by J. R. Trtek
The shortness of the bed, which required me to wear a spare set of stockings to keep my protruding feet warm, had been an inconvenience I overcame with stoicism, and while I had been preoccupied with my own failure to obtain the objective of meeting Sir Harry Christey, I had nonetheless enjoyed a sound and refreshing night’s sleep, my first in several days.
As I finished a last round of coffee, Constable Charlie Taylor entered the room and smiled gently as I caught sight of him.
His manner remained apologetic. “Did you sleep well, Mr. Price?” he asked timidly. “Is the breakfast there enough for you this morning?”
“More than enough, thank you,” I replied, nodding appreciatively at Mrs. Taylor. “I am very much grateful to you both for your hospitality.”
“We’re happy to have provided you some comfort,” said the young woman, who looked at her husband sternly. “It’s to be regretted that mistakes were made.”
“Well,” I said before Charles Taylor could respond. “Such things happen.” After a good night’s sleep, I had become more philosophical regarding my recent setbacks. “I can only hope your colleagues from Edinburgh arrive relatively soon,” I told the constable.
“That is my wish also,” he said. “If I am not too bold, may I suggest that we make our way to the prison in short order?”
And so it was that, within the half hour, I found myself back in the same room at Dumfries Prison where I had been detained the day before. The space was now altered somewhat: a cloth lay upon the table, decorated with a small bouquet of flowers in a vase. More books had been left as well. As I had the day before, I set my valise down in a corner of the room and took to the most comfortable chair.
“You needn’t remain here, Mr. Price,” said Charles Taylor. “But as we don’t know when the inspectors from Edinburgh will arrive, I think that it best you stay put until they appear. That will allow you to leave us sooner rather than later, which I suppose to be your preference.”
The policeman departed, this time leaving the door ajar. Once more alone, I strode casually to the window to enjoy the view of early summer, and there, against the billowing clouds, I again saw the suspicious monoplane making its curious loops in the sky.
Frowning, I wondered what had become of Sherlock Holmes.
It was not until late afternoon—and two books later—that my captivity ended.
I heard a motor in the distance, though from my vantage point I could not see the vehicle approach. Then there were muffled voices from without, the closing of doors, and footsteps approaching down the hallway. Turning from the latest volume which I had taken up, I stared toward the open doorway and saw two men wearing ulsters and billycock hats enter in the company of young Charles Taylor.
The strangers halted once they glimpsed me. Each looked at one another and then at the local policeman.
“He can’t be the man,” one of the newcomers said.
“Too old,” said the other. “Begging your pardon, sir,” he added.
“But then,” said the first stranger, as his partner cast a jaundiced eye at Taylor, “we are now told you have a person who will vouch for you. A military pilot, eh?”
“Yes,” I said, closing the book and getting to my feet. “He can—”
“We are from Edinburgh,” the second man interjected, addressing me. “I am Inspector Wilson, and this is Inspector Thomson. You’ve given your name, I believe, as Mr. James Price?”
“That is correct.”
The inspector glanced across the room at my valise. “And your business here in Dumfries might be what, sir? Our understanding is that you claim to be on some sort of government mission.”
I paused for a moment. Then, calmly, I responded by saying, “I am here to consider sites for a proposed aerodrome in the area.”
“Truly?” said Charles Taylor with astonishment. Then, with embarrassment, he bowed to the two inspectors. “My apologies, sirs.”
“And why did you not declare so at the beginning?” asked the first man, the one identified as Inspector Thomson.
“The existence of the proposal is not supposed to be generally known,” I said.
“We understand,” said Inspector Wilson. “Well then,” he added, glancing at his companion as he spoke, “I suppose we should go see this pilot, then—in the spirit of pro forma?”
Thomson nodded. “The orders were to be quite thorough,” he said, “even though he’s obviously not—”
“All right,” muttered Wilson. “Let’s be off, then.”
Charles Taylor rode with me in the back of the motorcar driven by Inspector Wilson, beside whom sat Inspector Thomson. The vehicle was a Fox Type-V, the very model that Blenkiron had recommended to me days earlier in Safety House, and so I leaned forward as we rumbled down the Abbey Road and shouted to Inspector Thomson, “Have you found satisfaction with this motor?”
“What?”
