Thirty-Nine Steps from Baker Street

by J. R. Trtek

  “Well,” Ewan Clark said at length, “will we get you into the sidecar, then?”

  The innkeeper had a spare set of goggles, which I donned after reversing my tweed cap. Then, astride the vehicle, the young man started up his motor bicycle, producing a rough din far in excess of that emitted by my own automobile, of which I thought briefly, safe and sound back in London.

  “Here we go, sir!” cried my companion, and with that we set off into the night, out to the road and then in a northerly direction, toward Dunfeardon and Sir Harry Christey.

  * * *

  57 This is another detail that, one thinks, Watson would be very unlikely to include in his memoir. Some may, with justification, find it yet another piece of evidence that this narrative was not penned by him.

  58 No such town exists. It should be noted, however, that Watson uses the same fictitious name that is found in Buchan’s The Thirty-Nine Steps.

  59 These are likely references to Sir George Alexander and Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree, both of whom had been prominent actors in the Victorian era.

  60 Kimberley was a focal point of the diamond business in South Africa.

  CHAPTER SEVEN: FISHING IN BERKSHIRE

  The innkeeper’s motor bicycle pulled up at the door of Sir Harry Christey’s residence just before the hour of three in the morning, after a tortuous journey during which we twice lost our way and each time angered local residents by waking them to ask for directions. At length, however, I had the satisfaction of arriving at my desired destination, albeit much later than I had originally intended. Still, I held high hopes that my true quarry, Richard Hannay, was within reach. I knocked on the door loudly and without reservation, for Ewan Clark’s motor bicycle was still running, and I was certain that it alone had caught the attention of Sir Harry’s household.

  “You are certain you wish to remain?” I called to my companion, who sat astride his vehicle. “I doubt my reception will be a warm one at first.”

  “I will stay until you are received one way or the other,” he said. “If a hasty retreat is called for, you need only hop back into the sidecar, and we’ll scoot from here as quickly as we can.”

  I smiled wanly in the dark at the innkeeper and then was enveloped in light as the door opened behind me. Turning round, I beheld none other than Sir Harry Christey, whose speech I had endured but hours earlier. He had changed clothes since the rally, but the fact that he was attired at all in the middle of the night caught me up short.

  “Yes?” he said in a quiet but assertive voice, glancing at the motor bicycle before once more fixing his eyes upon me. “What do you do, coming here in this manner? It is not yet dawn, sir.”

  “I seek the man named Richard Hannay,” I said at once. “Is he here, Sir Harry?”

  “I am acquainted with no Richard Hannay,” he replied in a tone that made me believe him instantly. “And I do not believe I know you, either. How do you come to be so familiar with me?”

  I then realised that I had gotten my greeting completely backward, and fumbled in my jacket pocket for the letter of introduction. After a moment, I held it before him.

  “I am here on instructions from your godfather, Sir Walter Bullivant,” I said. “I believe this will present me properly.”

  Sir Harry took the folded paper with reservation and bent toward the light from within while opening it. He read it with deliberation and, when finished, turned back to face me.

  “Well, I am pleased to meet you, Dr. Watson,” he announced. “Is, perchance, that fellow on the motor bicycle Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Doctor Watson? Great Hannah!” shrieked the innkeeper behind me. “You are that Watson?”

  “I am,” I said, not turning round.

  “The one that Conan Doyle writes about?”

  I stood there in the warm entrance to Sir Harry’s residence and sighed. “That is one way of putting it” was all I chose to say, given the state of affairs at the moment.

  “I’m afraid I lied to you, Doctor, just a moment ago,” declared Sir Harry. “Hannay has been with me since late this afternoon. We attended a political rally—”

  “I know,” I said hurriedly. “I was also there. I attempted to approach the two of you, but the crowd was such that I could not reach you before you had departed.”

  “And you’ve come here—” he glanced at Clark, who had shut down his vehicle’s motor and come up to stand beside me—“by somewhat unconventional means in the middle of the night, all for the sake of Hannay?”

  “Indeed, I have. Is he inside?” I enquired anxiously.

