The Redacted Sherlock Holmes - Volume 4 Page 16

  “Bruising to the ribs and hips. Severe shock. But otherwise all is well and certainly no broken bones,” I diagnosed. “It would be as well if he stayed on this divan until he is ready to walk.”

  “Get me Mortimer! Get me Mortimer!” insisted Sir Henry hoarsely.

  “As your father is in no immediate danger, I think it might be better if your father had a doctor he was happy with,” I suggested to Peers Baskerville.

  There was a pause before the younger Baskerville replied, “Very well. I shall see to it myself,” and left the room.

  I had assumed he had meant that he would ask Perkins to take a message asking for assistance on the wagonette. When after several minutes had elapsed and Baskerville had not returned, I summoned Westmoreland.

  “Mr Baskerville,” the retainer told me, “has gone on his own to summon help. I would not expect him back for two or three hours.”

  It was a long waiting time as I had to listen to Sir Henry alternate between groans of pain and outbursts now directed not only at Holmes, but also at me. In the end, it was more than four hours before Baskerville reappeared, and when he did so, he was not accompanied by Dr Mortimer, who had been absent on a call when Baskerville had got to him, but by Dr Michaels. The latter carried out another investigation of Sir Henry and recommended, as I had, that the latter be left as he was.

  “I want my own bed,” urged Sir Henry repeatedly and piteously. “And I must see Mortimer in the morning. Mortimer has been this family’s physic for near a quarter-century. He has the interests of the family at heart.” Eventually it was agreed that Michaels would sit through the night at the bedside of the demanding baronet and that a message would be sent to Mortimer to ask him to come to Baskerville Hall the next morning.”

  Michaels gave Sir Henry a sleeping draught while Peers Baskerville and I retired for a late supper.

  IX. Footsteps in the Night

  My reader may imagine that the disquiet that had marred so much of my sleep at Baskerville Hall was magnified by the events of the day. I tossed and turned. The grandfather clock in the corridor chimed the hours, but no stratagem that I could devise aided my sleep. By day the house was always quiet. It was by night that it seemed to come to life with the wind making the branches of the surrounding trees creak ominously and the owls hooting overhead. I was still at a loss on whether there was a mystery to solve. Consideration of Sir Henry’s mental state told me that he might not be long for this world but his physical robustness, as indicated by the way he had withstood the fall onto the awning, was clearly still good. And my visit to the scene of Garside’s death had only served to increase the mystery behind it. Through a gap between the curtains, I could see the moon was making the night bright, but it cast none of its silver beams on my thoughts.

  I was contemplating going downstairs to drink a measure of brandy when I heard the faint but distinct sound of floor boards creaking under the weight of a walker in the corridor outside my room. Every so often the footsteps paused, only to continue. The wing of the Hall that housed my bedroom accommodated only Sir Henry, Peers Baskerville and me, and Dr Michaels, who had been deputed to stay with Sir Henry overnight. Could Michaels be in the corridor outside for his own purposes, whatever they might be? Michaels’ motives for working in the employ of Mortimer remained a mystery to me as he surely could not hope to buy Mortimer’s practice out of the salary that Mortimer paid him. Or could it be Peers Baskerville? If the latter, I was puzzled why a man who was in effect the master of Baskerville Hall should take such extreme measures to temper the sound of his steps. Or was it an intruder making a get-away? It was not possible to rule out an as-yet-unknown person being involved in this case. I got up and very gently opened the door to my room, only to hear the heavy front door downstairs open and close.

  Having dressed as fast as I could, I went down the stairs to the front door and down to the drive. And here, the geography of Baskerville Hall came to my aid. With its situation in a bowl in the hills, I could, from the great door, see right down the long drive and up the curving road along which Peers Baskerville and I had gone and returned that very day. And on the road that climbed the sides of the depression in which Baskerville Hall was located, I could see, standing out against the blackness, a tiny light moving briskly ahead of me. I could see nothing else, but I could see that light and I made it my business to follow it.

