‘Quite so. Well, Sir Henry, I am of one mind with you as to the advisability of your going down to Devonshire without delay. There is only one provision which I must make. You certainly must not go alone.’
‘Dr Mortimer returns with me.’
‘But Dr Mortimer has his practice to attend to, and his house is miles away from yours. With all the good will in the world, he may be unable to help you. No, Sir Henry, you must take with you someone, a trusty man, who will be always by your side.’
‘Is it possible that you could come yourself, Mr Holmes?’
‘If matters came to a crisis I should endeavour to be present in person; but you can understand that, with my extensive consulting practice and with the constant appeals which reach me from many quarters, it is impossible for me to be absent from London for an indefinite time. At the present instant one of the most revered names in England is being besmirched by a blackmailer, and only I can stop a disastrous scandal. You will see how impossible it is for me to go to Dartmoor.’
‘Whom would you recommend, then?’
Holmes laid his hand upon my arm.
‘If my friend would undertake it there is no man who is better worth having at your side when you are in a tight place. No one can say so more confidently than I.’
The proposition took me completely by surprise, but before I had time to answer Baskerville seized me by the hand and wrung it heartily.
‘Well, now, that is real kind of you, Dr Watson,’ said he. ‘You see how it is with me, and you know just as much about the matter as I do. If you will come down to Baskerville Hall and see me through I’ll never forget it.’
The promise of adventure had always a fascination for me, and I was complimented by the words of Holmes and by the eagerness with which the baronet hailed me as a companion.
‘I will come with pleasure,’ said I. ‘I do not know how I could employ my time better.’
‘And you will report very carefully to me,’ said Holmes. ‘When a crisis comes, as it will do, I will direct how you shall act. I suppose that by Saturday all might be ready?’
‘Would that suit Dr Watson?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Then on Saturday, unless you hear to the contrary, we shall meet at the 10.30 train from Paddington.’
We had risen to depart when Baskerville gave a cry of triumph, and diving into one of the corners of the room he drew a brown boot from under a cabinet.
‘My missing boot!’ he cried.
‘May all our difficulties vanish as easily!’ said Sherlock Holmes.
‘But it is a very singular thing,’ Dr Mortimer remarked. ‘I searched this room carefully before lunch.’
‘And so did I,’ said Baskerville. ‘Every inch of it.’
‘There was certainly no boot in it then.’
‘In that case the waiter must have placed it there while we were lunching.’
The German was sent for, but professed to know nothing of the matter, nor could any inquiry clear it up. Another item had been added to that constant and apparently purposeless series of small mysteries which had succeeded each other so rapidly. Setting aside the whole grim story of Sir Charles’s death, we had a line of inexplicable incidents all within the limits of two days, which included the receipt of the printed letter, the black-bearded spy in the hansom, the loss of the new brown boot, the loss of the old black boot, and now the return of the new brown boot. Holmes sat in silence in the cab as we drove back to Baker Street, and I knew from his drawn brows and keen face that his mind, like my own, was busy in endeavouring to frame some scheme into which all these strange and apparently disconnected episodes could be fitted. All afternoon and late into the evening he sat lost in tobacco and thought.
Just before dinner two telegrams were handed in. The first ran:
Have just heard that Barrymore is at the Hall
– BASKERVILLE.
The second:
Visited twenty-three hotels as directed, but sorry to report unable to trace cut sheet of Times
– CARTWRIGHT.
‘There go two of my threads, Watson. There is nothing more stimulating than a case where everything goes against you. We must cast round for another scent.’
‘We have still the cabman who drove the spy.’
‘Exactly. I have wired to get his name and address from the Official Registry. I should not be surprised if this were an answer to my question.’
The ring at the bell proved to be something even more satisfactory than an answer, however, for the door opened and a rough-looking fellow entered who was evidently the man himself.
‘I got a message from the head office that a gent at this address had been inquiring for 2704,’ said he. ‘I’ve driven my cab this seven years and never a word of complaint. I came here straight from the Yard to ask you to your face what you had against me.’
‘I have nothing in the world against you, my good man,’ said Holmes. ‘On the contrary, I have half a sovereign for you if you will give me a clear answer to my questions.’
‘Well, I’ve had a good day and no mistake,’ said the cabman, with a grin. ‘What was it you wanted to ask, sir?’
‘First of all your name and address, in case I want you again.’
‘John Clayton, 3, Turpey Street, the Borough. My cab is out of Shipley’s Yard, near Waterloo Station.’
Sherlock Holmes made a note of it.
‘Now, Clayton, tell me all about the fare who came and watched this house at ten o’clock this morning and afterwards followed the two gentlemen down Regent Street.’
The man looked surprised and a little embarrassed.
‘Why, there’s no good my telling you things, for you seem to know as much as I do already,’ said he. ‘The truth is that the gentleman told me that he was a detective, and that I was to say nothing about him to anyone.’
‘My good fellow, this is a very serious business, and you may find yourself in a pretty bad position if you try to hide anything from me. You say that your fare told you that he was a detective?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘When did he say this?’
‘When he left me.’
‘Did he say anything more?’
‘He mentioned his name.’
