Two Plus Two
By Phil Growick
First appeared in the MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Volume III.
Phil Growick, who conceived and curated The Art of Sherlock Holmes, is also the author of two Sherlock Holmes novels: The Secret Journal of Dr. Watson, and its sequel, The Revenge of Sherlock Holmes. One of his short stories, Two Plus Two, also appears here. Though retired from his previous career in the happy world of advertising, he currently serves as the Chairman of Art In Public Places for the City of West Palm Beach and serves in an advisory capacity for several of the city’s departments. He is especially involved with the city’s Homeless Task Force.
Vicki Siegel is an America contemporary artist known for her mixed media works that unite painting and photography together. By combining these mediums, she creates images that merge her fascination with humanity, nature, and the environment, with the physicality of paint. Vicki Siegel grew up in both New York City and Chicago, attending the University of Illinois, Urbana, (BFA), and continued with Master of Fine Art course work, focusing on photography, at Tyler School of Art, Rome. She worked as an art director and later creative director in advertising in Milan, Chicago, and S. Florida. Siegel’s work is widely exhibited and collected. She is a fulltime working artist, with a studio in Delray Beach, Florida. Along with her studio practice, she instructs painting, conducts painting workshops, speaks to art groups and juries shows.
Artwork size: 40” × 30”
Medium: Acrylic and archival pigment inks
“Watson, how much is two plus two”
The question was so odd and abruptly put that for the moment, I stammered.
Holmes and I had been sitting quite comfortably that morning, the eleventh of June, in our rooms, I, reading the morning Times, and Holmes lying on his sofa, in his usual state of morning dishevelment, just staring at the ceiling.
“Pardon me,” I was finally able to utter, “could you please repeat that?”
“Certainly. How much is two plus two?”
Knowing Holmes, as much as any person could know Sherlock Holmes, I immediately judged this question to be one of some impenetrable import.
Why would Holmes, with his Olympian intellect, ask such a seemingly foolish question? No, therefore it could not be foolish, and if not foolish, then it must have some profound meaning.
The silence in the room began to weigh heavily, as a hostile humidity in a tropical clime, only abated by Holmes’s soft puffs of his pipe.
As my mind spun the possible permutations of a solution to this riddle, Holmes turned his head just so to glance at me, gauge my predicament, and returned it to its former position, transfixed at the ceiling.
If I answered the obvious, “Why, four, of course,” I might be the recipient of one of Holmes’s more biting barbs, such as, “Oh, really? Are you quite positive, Watson? Have you delved into your Hippocratic method to deduce that answer?”
But if I said nothing, I would appear even more trivial to Holmes. A man of my profession and standing in the community not able to answer a question that a child of six could exclaim most readily? I had to say something, so I did.
“Oh, no, Holmes; you shall not dally with me in such manner.”
“Dally? Dally?” He had turned his head full round to my direction, his eyes though soft, still intense in their waiting for my explanation. “In what manner do I dally with you, Watson? Please explain yourself.” His head went back to studying the ceiling.
“Holmes, you have given me the simplest of questions which only leads me to suspect a conundrum.”
“A conundrum?” He chuckled. “Why, Watson, if I were to make present of a conundrum to you, it would be one of such an intricate nature that I, myself, would find it difficult to puzzle through, for were I to present you with such a conundrum, it would merely be me only listening to myself to hear me through my seminal solution.”
Even for Holmes, that last statement was a conundrum in itself. The logic of his utterance was lost to me completely, which left me, once again, being coerced into giving him some sort of an answer.
“All right, Holmes; all right. The answer to your question of how much is two plus two, is, plainly, four.” I found that I had raised myself from my chair with my arms pushing unknowingly against the arm-rests and upon the expulsion of my answer, I fell, somewhat heavily, back into my seat. He looked at me once more.
“Four. Are you absolutely positive, Watson? Is there not an iota of apprehension in your posit?”
“No; not one. Two plus two is most certainly four. It has always been four and it shall, until the end of time, be four.”
And then I paused for a moment as I heard myself say, “What other possible response could there be?”
Holmes leapt to his feet as suddenly as if he had been stung by a bee in his buttocks, pointed a nicotine-stained index finger at me and shouted, “You see? Watson, you’ve just opened your mind to the possibility of there being another answer.”