  “I am afraid he left less than an hour ago.”

  “To where?” I asked. “It is imperative that I find him!”

  Sir Harry seemed oddly unmoved by my urgency. “I rather doubt you would be able to do that, Dr. Watson. Come in. You too, if you like,” he told the innkeeper as he stepped back to allow us to enter.

  My companion apologised for the state of his dress, but Sir Harry waved him off. I introduced the two, and then our host led us through the house and on into a large, cheerful smoking room, whose dying fire still crackled intermittently. We sat down beneath deer’s heads and old prints that lined the walls. Sir Harry brought the fire back to life and then invited us to sit in armchairs.

  “You know all about Hannay, then?” he said straightaway. “Scudder, the milkman, the notebook, all of it?”

  “I know of Scudder and the milkman,” I answered. “The notebook has been speculation up to this point.”

  “I should take it, then, that you are not aware of the assassination plans.”

  I looked Sir Harry squarely in the eye. “No. Did Hannay glean something from Scudder’s notebook?”

  “Yes. Agents of a foreign power intend to murder Karolides, the Greek premier. It is to happen a few days from now, when the fellow visits London.”

  “Good God,” I declared. “Thankfully, there is ample time to forestall the crime. You said Hannay left but an hour ago. Where is he headed?”

  Sir Harry gestured to a curtained window.

  “Out there,” he said. “Somewhere among the hills. I sent him forth upon an old bicycle—not motorised like yours,” he added to Ewan Clark, whose eyes by this time had increased twofold in diameter. “Hannay proposed to hide in the wild for a short while, and then try for London to warn of the plot.

  “I have just been writing a letter to my godfather, Sir Walter,” he said, indicating several pages and a pen lying upon a table. “I promised Hannay I would do so.” He tilted his head and contemplated me. “I suspect I should now give that letter to you, rather than post it. I take it you can convey it to Sir Walter at his cottage near Aldermaston.”61

  “Where, did you say?”

  “The town is in Berkshire, on the Kennet. He goes there for midsummer and the week after.”62

  “I doubt he is there now,” I said, though I recalled one of Bullivant’s contact addresses as being in in Berkshire. “Ironically, I should think the Hannay matter would be keeping him in London.”

  “Well,” said Sir Harry, “I suggest you get him to keep to his usual plan, for the cottage in Berkshire is where Hannay intends to go first, to seek out my godfather. To identify himself, he will give Twisdon as his name and be whistling ‘Annie Laurie.’”

  I leaned back in my chair, suddenly feeling the weight of my fatigue.

  “Sir,” said the innkeeper, bending in my direction, “are you all right?”

  “It is just a momentary weariness. Sir Harry,” I said, “you are certain we could not find Hannay out in the countryside?”

  “I received the very strong impression that he is skilled at fieldcraft,” said Sir Harry. “And tough as nails, too. Why, the man showed me some African native trick of his: he tossed that hunting knife on display over there and caught the damned thing in his lips, by God.”

  Ewan Clark chuckled. “It’s like yet another detail out of Rider Haggard,” he said. “But then, listen to me talk,” the young man went on, �
�sitting here, as I am, next to someone flesh and blood out of Conan Doyle.”

  I was numb to the bone, and so I merely addressed Sir Harry once more. “Can you give me detailed directions to Sir Walter’s Berkshire residence?” I asked.

  “Why, of course,” the man replied. “I’ve visited there often enough during my life—even as a boy, I stayed there with my family. It’s a pretty place, with a lawn running down to the stream, and lilacs and—what are they?—oh, yes, guilder-rose lining the path. Quite often—”

  “If you can write it all down—the cottage’s appearance, its location, everything—it would assist me greatly,” I interjected.

  “Of course,” said Sir Harry. “Straightaway. And I will rouse one of the servants to prepare some small meal for you, for you appear rather in, Dr. Watson.”

  “Thank you,” I said, gesturing toward Clark. “I am not certain if also—”

  “I trust you will not sup alone,” said Sir Harry. “You wish to join him?” he asked, glancing at the innkeeper, who in turn looked my way.

