Chapter 4: In which we Encounter Some Peculiar Interior Design, which Suits its Inhabitant
Mary turned up at Baker Street at the appointed time on Friday. She never made it into the building; Sherlock had a cab waiting at the curb, and the three of them climbed in. Sherlock turned to the window; John turned to Mary to ask, "So, assuming there are more of these diamonds at the end of this, what are you going to do with your fortune?"
"I'll go back to California, buy some land up North, take in stray cats, raise sheep, collect rare books. Something like that."
"Boring," chimed in Sherlock.
"Yes, exactly," Mary said, looking pointedly in his direction. "I like boring. Boring is safe. A good kind of boring actually takes a lot of work."
The taxi stopped at the meeting point, and all three of them looked around. A man in a neat, clean suit stepped out of a large black car and walked over to the taxi. "Miss Morstan?"
"I'm Mary Morstan."
"Your friends – they aren't police, are they?"
"Not at all."
"You will all come with me."
Mary shrugged and looked at both of her companions. She took a deep breath, then exited the taxi, John and Sherlock behind her. The car drove on interminably. Sherlock named the streets under his breath, following their route in his mind. John tried to make small talk with Mary, but all three were distracted. She pulled out her wool, and knit to soothe herself. They eventually pulled up in front of a dull suburban home. The driver opened the door, and led them inside. "Mr. Sholto will see you in his study."
The study was a remarkable room, a parody of a nineteenth century gentleman's library, with heavy drapes, rich furniture, oak bookcases full of matching books, and game animal heads mounted around the walls. Mary blanched visibly when she saw the hunting trophies, then glanced toward the bookcase, for courage, and turned gamely to the man seated in the large overstuffed chair in the center of the room. She extended her hand and introduced herself, "I'm Mary Morstan."
Their host half-stood and extended his fingers in a limp imitation of a handshake. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Morstan. I'm Thaddeus Sholto. Please, be comfortable." Sholto, in a heavy brocade dressing-gown, matched the room. He drawled his words: "Your father and mine worked together in Africa. We should have met earlier, and under better circumstances."
He made a florid gesture in her direction and went on with his story. His tone and manner were affected and absurd; he spoke of his father as "Pater" and Nelson Mandela as "that terrorist." Their fathers had been friends in Angola and in South Africa; both had left South Africa in the early 90's. "Pater was his charming self, until the unfortunate incident between your father and the One-Legged Man. After that, he just hid himself away."
Mary interrupted the flow of Thaddeus's story to ask, "My father and the One-Legged Man?"
"Well, he killed him, didn't he? The One-Legged Man, I mean. He killed your father, and that frightened mine." Thaddeus was peeved by her interruption, and returned to his narrative. Mary looked down at her hands, blinking rapidly.
John was irked: "And this is how you tell her that her father is dead?"
"It's OK, John. I always assumed as much." Her words were calm, but her voice was a little deflated.
Thaddeus was gratified by Mary's intervention. After giving John a dirty look, he picked up the thread of his story. "Of course, you can imagine how terrible it all was for old Pater. He assumed the One-Legged Man would come for him next, so he just hid himself away. First it was iron gates, then those horrid CCTV cameras. Completely break up the roofline. I hate to see good English architecture marred by faddish technology. That wasn't enough, then. He hired bodyguards. My Pater spends his life spreading civilisation 'round the world, and ends his days like a prisoner in his own home."
While Sholto talked on, John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glancing at Mary. Her face was calm, composed; she showed neither anxiety or excitement or even the annoyance John himself was feeling. She gripped her hands in her lap in a way that made him think she was missing her knitting needles. Otherwise, she was completely still.
Thaddeus was enjoying himself: "When Pater finally did die, brother Bartholomew and I were both there. Pater tried to tell us the story, but he was incoherent – the drugs, I suppose. In one of his lucid moments, he unwrapped a handkerchief on the bed to show us all the sparklers, told us there were more where those came from. Dear old Pater died before he could tell us where they were, didn't he?"
No one answered his rhetorical question, so Thaddeus sighed and brought them up to date. "Well, Brother Bartholomew and I quarreled. He wanted to search for the treasure chest, and I wanted to find you" – he gestured at Mary – "I felt a sense of noblesse oblige, don't you know."
"And that's when you started sending me the stones," Mary prompted him.
"Yes, I sent them one at a time because I thought it best not to draw too much attention. But I do believe brother Bartholomew has found the treasure at long last. I've tried to persuade him that we should divide the claim with you, but he is … reluctant. We're supposed to meet to discuss the matter tonight."
Finally, Sherlock could no longer bear to sit still. "So, you expect us to go with you and - what, steal – the treasure from your brother? We are not hired thugs."
"I'm not interested in being a hired thug," Mary chimed in. John smiled, a little, thinking of her as an unlikely thug. She seemed to accept the idea pretty readily, though, and warmed to it. "I will not break into your brother's house, or – fight anyone –"
Sholto made a dismissive gesture. "No, no, nothing like that. I merely think we might be more confident if we go as a group. Safety in numbers, is all."
Mary glanced at John and Sherlock. It was clear that she was willing to go along. Sherlock and John were game, and the three of them stood up. "Now, then?" Mary prompted Sholto, who heaved himself from his easy chair and called for the driver.