  Maybe it was the cool night air, maybe it was my army service pistol in my pocket, maybe it was because I could feel the conviction coursing through my veins that the game was once again afoot - in any case, I felt rejuvenated. By dint of brisk walking, I was able to narrow the distance from the light ahead to two hundred yards and so was able to follow it with ease, assisted by the moon’s beams. In the still night, I muffled my steps by walking on the grass at the side of the road.

  All the while that I followed the light, I speculated whether it was Peers Baskerville or Michaels ahead of me, although I was unable to rid myself of the thought it might be someone else. Could it, it struck me suddenly, be Sir Henry himself? He had not been badly injured in his fall. Could he have woken from his sleeping-draught-induced slumber and be going to see Mortimer, as he had expressed the wish to do. Or perhaps it was someone who had broken into Baskerville Hall and was making good their escape - Seamus Lyons with his dark episodes, or Stapleton, if he were still alive? Had I made the right decision in following the bobbing light, rather than seeing if anyone at the hall needed help? Sometimes, I even speculated that the light ahead of me might be being carried by Holmes. He had appeared from nowhere on my first extended visit to Dartmoor and there was no reason why he might not do something which appeared arbitrary to me, but which made sense to him. This thought above others cheered me on in the darkness, although I knew at heart it was easily the least likely explanation.

  And where was the person carrying the light going? To Grimpen where Mortimer lived, or to Lafter Hall where the Lyons dwelt? Or did the bearer of the lamp - a devilish association, meet for our bleak surroundings of the moor - have an assignation with Anthony at Merripit House? I would know whether it was Merripit House in a few hundred yards, as the side track leading there was just ahead.

  The light went past this turning and then, four miles to the south of Baskerville Hall, the Lyons were left undisturbed as the light went past the turning into their house. So, were we going to Grimpen? Or was our destination somewhere further south still?

  I shortened the distance between myself and the mysterious figure ahead of me to one hundred yards as we were approached the huddle of buildings that constitute the hamlet of Grimpen. The moon suddenly disappeared behind a cloud, meaning that the only thing that could be seen was the tiny flicker held by my quarry. Apart from Dr Michaels, who was either the person ahead of me, or back at Baskerville Hall, Dr Mortimer was the only person I knew in Grimpen, and even then I had never been inside his house. But as I looked ahead through the darkness, I could see the light turn in at Mortimer’s house and then weaving through his garden.

  Then the light descended to ground level. I heard the scuffling sound of something being dragged and I realised that whoever was ahead of me was putting a ladder belonging to the builders against the wall of the house. The light climbed up the side of the house and suddenly there was a tinkling of glass followed almost immediately by the sound of a struggle.

  I climbed up the ladder as quickly as I could. At the top, I could see into Mortimer’s bedroom where he was engaged in a desperate fight with a man I now recognised as Peers Baskerville. On waking, Mortimer must have lit a candle for I could see by its spluttering light that Baskerville had a knife in his hand. Although I had my gun with me, I could not fire at such close quarters and I scrambled through the window to go to Mortimer’s aid.

  Both Mortimer and I were over thirty years older than the sturdy Peers Baskerville, and he had the advantage of surprise. Several times Baskerville rai
sed his arm to stab one of us, but each time the other was able to stop the blow before it fell. The element of surprise was gone, but Baskerville’s youthful strength meant that the outcome of the fight hung in the balance.

  It was only when a servant came in and struck Baskerville a blow over the head with a life-preserver, that Mortimer’s assailant let out a howl of pain and we were able to overcome him. I held my pistol to his temple and two more servants joined us. Between us we managed to pinion Baskerville, thrashing and struggling all the while. I was largely unscathed, but Mortimer had a gash to the head, a puncture wound to the left hand where he had blocked a stabbing attempt on me, a black eye, and his nose was pouring blood.

  Another servant was despatched to the local police station and an aged constable came round.

