The Victorian Mystery Megapack: 27 Classic Mystery Tales

by Charles Dickens

  Dr. Mortimer started violently. “Followed! By whom?”

  “That, unfortunately, is what I cannot tell you. Have you among your neighbours or acquaintances on Dartmoor any man with a black, full beard?”

  “No—or, let me see—why, yes. Barrymore, Sir Charles’s butler, is a man with a full, black beard.”

  “Ha! Where is Barrymore?”

  “He is in charge of the Hall.”

  “We had best ascertain if he is really there, or if by any possibility he might be in London.”

  “How can you do that?”

  “Give me a telegraph form. ‘Is all ready for Sir Henry?’ That will do. Address to Mr. Barrymore, Baskerville Hall. What is the nearest telegraph-office? Grimpen. Very good, we will send a second wire to the postmaster, Grimpen: ‘Telegram to Mr. Barrymore to be delivered into his own hand. If absent, please return wire to Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel.’ That should let us know before evening whether Barrymore is at his post in Devonshire or not.”

  “That’s so,” said Baskerville. “By the way, Dr. Mortimer, who is this Barrymore, anyhow?”

  “He is the son of the old caretaker, who is dead. They have looked after the Hall for four generations now. So far as I know, he and his wife are as respectable a couple as any in the county.”

  “At the same time,” said Baskerville, “it’s clear enough that so long as there are none of the family at the Hall these people have a mighty fine home and nothing to do.”

  “That is true.”

  “Did Barrymore profit at all by Sir Charles’s will?” asked Holmes.

  “He and his wife had five hundred pounds each.”

  “Ha! Did they know that they would receive this?”

  “Yes; Sir Charles was very fond of talking about the provisions of his will.”

  “That is very interesting.”

  “I hope,” said Dr. Mortimer, “that you do not look with suspicious eyes upon everyone who received a legacy from Sir Charles, for I also had a thousand pounds left to me.”

  “Indeed! And anyone else?”

  “There were many insignificant sums to individuals, and a large number of public charities. The residue all went to Sir Henry.”

  “And how much was the residue?”

  “Seven hundred and forty thousand pounds.”

  Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I had no idea that so gigantic a sum was involved,” said he.

  “Sir Charles had the reputation of being rich, but we did not know how very rich he was until we came to examine his securities. The total value of the estate was close on to a million.”

  “Dear me! It is a stake for which a man might well play a desperate game. And one more question, Dr. Mortimer. Supposing that anything happened to our young friend here—you will forgive the unpleasant hypothesis!—who would inherit the estate?”

  “Since Rodger Baskerville, Sir Charles’s younger brother died unmarried, the estate would descend to the Desmonds, who are distant cousins. James Desmond is an elderly clergyman in Westmoreland.”

  “Thank you. These details are all of great interest. Have you met Mr. James Desmond?”

  “Yes; he once came down to visit Sir Charles. He is a man of venerable appearance and of saintly life. I remember that he refused to accept any settlement from Sir Charles, though he pressed it upon him.”

  “And this man of simple tastes would be the heir to Sir Charles’s thousands.”

  “He would be the heir to the estate because that is entailed. He would also be the heir to the money unless it were willed otherwise by the present owner, who can, of course, do what he likes with it.”

  “And have you made your will, Sir Henry?”

  “No, Mr. Holmes, I have not. I’ve had no time, for it was only yesterday that I learned how matters stood. But in any case I feel that the money should go with the title and estate. That was my poor uncle’s idea. How is the owner going to restore the glories of the Baskervilles if he has not money enough to keep up the property? House, land, and dollars must go together.”

  “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 goodwill 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 ten-thirty 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-thre
e 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 No. 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 halfway 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 he said: ‘It might interest you to know that you have been driving Mr. Sherlock Holmes.’ That’s how I come 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 his 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.”

  Chapter 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 injunctions 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 forever.”

  “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.