by Anita Janda
Mr Lassiter is going to be a problem.
* * *
Progress at last: Barrymore has taken umbrage over our persecution(!) of poor Selden and I have turned the situation to our advantage, I think. It is best that I not say how, I am afraid that it is not quite legal. (Am I committing a felony? I must ask Holmes.) Barrymore then returned the favour with a piece of news that confirms my original hypothesis—Sir Charles did indeed have an appointment with a lady that evening, a lady with the initials “L.L.” Not Miss Stapleton, I conclude. That’s a load off my mind. Best of all, Sir Henry has sent me off to my room to compose my report for Holmes. A lucky chance, since it means I have leisure for a little nap. My report is done, it won’t take but a minute to add the news of Sir Charles’s erstwhile lady friend. I knew Mr Lassiter was going to be a problem. Five will get you ten she’s a relative, a cherished daughter for preference. He’s been a widower for some years, so it can’t be his wife. That’s something, at all events. At least we won’t be dealing with a case of adultery again.
For what it’s worth, I don’t believe Barrymore’s tale of the burnt letter for a moment, his wife cleaning out the grate after Sir Charles’s death, finding the charred remains with only the “L.L.” signature still legible, in (of course) a lady’s hand—it smacks of Wilkie Collins—but I expect the information itself is accurate enough. Why should Barrymore lie to me? No reason at all, particularly now. It’s just our careful Barrymore, salving his conscience by giving me the lady’s initials instead of her name. He didn’t betray the lady. Oh no, of course not.
I must ask Dr Mortimer whether Mr Lassiter has a daughter. It is going to be a beautiful day after I get some sleep.
* * *
I can tell you exactly what he said. He came in out of the cold and wet, whipped off his coat and hat, and asked me a question. “Would you say I was irascible?” he asked. And I answered him. “Why, no, not to your face,” I said. The cleverness of my response woke me up directly. Now I’ll never know what Holmes would have answered me. I tell myself it’s just as well. Judging from Holmes’s behaviour when I am awake, he would not have been at a loss for words for long.
In one of those eerie coincidences that so often superintends the proximity of the waking and the sleeping worlds, I have learned that while I was evading Holmes in my dreams, Sir Henry was evading me in reality. Leaving me (as he supposed) engaged in composing my report for Holmes (but actually composing myself for sleep), Sir Henry slipped away to Merripit House for a clandestine visit with Miss Stapleton. It’s wonderful what love can do. Last night, Sir Henry was shaking in his shoes at the sound of the Hound. This morning, he is haring off across the moor, by himself, without a second thought. I don’t know which Sir Henry I like better: the one who is not ashamed to be afraid or the one who is not ashamed to be in love. That young man is a bundle of feelings and no mistake. It makes quite a change from dealing with Holmes.
I have been as stern with Sir Henry as I knew how to be but even so, I am afraid to leave him until I am assured that he is properly penitent. I am in no mood to lose Holmes’s client for him now that I am beginning to believe that there may be a case in all of this. Better I should wait for Holmes to investigate the mysterious “L.L.” than that I should permit Sir Henry to jeopardize his safety again.
So here we sit, on either side of the fire, Sir Henry occupied with the everlasting paperwork of the estate, I with my diary, each of us wishing only to be shut of the other so that we might pursue our several goals. I wonder if I might be able to interest Sir Henry in a friendly little game of écarté?
* * *
A letter from Holmes! No date, no salutation, no signature, and practically no message. My word, but Miss Sutherland must be keeping him busy! It’s a good job I know his fist when I see it. Listen to this: “The Hound is real. Sir Henry is in mortal danger. Avoid the moor by night at all costs.”
Even when he doesn’t send a telegram, he does. What does he mean, the Hound is real? The peasants here speak of a supernatural force dedicated to the destruction of the Baskerville family line, a force that takes the shape of a gigantic hound whose slavering dewlaps and maddened eyes drip hellfire. I will not believe this apparition is real. Besides, if the Hound is real, what will it avail us to avoid the moor? I may not know much about the supernatural, but surely it is not so easily thwarted as that.