“I did no such thing.”
He advanced towards me with a self-satisfied grin that recalled a child who had eaten forbidden treats without his parents’ suspicion.
“Did you not, just a moment ago, ask if there might be some other possible answer?”
I stammered.
Holmes twirled round in so graceful a manner that would do a ballet dancer proud and reclined himself once again on his sofa, eyes once again studying the celling for perhaps some hidden and eternal truths.
“You stammer, Watson, yet you will not admit that you suspect that somewhere in the cosmos there may be another solution to this very simple question.”
“It was merely a figure of speech, Holmes. I did not mean to suggest that there could be any other possible answer. Two plus two must be four.”
“Must it?”
“Of course, it must. I’ll prove it to you.”
With that, I begged him turn his head in my direction as I borrowed some matchsticks from the area in which he kept his pipes and their attendant accessories and proceeded to put two matches down, then another two, counting as I went till I had come to the number four.
“There, Holmes. I have taken two matchsticks and added two more matchsticks and by carefully counting, the sum I have arrived at is four.”
“Bravo, Watson. You have just, in your most scientific manner, demonstrated empirical proof that your answer must be correct.”
“Precisely.”
“However, you are wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“Precisely.”
I stood erect and stiff as I said, “What do you mean, wrong, Holmes? How can I possibly be wrong?” I believe my voice was rising in such a manner as to make one blush, should one have been in the company of several gentlemen.
“Oh, it is quite possible, Watson, quite possible.”
“How can it possibly be possible? Two plus two is four. How can it not be four?”
“When it is not two plus two?
“What on earth do you mean by that, Holmes? When it is not two plus two? For the last hour or so all you have done is bludgeon me with this ridiculous proposition.”
“Watson, I have not bludgeoned you in any manner. Although to you, in so relaxed a disposition, a mental exercise may seem like someone has taken a truncheon to your brain.”
“That is unkind, Holmes; even for you.”
“I meant no insult, Watson, only that you have been led astray by your own ears and your own powers of total linguistic recall.”
“I have not the foggiest notion of what you are talking about.”
“Of course, not. Therefore, I will explain. Now, if you would be good enough to reseat yourself and try to return to that relaxed state from which you, yourself, escaped.”
Reluctantly, I did as he asked; and when he was quite satisfied that my blood pressure had retreated from the volcanic heights of Vesuvius, he quietly and methodically began his explanation.
“Watson, first, the questioned I posed was a trap.”
“Ah, hah!” I exclaimed. “Just as I thought.”
“Well, not really; for the trap was such that you could never see it coming. You could only hear it coming.”
“Hear it coming? What can that possibly mean?”
“Dare I say, elementary, Watson? Dare I say it?”
I said nothing, which said everything.
“Now, you heard me ask you how much is two plus two? Correct?”
“Correct.”
He leapt for exclamation and, it seemed, from the sheer joy of what was next to come, stayed in mid-air for an untenable amount of time.
“Not so. Spell two plus two.”
“T-w-o, p-l-u-s, t-w-o.” As I spelled it out, I took extra care in my reckoning.
“All right and very good.”
I smiled broadly.
“But Watson, what if I did not mean t-w-o, p-l-u-s, t-w-o?”
“What do you mean, Holmes?
“Watson, how many words in the English language are there for the word ‘two’?”
I had to think quickly now, and came back with an answer and a question at the same time, “Three?”
“Yes. Perfect. There is the number two, the ‘also’ too, t-o-o, and the adverb, t-o. So yes, there are three twos.”
“But how could you ask me to add t-o to t-o?”
“You see, Watson? To to to.”
“Yes, well, to to to. But what about too to too?”
“The same. Too to too.”
“I believe I’m getting a headache,” said I.
“Closer to an earache, Watson. We can go around for days with two’s and to’s and too’s, but that would only lead us to four.”
“But that is what I have been saying all along. Two plus two is four.”
“Is it really, Watson? Are you forgetting fore?”
“The number four?”
“No, how many four’s are there?”
“What do you mean how many four’s are there?”
“Exactly, just that. How many four’s are there in the English language?”
I slapped myself on the forehead and dejectedly came up with the same answer that I’d come up with before.
