Chapter 5 Three Broken Threads

Sherlock Holmes had, in a very remarkable degree, the power of

detaching his mind at will. For two hours the strange business in

which we had been involved appeared to be forgotten, and he was

entirely absorbed in the pictures of the modern Belgian masters.

He would talk of nothing but art, of which he had the crudest

ideas, from our leaving the gallery until we found ourselves at

the Northumberland Hotel.

"Sir Henry Baskerville is upstairs expecting you," said the

clerk. "He asked me to show you up at once when you came."

"Have you any objection to my looking at your register?" said

Holmes.

"Not in the least."

The book showed that two names had been added after that of

Baskerville. One was Theophilus Johnson and family, of Newcastle;

the other Mrs. Oldmore and maid, of High Lodge, Alton.

"Surely that must be the same Johnson whom I used to know," said

Holmes to the porter. "A lawyer, is he not, gray-headed, and

walks with a limp?"

"No, sir; this is Mr. Johnson, the coal-owner, a very active

gentleman, not older than yourself."

"Surely you are mistaken about his trade?"

"No, sir! he has used this hotel for many years, and he is very

well known to us."

"Ah, that settles it. Mrs. Oldmore, too; I seem to remember the

name. Excuse my curiosity, but often in calling upon one friend

one finds another."

"She is an invalid lady, sir. Her husband was once mayor of

Gloucester. She always comes to us when she is in town."

"Thank you; I am afraid I cannot claim her acquaintance. We have

established a most important fact by these questions, Watson," he

continued in a low voice as we went upstairs together. "We know

now that the people who are so interested in our friend have not

settled down in his own hotel. That means that while they are, as

we have seen, very anxious to watch him, they are equally anxious

that he should not see them. Now, this is a most suggestive

fact."

"What does it suggest?"

"It suggests--halloa, my dear fellow, what on earth is the

matter?"

As we came round the top of the stairs we had run up against Sir

Henry Baskerville himself. His face was flushed with anger, and

he held an old and dusty boot in one of his hands. So furious was

he that he was hardly articulate, and when he did speak it was in

a much broader and more Western dialect than any which we had

heard from him in the morning.

"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 today 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. 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 Daftmoor 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 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."

"It is 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 10:30 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 2,704," 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 half-way 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."

Read next: Chapter 6 Baskerville Hall

Read previous: Chapter 4 Sir Henry Baskerville

Table of content of Hound of the Baskervilles



GO TO TOP OF SCREEN

Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book