I know Holmes does nothing without a good reason, but it would certainly be easier on his friends if he could, upon occasion, bring himself to tell us what those reasons are.
“The Hound is real. Sir Henry is in mortal danger. Avoid the moor by night at all costs.”
* * *
Well, it took the better part of the day, but I think he’s got it now. For the longest time, Sir Henry couldn’t seem to understand the object of the game, that he was supposed to try to win. Finally I told him that he should simply pretend that he wanted to win. For the sake of his opponent, I told him. Because unless I believe that he wants to win, I can get no pleasure from beating him. This explanation, which begs the question in at least two places that I can think of, seemed to satisfy him. It certainly improved his play.
I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. A couple of hands of écarté with Sir Henry, and Dr Mortimer will be unmasked for the villain he probably is. It’s a plot worthy of Holmes himself. Dr Mortimer doesn’t stand a chance against him. Over cards, young Baskerville’s overdeveloped graciousness is not far short of an incitement to riot, as I saw myself this afternoon.
“Your Queen, man! Play your Queen. I’m out of clubs, as you’d know if you’d kept count as you should. Play your Queen!” I was actually shouting at him.
“Which Queen should I play?” he asked. As if I could know he had more than one Queen!
I have only to wait until a suitable lull in Dr Mortimer’s skull lecture, interject a comment to the effect that Sir Henry has been learning to play écarté, and await results. Sir Henry’s overdeveloped notions of courtesy will not let him deny the charge in front of me, his teacher; Dr Mortimer will be obliged to oblige; and I will be free to watch the proceedings from a safe distance. Twenty feet or so ought to be close enough.
It may be weak of me, but I find that I would rather take my conversational chances with Barrymore than try for still another convivial evening in the company of my host and Dr Mortimer.
* * *
Cerberus is missing. Now do I write that to Holmes, as a piece of potentially valuable data, or do I keep it to myself, knowing how he feels about lost lap-dogs? I have no other news for him. Barrymore wasn’t exactly a fountain of information tonight and Dr Mortimer stands revealed as the harmless eccentric he appeared to be, innocent of any machinations against Sir Henry.
I must have something to tell Holmes, and that as soon as may be.
Chapter 8
It was in order that I might have something to tell Holmes that I proposed the following plan to Sir Henry: if he would remain within the confines of the Hall during my absence, the whole of my absence, I would undertake to interview Lassiter’s daughter Loretta (initials “L.L.”) of Miss Lassiter’s Typewriting in Coombe Tracey. Whatever deficiencies of judgement or intelligence Holmes may see fit to charge me with in regard to my handling of this case, I hope I may hold myself excused from any imputation of disloyalty or deficiency of purpose. And so I told him.
It was not an easy interview. In fact, it was awkward beyond belief, trying to introduce the topic of Sir Charles Baskerville and the summer-house into the conversation. Miss Lassiter kept smiling and thinking that I was in need of her typewriting services; I would show her my manuscript if only she could be reassuring enough.
“You are a Writer?” she prodded.
Has everyone on Dartmoor heard of ‘A Study in Scarlet’? Dr Mortimer has much to answer for, I thought, all unconscious that a corner of my journal was protruding from my pocket.
Holmes may be right about this. It is possible that I would find a lif
e of deception difficult to sustain.
I was making my way back to the Hall, ignoring the muck (we’ve had our share of rain) and going over my words, trying to put a more flattering construction on my interview with Miss Lassiter, when I was accosted by her father, fairly bursting to tell someone of his find upon the moor. After conning the barren wastes for weeks with his telescope, he has discovered that a gentleman has set up housekeeping in one of the neolithic huts. No, not a warder, the warders gave up the search for Selden almost a week ago. (The more fools they, I thought.) A gentleman it was, a gentleman who keeps a boy running errands for him to Coombe Tracey.
“See for yourself, Dr Watson.”
To my eyes, the boy looked to be about twelve.