  I could see the officer’s look of astonishment when he saw whom he had to take into custody, but the state of disarray in Mortimer’s bedroom, the knife, and my testimony, given between my gasps for breath, spoke for themselves. Mortimer sat silent, quite unable to say anything. The constable wisely sent another servant down to Coombe Tracey for reinforcements before making any attempt to take Baskerville to the station.

  Baskerville sat cuffed to the officer with a look of supreme defiance on his face, refusing to answer any questions. Periodically he would strain with all his might against the bonds that fettered him. Mortimer’s natural nerviness, meanwhile, seemed to come to the fore now the crisis was over and he chattered about the most irrelevant topics. For all the look of fury on Baskerville’s face, the Devon physician sought to engage his assailant in conversation, although Baskerville made no response at all and stared out ahead of him. When a maid asked whether anyone would like some tea, Mortimer even asked Baskerville whether he wanted a cup, although he drew no response.

  It was a long two hours and the first streaks of light were in the sky when reinforcements arrived from Coombe Tracey. Baskerville was taken to the station in a carriage, though it took four officers to restrain him. The officers also wanted to take a witness statement from Mortimer and me. I was happy to do so, but objected to Mortimer being obliged to do so in his mental state. Mortimer, however, seemed untroubled by the prospect. “It’s a simple matter,” he said. “The sooner we get this over with, the better.”

  We went to the station in a carriage which followed the conveyance carrying Baskerville. When we arrived at the station, Baskerville was still straining against his bonds to the extent that he needed to be dragged into the station by two burly officers. He was taken to a cell awaiting the arrival of a detective from Exeter who was to carry out an interrogation. While the formalities of a search of Baskerville were being gone through - and even from the station’s front desk I could hear him resisting every attempt to do this - I used the station’s facilities to send a telegram to Holmes with a brief account of what had happened and asking for his urgent presence. I was told I would also need to give a witness statement once Mortimer had given his, and waited outside the interview room while Mortimer went in to do so.

  I could still hear Baskerville crying out and pounding against his cell door in an attempt to break it down, but this was not the only thing I could hear. I do not know how many regulations I was in breach of as I listened, but I could hear raised voices from a second room. And I did not have to strain my hearing much to hear what was being said.

  “Dr Mortimer,” came the rough accent of the constable, loud in disbelief. “You are wounded from head to toe. Mr Baskerville’s assault was clearly murderous. Are you sure that you do not want to press any charges?”

  The question, or variants of it, came time and again, and I could hear Mortimer’s calm voice say, “I will not be party to any charges against the young man.” At length, the door of the interrogation room opened and I heard the officer say, “Go and think about it, Dr Mortimer.”

  “I will do so,” replied Mortimer.

  The officer came out of the interrogation room with a look of perplexity on his face. “We will delay the taking of your witness statement, Dr Watson,” he said, “while Dr Mortimer considers his position.”

  Mortimer sat down opposite me and I was unsure what I should say. In the end, it was he who spoke: “Youthful high spirits, Dr Watson. I don’t see why a man’s prospects should be blighted by his adolescent peccadillos.” He then started talking first about how much he had enjoyed Sunday’s dinner and then about the vagaries of the moorland weather.

  I was unsure how to respond to Mortimer’s remarks. Had the shock of Baskerville’s assault left him unhinged? Or was his apparent willingness to overlook a murderous assault due to his loyalty to the Baskervilles or merely part of the unworldliness that he had always displayed?

  And what was to happen to Peers Baskerville? If Mortimer were unwilling to press a charge, would the police station retain him in custody? Mortimer’s apparent waiving of charges against Baskerville had evidently not been conveyed to the heir to the Baskerville estate, as I could still hear him pounding against the cell door.

  An hour passed and the duty officer came to bring Baskerville some water. As he passed, Mortimer asked solicitously, “Are you going to turn young Mr Baskerville free?”

