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“Seems to me they are playing me for a sucker in this
hotel,” he cried. “They’ll find they’ve started in to monkey with the
wrong man unless they are careful. By thunder, if that chap can’t find my missing
boot there will be trouble. I can take a joke with the best, Mr. Holmes, but they’ve
got a bit over the mark this time.”
“Still looking for your boot?”
“Yes, sir, and mean to find it.”
“But, surely, you said that it was a new brown
boot?”
“So it was, sir. And now it’s an old black
one.”
“What! you don’t mean to say– –?”
“That’s just what I do mean to say. I only had three
pairs in the world– the new brown, the old black, and the patent leathers, which I am
wearing. Last night they took one of my brown ones, and to-day they have sneaked one of
the black. Well, have you got it? Speak out, man, and don’t stand staring!”
An agitated German waiter had appeared upon the scene.
“No, sir; I have made inquiry all over the hotel, but I
can hear no word of it.”
“Well, either that boot comes back before sundown or
I’ll see the manager and tell him that I go right straight out of this hotel.”
“It shall be found, sir–I promise you that if you
will have a little patience it will be found.”
“Mind it is, for it’s the last thing of mine that
I’ll lose in this den of thieves. Well, well, Mr. Holmes, you’ll excuse my
troubling you about such a trifle– –”
“I think it’s well worth troubling about.”
“Why, you look very serious over it.”
“How do you explain it?”
“I just don’t attempt to explain it. It seems the
very maddest, queerest thing that ever happened to me.”
“The queerest perhaps– –” said Holmes
thoughtfully.
“What do you make of it yourself?”
“Well, I don’t profess to understand it yet. This
case of yours is very complex, Sir Henry. When taken in conjunction with your uncle’s
death I am not sure that of all the five hundred cases of capital importance which I have
handled there is one which cuts so deep. But we hold several threads in our hands, and the
odds are that one or other of them guides us to the truth. We may waste time in following
the wrong one, but sooner or later we must come upon the right.”
We had a pleasant luncheon in which little was said of the
business which had brought us together. It was in the private sitting-room to which we
afterwards repaired that Holmes asked Baskerville what were his intentions.
“To go to Baskerville Hall.”
“And when?”
“At the end of the week.”
“On the whole,” said Holmes, “I think that your
decision is a wise one. I have ample evidence that you are being dogged in London, and
amid the millions of this great city it is difficult to discover who these people are or
what their object can be. [694]
If their intentions are evil they might do you a mischief, and we should be powerless to
prevent it. You did not know, Dr. Mortimer, that you were followed this morning from my
house?”
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 [695] 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 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.
[696]
“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-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 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.”
[697]
“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. [698] 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.”
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