by Anita Janda
You know, I’d much rather Holmes had accepted his fair share of the proceeds and shown an intelligent interest in this side of the business, instead of burdening me with gifts I can’t accept, like the Gloria Scott and the Musgrave ritual. He makes me feel like this is all Watson’s Foolishness, this idea I had of preparing his adventures for publication. Why doesn’t he just say he’d rather I dropped the whole thing, if that’s how he feels about it?
The way I see it, there are the adventures I can’t afford to tell, ever, like that business of the Naval Treaty and the Beryl Coronet and the Second Stain: adventures whose telling would threaten the national interest or my hide. I am thinking now particularly of the adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton (a pseudonym, of course), the blackmailer who was murdered before our eyes while we were engaged in burgling his safe. I see no advantage, to me or to Holmes, in bringing that little escapade before the public. That is not the kind of case Holmes needs more of. Then there are the adventures I can’t tell for reasons of public taste and morals: the adventure of the Etheric Manipulators and the Jamison case spring to mind. It is no accident that Holmes, hearing from Mary that I was working on “the Cartwright case,” suggested that I turn my hand to the Jamison affair. The foiled bank robbery is excellent as far as it goes, certainly I can understand Holmes’s preference for this one of all his cases, but how can I possibly accommodate the distraction of poor, soft Rufus Jamison in print? Pornography is no more my style than it is the Strand’s. There are the adventures I tried to tell and shouldn’t have: ‘The Sign of Four,’ ‘The Adventure of the Speckled Band,’ ‘The Boscombe Valley Mystery,’ ‘The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor’ and ‘The Five Orange Pips.’ The adventures that are too complicated to be accommodated in 6,000 words. The adventures that the client would prefer me to keep secret. (I think we can safely include the Jamison case in this group.) And now, the adventures that Holmes would prefer me to keep secret.
Mary was so disappointed. She loved those stories.
“Your diary, John.”
And the moral of that is, never impress a woman unless you are prepared to go on impressing her.
Chapter 6
Once again, Lestrade has chosen the better part of valour. I like Lestrade. I really do.
After much searching of his conscience (and his own best interests), Inspector Lestrade has provided Holmes with a fair copy of the two authenticated Ripper letters in his own best handwriting and is consequently in deep disgrace.
“You mark my words, Watson: if these foul murders go unpunished, it will be a blot upon the Yard forever. And it will be Lestrade’s fault!”
I like Lestrade. Even now, perched on a crag 200 miles away from my Mary, in a miserable situation in which I may say I feel Lestrade has (indirectly, indirectly) some slight responsibility for placing me, I cannot find it in my heart to feel otherwise than warmly toward him. He handles Holmes so badly.
Holmes was in a passion, flinging himself about our sitting room as if he were in Baker Street, where everything breakable has long since been broken, and Mary was in a state, visibly steeling herself every time he passed one of her treasures. As for me, I was more distracted than either of them. I kept picturing the look on Lestrade’s face as Holmes deduced from the samples provided that the infamous Ripper was a man of average height, thick-set, with a clubbed thumb, ginger hair, a mild case of amblyopia, and a bad habit of bearing down on his pen until the nib gives way; a man of indifferent education, a probable Inspector at Scotland Yard.
There are times when I think I may have a better memory for the scenes I’ve missed than for the ones I’ve witnessed.
A porcelain figurine leapt off the table in Holmes’s wake. By some miracle of coordination I should not care to have to repeat, I caught the thing before it hit the carpet: a Meissen shepherdess. Naturally, Holmes was looking elsewhere at the time. He had come to rest in front of the window and was staring out at the fog. I could see his knuckles whiten as he throttled the curtains. It was understandable, I decided. Lestrade would try the patience of a saint.
Holmes was speaking to me. “What do you think of Dartmoor at this time of year?”
“Dartmoor, Holmes?” My mind raced stupidly along the lines provided by that night’s Evening Standard. Not the escaped convict, surely? I restored the little shepherdess to a more secure place, well behind her more expendable sheep. “You are thinking of taking a holiday?”