  “I believe we should both appreciate some small bit of food,” I replied at once, smiling at the young man who had delivered me here.

  And so it was that the two of us partook of collops and black bun, washed down with some sugarelly,63 while Sir Harry looked on, slowly nursing a glass of wine. I freely related to both him and the innkeeper more of my own story, revealing only those parts that corroborated what Sir Harry already knew of the affair. The innkeeper hung on my every word, and our host simply sat back, glass in hand, nodding now and then.

  “Well,” said Sir Harry at length, “I suppose we must start you off for Berkshire and trust that you will be there to greet Mr. Hannay when he arrives. Are you concerned, Doctor, about your associate, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I do not know how to respond,” I declared. “Obviously, he has not yet crossed paths with Hannay, and I’ve received no word from him. Still, I long ago came to trust in the man without reservation, and despite the passage of time, that trust has not diminished. He will reappear, I should think.”

  “And in glory,” added the innkeeper, “as at Dartmoor.”

  “What?” I said.

  “The Baskerville case,” explained the young man. “Have you not read it, or recall it from your own experience? Surely Mr. Holmes will turn up here as he did then, and victorious to boot?”

  “Ah yes,” I replied patiently. “I trust that to happen eventually. Sooner rather than later, however, would be better.”

  “In any event,” said Sir Harry, “how may I assist you in getting to Berkshire?”

  “If you can transport me to Dumfries, I will be able to reunite with Captain Harper. He can then fly me down to Aldermaston, assuming that additional fuel has arrived, as he said it would.”

  “Excellent. When do you wish to start?”

  It was already getting on past four in the morning, and though I had had no sleep for close to a day, I knew what my answer must be.

  “Shortly,” I replied. “I expect if we leave soon, it will be light by the time we arrive in Dumfries.”

  “Very well, then,” said Sir Harry, finishing his wine in one gulp and setting the glass down. He rose to his feet. “I will change and then bring out the motor.”

  “And may I accompany you?” asked Ewan Clark. “I’d very much enjoy it.”

  “Two additional men are needed to help start the aeroplane,” I said with a gentle smile. “I expect both of you will be invaluable in that regard.”

  “That’s most grand!” Clark declared.

  “Indeed it is,” agreed Sir Harry.

  § § §

  In less than a quarter hour, we found ourselves before the Dunfeardon manor house. My host had supplied me with a spare riding coat, which supplemented the goggles the innkeeper had already given me.

  “I know the way to Dumfries, but I will follow you, sir,” said the innkeeper.

  “Very well. Ready to step aboard, Doctor?” Sir Harry asked.

  Wordlessly, I opened the passenger door of the motorcar, prompting Sir Harry to smile as he opened the door on his side, and the two of us got into the automobile.

  We rode along winding stretches of road before reaching the main thoroughfare that led back to Dumfries. With the innkeeper on his motor bicycle keeping a distance from our rear, Sir Harry and I engaged in only occasional conversation, all of it pertaining to the local flora and fauna. We encountered no one else upon the road until we were perhaps halfway to our destination, when, in the brilliance of our lights, I saw a lone bicyclist approaching.

  Sir Harry immediately slowed the automobile so that, I supposed, we might obtain a revealing look at the oncoming rider. The cyclist, however, proved to be merely a local man, who cursed us most vehemently for the noise and glare of our vehicle.

  At length, as the horizon behind us began to glow warmly, we entered the outskirts of Dumfries. I am certain we roused several of the inhabitants while passing through town, though by now several men were out on foot and we encountered two carts while making our way to Constable Taylor’s cottage.

  Taylor and his wife were already up and about, and it was the young policeman himself who opened the door before Sir Harry and I had even debarked from the automobile. Taylor approached us as the innkeeper pulled up in his motor bicycle.