Holmes cast a swift glance of triumph at me.
‘Oh, he mentioned his name, did he? That was imprudent. What was the name that he mentioned?’
‘His name,’ said the cabman, ‘was Mr Sherlock Holmes.’
Never have I seen my friend more completely taken aback than by the cabman’s reply. For an instant he sat in silent amazement. Then he burst into a hearty laugh:
‘A touch, Watson – an undeniable touch!’ said he. ‘I feel a foil as quick and supple as my own. He got home upon me very prettily that time. So his name was Sherlock Holmes, was it?’
‘Yes, sir, that was the gentleman’s name.’
‘Excellent! Tell me where you picked him up, and all that occurred.’
‘He hailed me at half-past nine in Trafalgar Square. He said that he was a detective, and he offered me two guineas if I would do exactly what he wanted all day and ask no questions. I was glad enough to agree. First we drove down to the Northumberland Hotel, and waited there until two gentlemen came out and took a cab from the rank. We followed their cab until it pulled up somewhere near here.’
‘This very door,’ said Holmes.
‘Well, I couldn’t be sure of that, but I dare say my fare knew all about it. We pulled up half-way down the street and waited an hour and a half. Then the two gentlemen passed us, walking, and we followed down Baker Street and along –’
‘I know,’ said Holmes.
‘Until we got three-quarters down Regent Street. Then my gentleman threw up the trap, and he cried that I should drive right away to Waterloo Station as hard
as I could go. I whipped up the mare, and we were there under the ten minutes. Then he paid up his two guineas, like a good one, and away he went into the station. Only just as he was leaving he turned round and said: “It might interest you to know that you have been driving Mr Sherlock Holmes.” That’s how I came to know the name.’
‘I see. And you saw no more of him?’
‘Not after he went into the station.’
‘And how would you describe Mr Sherlock Holmes?’
The cabman scratched his head. ‘Well, he wasn’t altogether such an easy gentleman to describe. I’d put him at forty years of age, and he was of a middle height, two or three inches shorter than you, sir. He was dressed like a toff, and he had a black beard, cut square at the end, and a pale face. I don’t know as I could say more than that.’
‘Colour of his eyes?’
‘No, I can’t say that.’
‘Nothing more that you can remember?’
‘No, sir; nothing.’
‘Well, then, here is your half-sovereign. There’s another one waiting for you if you can bring any more information. Good night!’
‘Good night, sir, and thank you!’
John Clayton departed chuckling, and Holmes turned to me with a shrug of the shoulders and a rueful smile.
‘Snap goes our third thread, and we end where we began,’ said he. ‘The cunning rascal! He knew our number, knew that Sir Henry Baskerville had consulted me, spotted who I was in Regent Street, conjectured that I had got the number of the cab and would lay my hands on the driver, and so sent back this audacious message. I tell you, Watson, this time we have got a foeman who is worthy of our steel. I’ve been checkmated in London. I can only wish you better luck in Devonshire. But I’m not easy in my mind about it.’
‘About what?’
‘About sending you. It’s an ugly business, Watson, an ugly, dangerous business, and the more I see of it the less I like it. Yes, my dear fellow, you may laugh, but I give you my word that I shall be very glad to have you back safe and sound in Baker Street once more.’
6
Baskerville Hall
Sir Henry Baskerville and Dr Mortimer were ready upon the appointed day, and we started as arranged for Devonshire. Mr Sherlock Holmes drove with me to the station, and gave me his last parting injunction and advice.
‘I will not bias your mind by suggesting theories or suspicions, Watson,’ said he; ‘I wish you simply to report facts in the fullest possible manner to me, and you can leave me to do the theorizing.’
‘What sort of facts?’ I asked.
‘Anything which may seem to have a bearing, however indirect, upon the case, and especially the relations between young Baskerville and his neighbours, or any fresh particulars concerning the death of Sir Charles. I have made some inquiries myself in the last few days, but the results have, I fear, been negative. One thing only appears to be certain, and that is that Mr James Desmond, who is the next heir, is an elderly gentleman of a very amiable disposition, so that this persecution does not arise from him. I really think that we may eliminate him entirely from our calculations. There remain the people who will actually surround Sir Henry Baskerville upon the moor.’
‘Would it not be well in the first place to get rid of this Barrymore couple?’
‘By no means. You could not make a greater mistake. If they are innocent it would be a cruel injustice, and if they are guilty we should be giving up all chance of bringing it home to them. No, no, we will preserve them upon our list of suspects. Then there is a groom at the Hall, if I remember right. There are two moorland farmers. There is our friend Dr Mortimer, whom I believe to be entirely honest, and there is his wife, of whom we know nothing. There is this naturalist Stapleton, and there is his sister, who is said to be a young lady of attractions. There is Mr Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who is also an unknown factor, and there are one or two other neighbours. These are the folk who must be your very special study.’
‘I will do my best.’
‘You have arms, I suppose?’
‘Yes, I thought it as well to take them.’
‘Most certainly. Keep your revolver near you night and day, and never relax your precautions.’
Our friends had already secured a first-class carriage, and were waiting for us upon the platform.