He released the curtains. “When have you ever known me to take a holiday?” he snorted.
He was quite right. I had had to drag him to Reigate last year. “I beg your pardon, Holmes. There is a case?” (I was careful not to ask him whether there was a case worth travelling to Dartmoor for. Holmes is not a happy traveller.)
“I hardly know what it is. What would you think, Watson, of a spectral hound that dogs the steps (ha, very good, dogs the steps, Watson!) of a family unto the second, third, fourth generation?”
We were all attention. “A spectral hound, you say, Holmes?”
“By all accounts a fearsome spectacle, responsible for the deaths of one Baskerville after another. There is a family legend, you understand.”
It was the only part I did understand. Sherlock Holmes, investigating a spectral hound?
“But Holmes, …” I began.
Don’t discourage him, said the look on my wife’s face. They were her mother’s curtains, I remembered. I changed course immediately.
“… this is wonderful! There is bound to be an adventure in this one.” I let a note of doubt creep into my voice. “You are sure about the family legend?”
“Would I tell you there was a family legend if I were not? There is a letter extant, early eighteenth century, I was able to date it within the decade,”—is there anything he has not studied?—“one of those morbid ‘To be given to my sons on the occasion of my death’ exercises that served to enliven the obsequies of that cheerful age. Can you imagine anything more unpleasant, Watson, than a reminder on the occasion of your father’s funeral that the sins of that father and his father before him shall be visited upon their sons unto future generations yet unborn? I can’t. It’s the Garden of Eden all over again. The letter will make a delightful addition to your tale, I have already arranged with Sir Henry for its inclusion. I offer you the traditional warning to the sons of the house, the house itself (a lonely manor within walking distance of Dartmoor Prison),” —you would have thought the Prison was the height of my touristic ambitions—”and a hearty, fresh-faced American heir with one boot. You know how you like Americans, Watson.”
“One boot?” I asked. I was reminded of a pair of ears, nestled amid a quantity of salt.
“Two feet, one boot. It is a long story, Watson, and with all due respect to Mrs Watson, these are not the circumstances in which I should wish you to hear it. There is a walking stick, too, which I should be glad to have your opinion of. No, not one of mine, although I would appreciate the return of the one I lent you: I acquired it under rather unusual circumstances. Thank you, Watson—you may keep the neckerchief. It suits you. We breakfast with the last of the Baskervilles at eight tomorrow; the train for Devon departs two hours later. You should plan on a stay of at least two weeks, possibly as many as four. Dear lady,” he bowed, “has your husband your permission to join us?”
What could she say? “You make me ridiculous, Mr Holmes, with your remarks. Of course John must go if he wishes to do so.”
What could I say? “Eight o’clock, Holmes? At which hotel?”
Holmes was ever a late riser. “If you could be at Baker Street at half-past seven, Watson, that will do nicely. Mrs Hudson will provide the breakfast.”
* * *
Because I arrived promptly at seven-thirty, breakfast (“What ho, Mrs Hudson! Mrs Hudson? Ah, Mrs Hudson. Breakfast for four in half an hour, Mrs Hudson”) would, I knew, be served promptly at eight. I wish Mary were better acquainted with Holmes and his habits. It could only serve to increase her good opinio
n of me.
“No need to linger on the landing, Watson. Come in, come in. You’re up early. Shaved, too, I see. And packed. I shall be ready in a moment. Mind the mat. The left corner is undone, a little trap for the unwary. I must remember to mention it to Mrs Hudson. Remind me, won’t you, Watson?”
I wondered how long he had been warning his guests about the mat. Eventually, he would probably solve the problem by tacking a note to his door: “Mind the mat.” The same tack would, I knew, serve to secure the mat. The tack hammer was right where I had left it. The tacks were in the Coronation tea cup. The mat was in the hall.