“Three.”
“Precisely. We’re back at three from the two’s and the four’s.”
I was shaking my head from side to side in resigned assignation.
“Yes, Holmes: f-o-u-r, f-o-r, and f-o-r-e. Four for fore.”
“Astonishing, is it not, Watson? And let us now dismiss one.”
“One what?”
“How many one’s are there in the English language?”
“I would say three but that would be pressing my good fortune. So let me think, and I have it, two.”
“So you are saying there are two one’s?”
“I think I am. Yes, I am. There is the number one, o-n-e, and when you win a battle or game, you won, w-o-n.”
“Marvelous. We’re making wonderful progress, Watson, wonderful progress.”
“Progress to what?” My head was truly spinning and as it spun it was draining my energy and threatening to assume to rotation of our Earth.
“Progress to the numbers, and the numbers, whether arithmetic or linguistic, are everything. So, tell me, Watson, how many eight’s are there in the English language?”
“Please, Holmes, I beg of you. No more of these semantic gymnastics.”
“What a marvelous phrase, Watson. Semantic gymnastics. No wonder you have had such success with your chronicles of our adventures. But I beg you to prolong your stated agony for only two more examples, Watson, only two. Which leads us to the conclusion that no matter what number you choose to study, there are only two or three homonyms.”
“And for this, you have wasted a perfectly good morning?”
“Not wasted, at all. I did this to show you that what you hear may not be what is truly meant. And that when you assume what is said by someone to be what that someone says, it may not be what that someone has said, at all. Do you see?”
“See? I do not even seem to hear. Holmes, I am adrift. When this bizarre exercise of yours commenced I, as a physician, was quite positive that I was in the best of health. Now, after these numbers and words and arithmetic and not understanding what perfect strangers are saying to me, I am not sure of what you are saying to me. And you are most certainly not a stranger.”
As I sank once more into my seat, Holmes slapped his right knee with his left hand, I suppose for some demonstrative emphasis, and gave a dindle of a laugh.
Oh, please, forgive me here, for there is no such word as dindle. In fact, I believe I have just coined it. However, it seems eminently appropriate in this case, as the sound emitting from Holmes was not a full blown laugh, nor a snort, nor snicker, nor chortle, nor most certainly not a guffaw. It was the faintest of sounds of gleeful satisfaction; therefore, it must be considered in the diminutive, and therefore I christen the utterance a dindle. You may take the word or discard it, the choice is yours.
“Watson, you still fail to grasp the importance of what we have been doing.”
“I suppose so, Holmes; I will give you that.”
“What if, Watson, I was paving the way for you and me to solve one of our newest riddles?”
“And which one is that, if I dare ask?”
“I am sure you will most certainly remember the young woman who sat precisely where you now sit, not more than two weeks passed. Miss Emily Kent.”
“Of course, of course. She was quite young, very attractive, and she wanted to engage you to find some missing amulet, if I recall.”
“Quite right. But the amulet gone missing was not just some amulet. It was the Amulet of Anubis.”
“Yes,” I was still puzzling over whatever import Holmes seemed to hold so dear, at the moment.
“The Amulet of Anubis was discovered by no one less than Miss Kent’s renowned father, the noted Egyptologist, Sir Lionel Kent. And though he perished shortly after that discovery, and many attributed it to an ancient Egyptian curse of some sort, that amulet is the only one found bearing the likeness of Anubis and is considered priceless.
“Miss Kent stated that the amulet lay under lock and key in the home of Mrs. Annabel Brookfield, her grandmother. That only her grandmother, who was quite elderly now, I believe the dark side of ninety, kept that key secreted where only she knew its whereabouts.
“Miss Kent further stated that it was she and her grandmother together who had discovered the amulet missing, and that she had immediately notified the police. After two desultory weeks of police work without success, she came to me to see if I could do what the police could not.”
“Yes. But from what I recall, you accepted the challenge without your usual enthusiasm. It would seem to me that finding such a treasure would have given spark to your powers of deduction and elucidation.”
“On point, Watson. But it was not any lack of interest. It was that I was in the middle of a coincidence, and as you are well aware, to me, there is no such thing as a coincidence.”
“I do not follow.”
“Then follow this. Do you ever peruse the Times for any retail news of substance?”