  “I take it you found Sir Harry Christey at last,” the constable said to me in a low voice. “The wife and I were a mite worried last night when you dinna return.” He looked at Sir Harry and bade him greeting, also giving Ewan Clark a friendly halloa as the innkeeper stepped from his vehicle and pulled off his goggles. “I don’t know that we can sit you all together, but I can offer you all a bit of breakfast if—”

  “I am safe and all is well,” I replied hurriedly. “However, it is imperative that I depart presently. Forgive my abruptness, Constable Taylor, but have you my valise still in your possession?”

  “That I do, sir. My wife had taken upon herself to clean your shirt from the other day, and your bag has been repacked, if you don’t mind the liberty taken.”

  “Not at all. Might you fetch it? And thank your wife for—”

  I stopped, having noticed Mrs. Taylor, now standing in the still open doorway of the cottage.

  “Is all well with you, Mr. Price?” she called out.

  Sir Harry and Ewan Clark both glanced at me oddly.

  “And who is Mr. Price, Dr. Watson?” asked the former, causing both Charles Taylor and his wife to now give me a look of surprise as well.

  “Come,” I said after an awkward pause. “Let us all go inside. I will fetch my valise and explain myself, truthfully, once and for all.”

  Minutes later, I was once more beside Sir Harry Christey, riding south along the Abbey Road. The innkeeper followed us in his motor bicycle, with Charlie Taylor beside him—the constable had declared his desire to accompany us to Captain Harper and the aeroplane, indicating his decided preference for riding in the sidecar.

  The sun was just clearing hills to the east when we pulled up beside the open field where Captain Harper’s biplane still rested. Smoke rose straight up from a small fire tended by the pilot, who turned and waved to us. As we approached, I saw that the officer was preparing a hearty set of eggs and meat in a large skillet supported over the fire.

  “People have been most generous,” the pilot said as we approached him on foot. “I’ve almost been expecting someone to drop off a four-poster.”

  “Has the aeroplane been refuelled?” I asked immediately.

  “Oh yes, it has. Boys from Montrose arrived late yesterday in a horse-drawn army lorry and topped her off.”64

  Quickly, I introduced Sir Harry and Ewan Clark to the airman and revealed to Captain Harper that Richard Hannay had been the object of my journey—and disclosing my own true identity at the same time. I told him of the need to fly to Aldermaston without delay.

  The pilot took the revelations in stride, casually tending his skillet as he listened to
my confession. Removing the iron from the fire, he set it aside and cast a glance upward.

  “So may I have my breakfast before we go aloft, Dr. Watson?” he asked.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Do you wish to join me?” the officer asked of us. “I have no objection, though there is a shortage of plate and utensils.”

  “That would render your ration quite intolerably small,” said Sir Harry. “You’ll need your strength to convey Dr. Watson south.”

  And so Captain Harper made short work of the eggs and meat, and then quickly disbanded his camp, entrusting Charlie Taylor with the task of returning to their owners the skillet and other few small items that had been loaned him by local residents during my absence.

  After donning my flying clothes, I and the other three men joined the pilot in moving the aeroplane into position. Stones were employed as improvised chocks, and Captain Harper instructed my other companions in how to assist in starting the engine.

  The cylinders were injected with fuel using the syringe that we had brought from Hulton, and all appeared ready, until a controversy arose concerning who would actually set the wooden propeller into motion. At length, three blades of grass were pulled from the field by Captain Harper, who shortened one of them and then had Constable Taylor, Ewan Clark, and Sir Harry each pick from his fist.

  The innkeeper was the winner and cheerfully approached the aeroplane, ready to do his duty. After brief discussion, the constable agreed to grasp the innkeeper’s belt from behind while Sir Harry held the tailskid, and so with that arrangement we were ready to depart, now before a small crowd that had slowly gathered in the quiet morning.

  With me once more in the forward cockpit and Captain Harper sitting behind in his, the innkeeper gave the propeller a strong heave. Almost at once, he was yanked free of the blade, which made a single rotation and then stopped.

  “She’s been sitting for quite some time,” the pilot called out. “It will take perhaps several tries. Again?”

  Once more, Clark stepped forward and pulled at the blade, again to no effect. He was about to take hold of the propeller a third time when Charlie Taylor gently stopped him.