  “We do not need a witness statement, Dr Mortimer, to hold a man we suspect of responsibility for a serious crime,” responded the constable. “We can hold Mr Baskerville for two days without charging him. Meanwhile you and Dr Watson are free to go. We will arrange for a coach to provide Dr Watson with transport back to Baskerville Hall, although it will be from one of the coaching companies, Dr Watson, and the coachman will expect to be paid when you arrive at the Hall.”

  Baskerville Hall! I now realised that no one was likely to have informed Sir Henry of the detention of his son and the reason for it. I shuddered to think what his reaction might be, and I knew it would be I who would have to give him the news.

  I suggested to Mortimer that if he waited, he could have transport the short distance to his house by the rectory, but he said, “No, indeed. I am sure I will find a walk in the morning sunshine most soothing. Good day, Dr Watson.” And with that, he was on his way, for all his injuries, walking with composure.

  X. Two Altercations

  I stood outside the police station. Within half an hour, I could see the coach that normally waited for passengers outside Coombe Tracey station in the distance. It seemed to be going much faster than a coach of its kind normally would. In a few minutes, I could hear the pounding of hooves before the vehicle drawn by two foaming horses lurched to a shuddering halt, kicking up a cloud of dirt from the road as it did so. And out leapt Sherlock Holmes, all but colliding with me.

  “Watson!” he cried. I had never seen him so discommoded. “I got your telegram and came as fast as I could.”

  “But I sent the telegram only two hours ago. How did you come from London so fast?”

  “I was in Exeter and the telegram was forwarded to me there from Baker Street.”

  “In Exeter?”

  “Yes, there were matters I needed to investigate there. As soon as I received your telegram, I came here by the first train. When I arrived at Coombe Tracey, I was told that a coach had been summoned to pick up a passenger at Grimpen and so I climbed on board. I little knew,” he continued, “that the person for whom the coach had been summoned was my friend, Watson, and that my first act on arriving at Grimpen would be almost to land on top of him.”

  “So while my life was being put in danger at your request, you tell me you are busy in London, and yet sit in the safety of Exeter!” The only time I had ever been as angry with Holmes was when he had told me he was in London when he was in fact on Dartmoor at the time of the first Baskerville case.

  “I only arrived in Exeter on Friday,” explained Holmes - in my view a little glibly. “I could not conduct an investigation at Baskerville Hall myself as Sir Henry would not have allowed me across his t
hreshold. I had to use you as my eyes and ears,” and he reached into his inside pocket to pull out some papers that I recognised as the notes I had sent him. “And, as on your last time here on Dartmoor, I must commend you on the thoroughness and insight in what is a most complex case. Before that I was in London, but wherever I was, I made arrangements with the post office at Coombe Tracey to have your notes brought straight to me.”

  “So even the Coombe Tracey postman knows your true whereabouts, but I am not privileged with such information,” I fumed.

  “I was always within a short distance of you, as my swift arrival after your summons demonstrates, and I know you well enough to know that you can handle danger.”

  “But I am no longer a young bachelor whose main concern is supporting you in your work,” I objected. “I have a wife and children who rely on me to provide for them. My own well-being is a small matter. It is their well-being you have endangered.”

  There was a long silence as we faced each other. I glowered at Holmes and he would not meet my eye.

  Eventually he said, “Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies for my deceit. My handling of the case has been compromised by not being able to stay at Baskerville Hall, and it is you who have had to take on a much larger role than that to which you are accustomed.”

  I stood and contemplated getting into the coach and asking the coachman to take me to the station at Coombe Tracey. I had already put one foot on the running board as Holmes stared into the distance before my curiosity finally overcame me.

  “Do you have a solution to this case? We have so many strange deeds and yet so little to explain them,” I asked at last.

  “I thought I knew my Watson!” replied Holmes, as he joined me on board the coach. “I do not have a solution because I have had none of your excellent notes on this case since your visit to the scene of Garside’s death. But come, Watson, we have a drive back to Baskerville Hall before us.”