“I feel I am falling further behind,” I conceded glumly.
“It was approximately two weeks prior to the amulet’s theft that Brently & Crafton, perhaps London’s supreme fine arts and antiquities auction house, held an auction of the rarest Egyptian treasures and artifacts.”
“No, I never bother with such information.”
“Well, then, perhaps you should. For the coincidence of the Amulet of Anubis being stolen in so short a span after that auction, is too much of a transparent coincidence.”
Once Sherlock Holmes had his mind onto a theory, it is best likened to a snapping turtle’s jaws snapping shut.
“You see, Watson, with ancient Egyptian auction fever at high pitch, the Amulet of Anubis would fetch a much loftier price; especially to someone who had not been able to outbid others for specific pieces. And finally, there would be no seller’s premium fastened onto the item’s sale price.”
“Yes, I see that now.”
“Good. And now that you are in step, let us take this step by step.
“Do you remember what Miss Kent said specifically about how she and her grandmother found the amulet missing?”
After a moment of sorting through my mental file, I did remember.
“I believe she said that she had asked to borrow the amulet, as she had in the past, to wear at a charity ball. When her grandmother went to retrieve the amulet, she found it missing, and would have fallen to the ground in a dead faint, had not Miss Kent been there to bear her up.”
“Indeed. I am most happy to see your memory so facile.”
I smiled. “I, as well.”
“Now, another question to test that impressive memory. How did Miss Kent get to her grandmother’s home?”
“She said she rode to her grandmother’s home.”
“Watson, please repeat what you just said.”
“I said she told us that she rode to her grandmother’s home.”
“Rode or rowed?”
“Pardon me?”
“Words, Watson, words. R-o-d-e or r-o-w-e-d?”
The import of the question hit me as hard as if Holmes had slapped a brick to the side of my head, and I believe my mouth opened to a width in which a hansom cab could easily have run through.
“There is a rivulet that parallels the vehicular thoroughfare that leads from Miss Kent’s home to that of her grandmother. It is a rivulet quite narrow and because of its lack of girth it is not much travelled by boatmen or by the athletic among us who crew.
“Now, do you further remember her answer when I asked her to be precise in the amount of time it took to get from her home to her grandmother’s home?”
“Yes. She said it took her one hour.”
“Don’t you see, Watson? If she had used the thoroughfare and gone by cab, it would have taken her, at most, only half that time. If, however, she needed stealth to sheath a nefarious design, she would have r-o-w-e-d, not r-o-d-e, and in the darkness would have easily needed that heavy hour. Her statement about the time was a casual remark, but a mistake which led, in part, to her undoing.”
“But what led you to the contention of the words?”
“If you remember, it was an unusually hot and humid day for London at this time of year.”
“Of course I remember. I had even removed my waistcoat.”
“And in such a situation, would not the average person remove any article of clothing adding to the discomfort caused by that heat?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“But did you notice that she did not remove her gloves and that she winced upon me taking her hand in greeting, even in so ginger a manner?”
“I recall that now, but at the time it meant nothing to me.”
“In addition, as she was leaving, you touched her lightly on her shoulder as a gentleman would in guiding a woman through a doorway. She gave an almost imperceptible shudder.”
“Now that you remark on that, I did notice it but gave it no consequence.”
“Ah, but you most certainly should have. Just why would she not remove her gloves? Why was her hand in so delicate a condition that the gentle pressure of my own hand caused her pain which he tried so adroitly to disguise?
“After listening to her description of her travel to her grandmother’s home and with all that I have just revealed, I began to wonder about that particular word. From that, I could discern that Miss Kent, while appearing to be a young woman in great distress, was, in fact, the very cause of that seeming distress. Yet how she accomplished that act I, as yet, have not deduced; though I’m in the felicitous process of doing so.”
“But the gloves, Holmes, and the shuddering of her back.”
“Oh, well, quite easily realized when weighing those words previously mentioned. Because if she rowed,” and Holmes made the gesture of rowing a boat, “it would be an occupation completely unsuited to her station as a young lady of some stature, and therefore would have not only caused great welts and raw flesh upon her hands from the rowing, but pain in the musculature of the back from such an unaccustomed activity.