I abandoned my previous occupation with alacrity. This would be something I might be proud to share with Holmes. Half a moment, though. Why tell Holmes the beginning of the story when with a little exertion I might have it all? I had many questions about this gentleman. Who was he? What was his purpose on the moor? I would go out to the gentleman’s hut and ask him. I had been successful with Miss Lassiter, after all. I didn’t know whether or not to believe her, but I did have her version of last May’s events: a late-night appointment made but not kept, Sir Charles waiting vainly at the appointed place, the appointment kept by Death in the form of a gigantic Hound. It was for Holmes to decide how much truth there was in it.
I approached warily, the more warily because I could not be certain, now that I was here, which of the several huts in the vicinity was the hut I had seen through Mr Lassiter’s telescope. I burst into three of them before I found the right one. By then I had modified my original strategy, calmed my nerves with tobacco, and was making my entrance with a “Hello? Anyone at home?” on my lips.
As soon as I saw how the place was furnished, I had the answer to all my questions: Holmes. I would have known that orderly disorder anywhere. No doubt Holmes would be able to tell from a cursory examination of the interior when the occupant was due back, but I confess it was beyond my powers. I settled myself to wait for his return.
I have said that I had the answers to all my questions, but in point of fact, I found that I had a whole new set of questions. What had I ever done to him that he should serve me such a trick? I took inventory of his meagre belongings. So, he had been here some days, a week at least. Why would he hide here, so dark and damp as it was? I lit his dark lantern. Does he want to give himself rheumatism? One thing and one thing only I regretted: that I had insufficient light to turn to my diary. It would have helped me give shape to my feelings.
Time passed. I thought of my reports, making their way to an empty apartment in Baker Street. I thought of Mary’s reproaches at my impatience. I thought of Mrs Ogden’s Timothy; sick with what?, I wondered. Well, I was right about one thing: Holmes wasn’t in London working on a blackmail case. I wondered what had been the outcome of the Sutherland debacle. I felt like a fool, twitting him about it. All my sympathy had been wasted. When I write Mary about this, I decided, I will stress the humour in the situation: Lassiter watching Holmes watching Watson watching Sir Henry. So this is what a bachelor has to do for entertainment. Who was watching Lassiter?, I wondered. Dr Mortimer, probably. If I do it right, Mary will laugh.
My face grew warm as I recalled chasing Selden across the moor. It grew warmer when I remembered the stranger’s outline, Holmes’s outline, against the moon and recalled his near-telegraphic communication to me the next day. He must have sent that note off to Baker Street by first light, in order for it to have come back to us so quickly. The afternoon was wearing away. It grew chill. My recognition that this was his lair would mean very little to Holmes, I knew, without some detailed bit of evidence that I could point to—a laundry mark in a shirt, a distinctive bit of cigar ash, a footprint. The more I tried to pin down the reasons for my certainty, the less certain I became. Certainly, there was nothing distinctive in these possessions. What if it were not Holmes? What if this were Selden’s hiding place after all? Slippery Jack Selden, the Notting Hill murderer, and me armed with my journal! Wouldn’t it be better to wait at some distance from the entrance so as to confirm my hypothesis in safety? The thought was father to the deed. I shut the lantern.
“Well done, Watson! But what have you been doing in there these two hours past? I was beginning to think that I should have to come in and get you after all.” He had my discarded cigarillo in hand to justify his hypothesis.
Well done, Holmes. I did not even try to tell him that I had recognized his home away from home. He would not have believed me.
Holmes’s reasons for my deception could not be admitted without argument. Oh, there was the usual blather about the need to keep his presence secret so as to lull the villain(s) into a false sense of security. My lack of guile, his reputation, and so on and so forth. Where does he get this stuff? His fame is hardly greater than mine in this part of the country. Anyone who’s heard of Sherlock Holmes in this neck of the woods has heard of him by way of ‘A Study in Scarlet’, written by one John H. Watson. Stapleton made the connection immediately, as did Miss Lassiter, with very little help from me.