“Watson? Where are you, Watson? He can’t have gone far, his luggage is still here. Ah, there you are, Watson. All set? Good. I can’t think if you’re going to wander off every time I start to talk to you. What are you doing with that tack hammer? We have no time for tack hammers today, Watson,” he said severely. He was holding a walking stick. “Go on, take it. I would call your attention to the teethmarks: there and again there. It belongs to Dr Mortimer, purveyor of the Baskerville family legend, executor of the Baskerville family estate, and the closest thing we have to a client at this present. We must see if we cannot bring Sir Henry to a better appreciation of the perils of his situation. It is grave, Watson, very grave, and he is thoughtless, made giddy by the size of his inheritance. Imagine, Watson, a quarter of a million pounds! I must finish dressing before our two young friends arrive.”
Ever since he turned thirty-five, Holmes has decided that he is middle-aged. This allows him to adopt an avuncular manner toward any client as little as six months younger than he is (witness “our two young friends”) while simultaneously annoying the hell out of me, three years his senior. Mary finds this exquisitely funny, but then she would. Mary’s still in her twenties.
Everything about this case has taken me by surprise. Sir Henry, whose sole claim to giddiness as far as I can see consists of his purchase of two plain suits of clothing and one pair of boots to celebrate the occasion (I’d hate to think how Holmes would describe my behaviour if I were to come into a quarter of a million pounds), the fact that I am on the case alone, even Dr Mortimer’s black spaniel pup, Cerberus. I suppose Dr Mortimer feels that anyone with sufficient education to recognize the dog’s name has sufficient education to rise above the allusion, but it would give me a turn to find myself attended by a physician accompanied by a coal-black dog answering to the name of Cerberus, and I do not make the mistake of imagining that I am unique, in this regard or in any other. It was Cerberus (“the other hound from hell,” as Holmes so succinctly put it) whose teethmarks were on Dr Mortimer’s walking stick.
This demonstration of Holmes’s deductive powers will be infinitely more impressive once I make sure it precedes his presentation of the Baskerville family legend. It’s a funny thing, but once you introduce the element of a spectral hound into a narrative, the reader will expect that any stray teethmarks of a canine persuasion will be due to that dog and no other. Watson’s First Law: Introduce the puppy before you introduce the Hound.
SIR HENRY BASKERVILLE: two feet, one boot, as promised. To be specific, one new brown boot, borrowed and returned, and one old black boot, still missing. Obviously, the thief prefers the colour black.
The real question is why anyone would willingly put himself at risk returning the first boot when he might with perfect safety have pitched it into the Thames instead. If Holmes has any explanation for this peculiar behaviour, he has thus far kept it to himself, inquiring only as to whether in the first case as in the second, it was the left boot that was taken. Sir Henry really couldn’t say, which all by itself probably accounts for my presence at Baskerville Hall. Holmes can do nothing without data.
My letter to Mary included a full account of the episode of the walking stick and I find that I am in no mood to repeat that conversation here. One post-mortem ought to be enough for anybody. Suffice it to say that as usual, I was wrong and Holmes was right, and here I am in the garden spot of all England (I am speaking facetiously), by myself, virtually without instructions, waiting for a spectral hound to appear.
Holmes passed the muffins, praised the kippers, and gave our two young friends to understand that he could not possibly leave London to its own devices at the present time. Although they remained unspoken, the words “not even for a spectral hound” hovered delicately over the breakfast table. There was no help for it. Holmes had a blackmail case to resolve and the negotiations had reached a critical juncture. Holmes looked knowingly at me. “Watson is the very man. Watson?”
For Holmes, the shortest distance between two points is always a straight line. I was left with my mouth open and my suitcase packed in response to an invitation that Sir Henry had not, in point of fact, issued. I could wish that Holmes would occasionally proceed the way other people do.
To his everlasting credit, with me if no one else, Sir Henry passed this first test of his fitness for his new position in life with flying colours. The invitation was made as warmly as if the idea had been original with him instead of with Holmes. Sir Henry did not mind saying that it would mean a great deal to him to have me at his side, and so on and so forth. Mary knows what he said—she had that conversation, too, in her letter.