“Furthermore, I found her attitude much too easy and flippant. It did not take me long to come to the conclusion that, whatever fee I proposed, unless it was in the vicinity of purchasing the Taj Mahal, would find favour. For she only wanted me as further proof for the insurance company. I am sure you can see that.”
“What an astute plan. Holmes. That woman has a criminal mind of the first order.”
“Hardly, Watson. Had she a more supple and subtle intelligence, it would have taken me far longer to discern her machinations.”
“But would not the insurance be in her grandmother’s name? It would seem likely.”
“It would under normal circumstances, but as Miss Kent is the sole beneficiary of her grandmother’s insurance policy, the monetary restitution falls to her. Then, after a suitable amount of time would pass, I should expect Miss Kent to sell the Amulet of Anubis to any number of discreet purchasers.”
“But how did you learn of the particulars of the insurance?”
“It is fairly well known in our upper classes that most great articles of consequential value would be insured by one of only two such companies chartered especially to provide such guarantees. It was easy enough for the police to obtain the appropriate information, once I had suggested they do so.”
“Then tell me, how do you propose to reveal to her your knowledge of her theft and plans for the amulet?”
“That you shall see for yourself presently, as I am expecting her to call at any moment.”
As if she had been eavesdropping at our keyhole, a gentle rap on our door announced Miss Kent’s timely arrival.
She entered and Holmes closed the door behind her.
She was still wearing the gloves and breezed in with such studied insouciance that I saw a very self-satisfied smile on the face of Sherlock Holmes.
“Miss Kent,” he said, extending his hand in the usual hand-shaking gesture, yet she simply nodded her assent and sat once more in the chair she had occupied on her previous visit. She used her handbag almost as a buffer between us, so tightly was it clutched and set in her lap. Holmes nodded to me to be sure I had just witnessed the process.
“So, Mr. Holmes, you have called me here, I gather, to give me great news. You have discovered the whereabouts of the Amulet of Anubis, and you possess the knowledge of who took it and how it was done.”
“You are partially correct in that assumption, yes.”
“I do not understand,” said she; and for the first time, there was the wrinkling of her brow in unforeseen consternation.
“Permit me to explain. I most certainly know the identity of the thief.”
At that word, I could gauge an audible, but stifled, gasp from Miss Kent. I must make note here of her remarkable self-control. Though he was no better than a common thief, her presence under fire, so to speak, would have recommended her to be at my side in Afghanistan. I also believed she would have behaved so cool under the attack of Zulus. The woman was cold as an Eskimo’s igloo.
“Oh, yes, I have the thief’s identity. In point of fact, I have already notified the very officers to whom you reported the crime. They were quite intrigued.”
“Intrigued? That is an unusual word to be used such a manner,” she said. It was here she began to display only the faintest hint of growing discomfort.
“True, Miss Kent, quite true. But it is not often that the police are presented with the fact that the criminal and the victim are one in the same.”
At this she stood, ignoring me fully but fixing her gaze on Holmes, and as she spoke she began to slowly glide towards the door.
“I am not certain what you mean, Mr. Holmes, but I am beginning to feel that you intimate that I am the one in possession of the amulet.”
“Bravo, Miss Kent. You have hit the nail on the proverbial head.”
Holmes was positively jovial at the exchange, and as he moved to place himself between Miss Kent and the door, he motioned her to sit once more, which she did with some small amount of agitation.
“Mr. Holmes, I am not accustomed to being addressed in such a manner, and I voice my disproval of your insinuation. You forget that I am your benefactress, that I retained you to discover the true criminal, and to return the amulet to my grandmother.”
“Of course, you retained me to do so, and as I have just demonstrated, done so. If you would be so kind as to remove your gloves, please.”
“I shall do no such thing.” She had stood again, in a stance of feminine defiance.
“Come, come, Miss Kent. Enough of the charade.”
Holmes then lowered the tone of his voice and all semblance of cheer was gone. “I say once again, please remove your gloves.”
“I shall not and you cannot force me to do so. Unless you resort to animal brute force.”
“On the contrary, Miss Kent. Watson, would you be so kind as to open the door?
“Of course, Holmes,” said I and when I did so, Inspector Michaels and Officer Willets entered the room. At their sight, Miss Kent blushed crimson.
