then he replaced these dreams with numbers, with coordinates, and followed one set to the other with a logic that utilized newspaper clippings and vague recollections of anecdotes, disasters, and disreputable histories. This place that drove men crazy, that provoked nature, incurred her wrath—what was it? What defined it?
He gasped, and quite a few men paused to stare at him, their expressions nervous and hesitant. They waited for him to speak or to correct them, assuming that his peculiar outburst foretold criticism or disapproval. But he said only, "A triangle!" and stood up, pinching the bridge of his nose and pacing along the aisle. "A triangle!" he declared.
In a moment, Watson was at his side. He reached for his arm to still him, but the pacing continued unabated. "Holmes," said Watson, "Holmes, please stop murmuring. Stop. Stop moving, Holmes. Stop it—you're carrying on like a madman."
And just as suddenly as he had begun, Sherlock Holmes stopped and stood perfectly still. This paroxysm of enlightenment—an epiphany, a restoration of reason to remedy his confusion and frustration—passed through him in an instant, and left him bewildered, frightened and defeated.
"Watson," he said, his eyes unfocused and shadowed with dread. "Watson, I believe I am a madman."
There was an audible stirring in the assembly hall. Men who had overheard turned toward those who hadn't, and the volume of the whispering rose exponentially, until before long someone shouted, "He's mad! Forget it, you fools. He's mad!" There was laughter, half-hearted protest, heads shaking, lips once again pursed, foreheads furrowed ("He's mad", "he's mad", "he's mad"); Watson's eyes had swelled to the size of dinner plates; his mouth hung open in disbelief. He watched as the investors rose from their seats, clamored toward the exits, spoke of "cutting losses" and "selling shares."
"You have so much to gain," he insisted. "You have so much! Just wait—just look at the figures—just—". But it was quite obviously of no use. The room emptied. He seated himself beside Sherlock, his head buried in his hands, hair mussed and face void of expression.
"Do you think," said Watson, "that you can explain yourself, Holmes? Because I would very much like that. I really would."