Sir Henry is a true gentleman, who will be a credit to Baskerville Hall and a blessing to the surrounding area, always assuming the Hound doesn’t get him first. It will be a pleasure to help him rid himself of his ancestral burden. I only wish I knew what I was supposed to do with myself until Holmes gets here. “Do not let Sir Henry out of your sight!” has a nice ring to it, but it’s not very specific.
* * *
This is a gloomy place. I thought at first that the circumstances of our arrival had unduly prejudiced me against the Hall, but I have seen it in daylight now, such daylight as the Devonshire sun is capable of at this time of year, and it is no such thing. This is a gloomy place.
Memorandum. If so be I am ever in a position actually to write ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles’ (a good title, yes), I must be sure to make it August or September. October is no time to be sitting out on the moor, scribbling in your journal. It’s damnably chilly on Dartmoor in October.
About our arrival. There can be few developments more trying to the composure of the uninvited guest than the wholesale resignation of his host’s domestic staff. I did not know which way to look. I am here as Holmes’s deputy, committed to protecting his interests—his interests and Sir Henry’s life. I could not possibly keep Sir Henry in sight at all times from the vantage point of an hotel. I followed Sir Henry into the Hall.
Now I may not have much experience of colonial sons returning to their ancestral demesnes to claim their inheritance, but surely it is just a trifle unusual for the faithful family retainer to serve notice to the long-awaited heir while he is still on the doorstep, waiting to take possession. There is nothing intrinsically objectionable to Sir Henry, that the mere sight of him should bring the words tumbling from Barrymore’s lips, heedless of my presence. Sir Henry is as presentable an heir as the most exacting servant could wish for. A bit more open in his manner, perhaps, than the good Barrymore is accustomed to, but Sir Henry has been abroad for some years, after all. They might have given him a moment to get his bearings. What’s the matter with Barrymore, anyway?
“Sir Henry, might I have the favour of a word with you after dinner?”
That’s the way it’s done in the novels I’ve read. The manservant requests the favour of a private interview with the new baronet at the new baronet’s convenience, and the new baronet and his friend are shown to their rooms and given every attention. Fires are burning in the grates, hot water appears on the instant, and the meals would bring tears to the eyes of Henry VIII.
The meals at Baskerville Hall would bring tears to the eyes of Henry VIII, all right, but they wouldn’t be tears of joy. This Mrs Barrymore has no more notion of how to dress a joint than Holmes does. I wrote Mary a whole long letter last night, telling her how mu
ch I miss her. It wasn’t until I read it over later, about to sign it, that I realized it was really about how much I miss Cook.
There is something amiss with the Barrymores, I can feel it.
Such is the progress of my investigation, and I can imagine what Holmes would find to say to me were I to confess as much to him. “Holmes, there is something amiss with the Barrymores; she is a terrible cook and he is precipitate in his actions.” No, this particular insight is best kept within the confines of my diary.
So far, my stay at the Hall has served primarily to reconcile me to my own infinitely more meagre patrimony. Not twice a quarter of a million pounds could induce me to bury myself here and I am not even thinking about the Hound—the Hound is a separate problem. All I do all day is write. I write to Mary, I write to Holmes, I write in my diary. At least Mary writes back. I haven’t heard a word from Holmes since I got here. Sir Henry seems perfectly content for me to spend my time in this way (“I never met a Writer before”), but I cannot say that I am equally contented by it.
Where is Holmes? That is the question. Fortunately, Sir Henry is too polite to ask it of me, but I am under no such constraint myself. Sooner or later, it is bound to occur to a man with a quarter of a million pounds that he can afford to lose one old boot and then where will we be? I have done what I could with the anonymous letter Sir Henry received while he was in London, but there is a deal of difference between a cryptic communication in town and a supernatural communication at home and we have yet to see any least sign of the latter here at the Hall. Where is Holmes? It goes without saying that if Holmes has a blackmail case in town, I am delighted to be in Devon, spectral hound or no spectral hound (it will be a long, long time before I forget the name of Charles Augustus Milverton, I can promise you that), but he should have been able to solve half a dozen blackmail cases by now. He forgets, I know his methods.