“Gentlemen,” said Holmes, “would you please kindly instruct Miss Kent to remove her gloves.”
“You heard Mr. Holmes, Miss Kent,” said the Inspector, “please do as you are told.”
“I must protest this in the strongest terms. I shall speak with your superiors as soon as I am able.”
“Well, miss, I can guarantee that you will be speaking with my superiors at the station and then with the magistrates, as well. But this is a serious police investigation, and I must insist that you remove your gloves.”
She began muttering to herself, but slowly, very slowly, she placed her handbag between her feet, then removed one glove. It was immediate to all that her hand was still partially bandaged and that part of her hand free was worn and calloused. The same was revealed as she removed the other glove.
Though we all took in the unfortunate sight of her hands, it was Sherlock Holmes who nodded for me, as a medical man, to look more closely at the wounds. This I did, and after concurring nods to me and the police, it was Holmes who spoke.
“Pray tell, Miss Kent, how your hands came to be in so deplorable and painful a state?”
“It is from gardening.”
At that, a reflexive laugh let loose from all of us, save Miss Kent.
“From gardening, you say? Miss Kent, for gardening to take such a toll on your hands, I should expect that you were using them in place of trowel and shovel. No, Miss Kent, I propose that your hands suffer from, shall we say, an unaccustomed rowing endeavor.”
“I am sure I have no idea what you mean.”
“I mean simply that under cover of night you rowed to your grandmother’s home so no one could see you on the road, gained access with no great difficulty, since you already possess a key to the premises, and that while your grandmother slept safely and unknowingly in her bed, you took the key from its hidden location, secreted the amulet on your person, replaced the key, locked the front door as you left, and returned home by the same mode of transport.”
“That is foolish. Only my grandmother knew where the key was hidden.”
“That is true to a point. However, being so advanced in age, she would not have heard you surreptitiously watch as she retrieved the key to fetch the amulet for that charity ball for which you requested its use. However, there still is one part of my fee which I have not, as yet, earned.” Here, Holmes paused for great impact.
“While I have identified the thief, I have not returned the amulet to its proper owner, your grandmother. I shall do that presently.”
With that, Holmes so swiftly grabbed her handbag that the movement could well be compared to the speed and grace of a cheetah. Miss Kent could do nothing to retain hold of the item.
Holmes held the handbag aloft for all to see, then reached in and like a master magician, he pulled out the amulet with a grand, “Voila!”
It was Inspector Michaels who now spoke.
“But how did you know that she would have the amulet, Mr. Holmes?”
“Quite simple. With the help of my Baker Street Irregulars, whose noses are always close to the ground, it was child’s play to learn that a certain party wishing to purchase the amulet would be meeting Miss Kent this very afternoon in London. Therefore, she must have the amulet with her. She just could not wait to obtain the funds which she would derive from the illegal sale.”
“Well, Mr. Holmes, I must hand it to you. And please, sir, you must hand the amulet to me so I can return it to Mrs. Brookfield,” said Michaels.
“Now, Miss Kent,” he continued, “if you would be so kind as to go with Constable Willets, here. We have a much better mode of transport waiting for you outside. Our own lovely police wagon.”
Miss Kent stood, holding herself erect, as Willets took her arm and led her out to the wagon.
“Thank you again, Mr. Holmes, for all of your help. I am not happy to admit that we would never have suspected Miss Kent. We were questioning gardeners, and delivery men, and the help, and, as you have shown me, everyone but the true felon.”
With that, he gave a crisp finger to his forehead and was off.
“Good show, Holmes. For it was a show, you know.”
“Of course I do, Watson.”
With that, he was back to reclining on his sofa, his face once more scanning the ceiling for heaven knows what.
“Now, Watson, might you be more receptive for some more semantic gymnastics? For instance, when someone describes a ghastly sight, are they commenting on a s-i-g-h-t or a s-i-t-e, as one might find in so many of our historic castle ruins?
“Or let me advance this enticing notion,” he proffered, “let us say that we have another female felon, a genuine criminal genius of the first order. And let us suppose that her name was Terry. Would she not then be a true Miss Terry?”
“Oh, my word.” And with that, I left Sherlock Holmes to ponder the ceiling as I removed myself to a more convivial locale.