“You can’t be serious,” I said. “How can anything lull a spectral hound into a false sense of security?” I had him there. He changed the subject immediately. It seems that Holmes is worried about his biographer. Of all the infuriating nonsense!
“You have been working in the wrong length, Watson. Your forté is the long story. What we have here,” and he fanned his letters at me, “is the makings of a serial, Watson. Think of it!”
My forté may be anything you like, but what they will buy is adventures, short stories of at most 9,000 words. I have Mr Fitsch’s word on it. Holmes doesn’t know what he is talking about. ‘A Study in Scarlet’ isn’t “a long story,” it’s a short novel.
A serial must be carefully planned. The plot must lend itself to segmentation. There must be a train of narrative segments, each segment approximately the same length, each segment ending on a note of suspense, that suspense resolved in the next instalment and a second, related conflict introduced and carefully heightened in its turn, until the final chapter comprehensively restores the moral fabric, social order, and family peace that were so wantonly disrupted by the narrative play. It is not easy to write a serial.
Even if I could write a serial, I am not persuaded it would be the most advantageous means of introducing Holmes to the general public. Imagine the burden of information the first instalment would have to bear! Imagine the number of introductions that would have to be made: myself, Holmes, Sir Henry, Dr Mortimer (I must have Dr Mortimer), the Barrymores, Selden, the Hound. Imagine the amount of plot that would have to be accommodated, the degree of interest that would have to be aroused to carry the reader from one issue of the magazine to the next. No, this time Holmes has gone too far. I enjoyed the role of biographer when there was some reason why the story should be told, some doubt that I could tell it, and some recognition that when it was told, I had done something. Now that it turns out that serials can be created willy-nilly out of correspondence (at which point no doubt they go out and create their own market, too), I have lost my taste for the part. And so I told him. God knows how our discussion might have ended had the Hound not chosen this particular night to make his appearance.
“Ah, the boom of the bittern,” I observed.
“The boom of the bittern? Watson, it is the Hound!”
All our differences were forgotten in the chase. Well, almost all. I confess I had a rather powerful emotional reaction to the question, “How came you to leave Sir Henry alone and unprotected? When did you leave the Hall?”
Rather than say, “This morning,” I concentrated on keeping my footing.
I had every reason to suppose Sir Henry firmly fixed at the Hall, I told myself. Didn’t I have his word? By following my advice, hadn’t he beaten Dr Mortimer at cards last night? Didn’t I have his word? You may say that I had had his word before withou
t observing its having any material effect on his behaviour, but that would be to deliberately miss the point. Sir Henry is not an habitual liar. On the previous occasion, the provocation had been strong. A marriageable female as attractive as Miss Beryl Stapleton in an area as devoid of attractions as Dartmoor is, must be allowed to be strong provocation. Since Jack Stapleton’s three-month embargo on Sir Henry’s attempts to attach her affections, however, Merripit House could not be allowed as a temptation. Where else could he go? Sir Henry must be found safe at the Hall, I told myself, clutching my side.
“You are out of condition,” was Holmes’s next observation.
I flatly refused to leave Selden’s body at the foot of the tor, to be savaged by the Hound. Every feeling revolted against it. We made shift to carry him to one of the neolithic huts, at a little distance from Holmes’s. He was pitifully light.
Sir Henry had spent the day indoors, at the Hall, and was discovered playing cribbage with Dr Mortimer. Cerberus is still missing. I have deferred further conversation with Holmes until the morning.
* * *
If he says, “Elementary, my dear Watson,” one more time, I shall not be responsible for my actions.
Nothing is as I had imagined it to be. Miss Stapleton is actually Mrs Vandesomething and married to the man who has been passing her off as his sister these two years past. What she must have suffered, being forced to hope month after month that she had not conceived, and she his lawfully wedded wife. How she must hate him! Holmes has not told Sir Henry. No doubt he has his reasons. Miss Lassiter meanwhile has reportedly had hopes of attaching Mr Stapleton, alias Mr Vandesomething, and is in Holmes’s opinion, lucky to be alive. So much for romance on Dartmoor.