"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."
CHAPTER VI
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.
"I've been over a good part of the world since I left it, Dr.
Watson," said he; "but I have never seen a place to compare with it."
"I never saw a Devonshire man who did not swear by his county," I
remarked.
"It depends upon the breed of men quite as much as on the county,"
said Dr. Mortimer. "A glance at our friend here reveals the rounded
head of the Celt, which carries inside it the Celtic enthusiasm and
power of attachment. Poor Sir Charles's head was of a very rare type,
half Gaelic, half Ivernian in its characteristics. But you were very
young when you last saw Baskerville Hall, were you not?"
"I was a boy in my 'teens at the time of my father's death, and had
never seen the Hall, for he lived in a little cottage on the South
Coast. Thence I went straight to a friend in America. I tell you it
is all as new to me as it is to Dr. Watson, and I'm as keen as
possible to see the moor."
"Are you? Then your wish is easily granted, for there is your first
sight of the moor," said Dr. Mortimer, pointing out of the carriage
window.
Over the green squares of the fields and the low curve of a wood
there rose in the distance a gray, melancholy hill, with a strange
jagged summit, dim and vague in the distance, like some fantastic
landscape in a dream. Baskerville sat for a long time, his eyes fixed
upon it, and I read upon his eager face how much it meant to him,
this first sight of that strange spot where the men of his blood had
held sway so long and left their mark so deep. There he sat, with his
tweed suit and his American accent, in the corner of a prosaic
railway-carriage, and yet as I looked at his dark and expressive face
I felt more than ever how true a descendant he was of that long line
of high-blooded, fiery, and masterful men. There were pride, valour,
and strength in his thick brows, his sensitive nostrils, and his
large hazel eyes. If on that forbidding moor a difficult and
dangerous quest should lie before us, this was at least a comrade for
whom one might venture to take a risk with the certainty that he
would bravely share it.
The train pulled up at a small wayside station and we all descended.
Outside, beyond the low, white fence, a wagonette with a pair of cobs
was waiting. Our coming was evidently a great event, for
station-master and porters clustered round us to carry out our
luggage. It was a sweet, simple country spot, but I was surprised to
observe that by the gate there stood two soldierly men in dark
uniforms, who leaned upon their short rifles and glanced keenly at us
as we passed. The coachman, a hard-faced, gnarled little fellow,
saluted Sir Henry Baskerville, and in a few minutes we were flying
swiftly down the broad, white road. Rolling pasture lands curved
upward on either side of us, and old gabled houses peeped out from
amid the thick green foliage, but behind the peaceful and sunlit
country-side there rose ever, dark against the evening sky, the long,
gloomy curve of the moor, broken by the jagged and sinister hills.
The wagonette swung round into a side road, and we curved upward
through deep lanes worn by centuries of wheels, high banks on either
side, heavy with dripping moss and fleshy hart's-tongue ferns.
Bronzing bracken and mottled bramble gleamed in the light of the
sinking sun. Still steadily rising, we passed over a narrow granite
bridge, and skirted a noisy stream which gushed swiftly down, foaming
and roaring amid the gray boulders. Both road and stream wound up
through a valley dense with scrub oak and fir. At every turn
Baskerville gave an exclamation of delight, looking eagerly about him
and asking countless questions. To his eyes all seemed beautiful, but
to me a tinge of melancholy lay upon the country-side, which bore so
clearly the mark of the waning year. Yellow leaves carpeted the lanes
and fluttered down upon us as we passed. The rattle of our wheels
died away as we drove through drifts of rotting vegetation--sad
gifts, as it seemed to me, for Nature to throw before the carriage of
the returning heir of the Baskervilles.
"Halloa!" cried Dr. Mortimer, "what is this?"
A steep curve of heath-clad land, an outlying spur of the moor, lay
in front of us. On the summit, hard and clear like an equestrian
statue upon its pedestal, was a mounted soldier, dark and stern, his
rifle poised ready over his forearm. He was watching the road along
which we travelled.
"What is this, Perkins?" asked Dr. Mortimer.
Our driver half turned in his seat.
"There's a convict escaped from Princetown, sir. He's been out three
days now, and the warders watch every road and every station, but
they've had no sight of him yet. The farmers about here don't like
it, sir, and that's a fact."