‘No, we have no news of any kind,’ said Dr Mortimer, in answer to my friend’s questions. ‘I can swear to one thing, and that is that we have not been shadowed during the last two days. We have never gone out without keeping a sharp watch, and no one could have escaped our notice.’
‘You have always kept together, I presume?’
‘Except yesterday afternoon. I usually give up one day to pure amusement when I come to town, so I spent it at the Museum of the College of Surgeons.’
‘And I went to look at the folk in the park,’ said Baskerville. ‘But we had no trouble of any kind.’
‘It was imprudent, all the same,’ said Holmes, shaking his head and looking very grave. ‘I beg, Sir Henry, that you will not go about alone. Some great misfortune will befall you if you do. Did you get your other boot?’
‘No, sir, it is gone for ever.’
‘Indeed. That is very interesting. Well, good-bye,’ he added, as the train began to glide down the platform. ‘Bear in mind, Sir Henry, one of the phrases in that queer old legend which Dr Mortimer has read to us, and avoid the moor in those hours of darkness when the powers of evil are exalted.’
I looked back at the platform when we had left it far behind, and saw the tall, austere figure of Holmes standing motionless and gazing after us.
The journey was a swift and pleasant one, and I spent it in making the more intimate acquaintance of my two companions, and in playing with Dr Mortimer’s spaniel. In a very few hours the brown earth had become ruddy, the brick had changed to granite, and red cows grazed in well-hedged fields where the lush grasses and more luxuriant vegetation spoke of a richer, if a damper climate. Young Baskerville stared eagerly out of the window, and cried aloud with delight as he recognized the familiar features of the Devon scenery.
‘I’ve been over a good part of the world since I left it, Dr Watson,’ said he; ‘but I have never seen a place to compare with it.’
‘I never saw a Devonshire man who did not swear by his county,’ I remarked.
‘It depends upon the breed of men quite as much as on the county,’ said Dr Mortimer. ‘A glance at our friend here reveals the rounded head of the Celt, which carries inside it the Celtic enthusiasm and power of attachment. Poor Sir Charles’s head was of a very rare type, half Gaelic, half Ivernian in its characteristics. But you were very young when you last saw Baskerville Hall, were you not?’
‘I was a boy in my teens at the time of my father’s death, and had never seen the Hall, for he lived in a little cottage on the south coast. Thence I went straight to a friend in America. I tell you it is all as new to me as it is to Dr Watson, and I’m as keen as possible to see the moor.’
‘Are you? Then your wish is easily granted, for there is your first sight of the moor,’ said Dr Mortimer, pointing out of the carriage window.
Over the green squares of the fields and the low curve of a wood there rose in the distance a grey, melancholy hill, with a strange jagged summit, dim and vague in the distance, like some fantastic landscape in a dream. Baskerville sat for a long time, his eyes fixed upon it, and I read upon his eager face how much it meant to him, this first sight of that strange spot where the men of his blood had held sway so long and left their mark so deep. There he sat, with his tweed suit and his American accent, in the corner of a prosaic railway-carriage, and yet as I looked at his dark and expressive face I felt more than ever how true a descendant he was of that long line of high-blooded, fiery, and masterful men. There were pride, valour and strength in his thick brows, his sensitive nostrils, and his large hazel
eyes. If on that forbidding moor a difficult and dangerous quest should lie before us, this was at least a comrade for whom one might venture to take a risk with the certainty that he would bravely share it.
The train pulled up at a small wayside station, and we all descended. Outside, beyond the low, white fence, a wagonette with a pair of cobs was waiting. Our coming was evidently a great event, for station-master and porters clustered round us to carry out our luggage. It was a sweet, simple country spot, but I was surprised to observe that by the gate there stood two soldierly men in dark uniforms, who leaned upon their short rifles and glanced keenly at us as we passed. The coachman, a hard-faced, gnarled little fellow, saluted Sir Henry Baskerville, and in a few minutes we were flying swiftly down the broad white road. Rolling pasture lands curved upwards on either side of us, and old gabled houses peeped out from amid the thick green foliage, but behind the peaceful and sunlit countryside there rose ever, dark against the evening sky, the long, gloomy curve of the moor, broken by the jagged and sinister hills.
The wagonette swung round into a side road, and we curved upwards through deep lanes worn by centuries of wheels, high banks on either side, heavy with dripping moss and fleshy hart’s-tongue ferns. Bronzing bracken and mottled bramble gleamed in the light of the sinking sun. Still steadily rising, we passed over a narrow granite bridge, and skirted a noisy stream, which gushed swiftly down, foaming and roaring amid the grey boulders. Both road and stream wound up through a valley dense with scrub oak and fir. At every turning Baskerville gave an exclamation of delight, looking eagerly about him and asking countless questions. To his eyes all seemed beautiful, but to me a tinge of melancholy lay upon the countryside, which bore so clearly the mark of the waning year. Yellow leaves carpeted the lanes and fluttered down upon us as we passed. The rattle of our wheels died away as we drove through drifts of rotting vegetation – sad gifts, as it seemed to me, for Nature to throw before the carriage of the returning heir of the Baskervilles.
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