“I said, do you like this vehicle, Inspector?”
“Oh, the motorcar. Yes!” he replied loudly. “She runs quite well, I think. Wilson does most of the driving. Bill?” he shouted to his companion. “You like this motor, do you not?”
“Yes, I do,” the other inspector affirmed. “And the mechanics back in Edinburgh are fond of her as well. A gem to maintain, they tell me.”
“Reliable?” I asked.
“Very much so!” shouted Wilson. “Haven’t had a problem all the while we’ve been gadding about in search of that London murderer. All the way from Edinburgh to West Linton, on through Biggar and Moffat, and then here into Dumfries. We need to make Gretna by nightfall before making the loop back home through Langholm and Galashiels.”
“And we’re not the only ones out looking,” added Inspector Thomson.
“Has the murderer been identified?” I asked.
The men from Edinburgh paused and looked at one another.
Then Inspector Thomson said, “He’s said to be one Richard Hannay, a Colonial.”
My heart sank a bit with the realisation that Magillivray in London had apparently failed to turn his colleague’s from the belief that the South African was guilty of killing Scudder.
“He may have altered his appearance somewhat,” Inspector Wilson said, “but for what it’s worth, Hannay is in his late thirties, speaks fluent German, is tanned with a long moustache, and is likely to be travelling light, perhaps with no baggage at all.”
“And you are searching along the roads?”
“Along the roads, across the moors, in every glen and atop every hill,” Thomson said. “And we’ll find him, Mr. Price. You can rest assured that we’ll find him.”
I leaned back beside Charlie Taylor, feeling somewhat disconsolate, realising that I had already lost more than a day in police custody and was completely ignorant of Sherlock Holmes’s whereabouts, let alone his success at finding Hannay. Moreover, as I comprehended the resources of the authorities set against my own, I now appreciated the foolhardy nature of my own enterprise.
Then, as we caught sight of Captain Harper’s aircraft in the distance, I yet again espied the monoplane against the clouds, still making its ominous circles overhead.
“Are you searching for this Hannay from the sky as well?” I asked Thomson. “Using aeroplanes in your search?”
“Not to my knowledge, no,” said Thomson. “However,” he added, glancing at his partner, “that is rather a thought, isn’t it?”
We pulled up to the aircraft and stopped. Captain Harper was there, holding court with a small group of children and a handful of men and women. A girl of perhaps ten knelt on the central ski sled that lay beneath the fuselage. The captain, who sat eating an assortment of meats and bread from a cloth spread over the ground, looked at me as I left the motorcar and smiled. He got up and walked over to us as his small entourage watched.
“Halloa, Captain,” I said, shaking the officer’s hand. “You have acquired a bit of a following, apparently.”
“Yes. It’s not unusual for that to happen when we lan
d in the countryside.” He held up the chunk of bread he still held in his left hand. “As you can see, I’m not wanting for anything.”
“As you had predicted. Captain,” I said, “Might you affirm to these two gentlemen that we are acquainted, and inform them whence we have come?”
“Of course. I so gave the same information yesterday to this constable,” he said, indicating Charles Taylor.
“May I present Captain Cecil Harper of the Royal Flying Corps,” I declared to the Edinburgh inspectors, before introducing each one to the pilot, who shook their hands in turn.
“Well, sirs,” said the captain, “I’ve been acquainted with Mr. Price here since about dawn yesterday, when we departed Hulton in Buckinghamshire. My commanding officer there is Major Reardon, and I have—”
“That’s quite all right, Captain,” said Inspector Wilson, raising a hand. “We need no further explanation. There was a brief confusion about Mr. Price’s identity,” he said, glaring at Constable Taylor, who had remained silent during our motor trip. “That uncertainty has already been removed. We thought merely to convey Mr. Price to you before leaving Dumfries to fulfil our own duties.”
“And I thank you for that,” I told the two inspectors before pulling Harper aside for a short talk in private. “And so you have prospered, despite my absence?” I asked the captain.
“As you can see, Mr. Price, I’ve been leading a life of luxury, though I’m forced to become my own rigger and fitter.”56
“I have been detained by the local police since yesterday,” I informed him. “They thought me to be another man, a fugitive, and were initially unwilling to believe my story about you flying me here.”
“Yes. As I said a moment earlier, they came to me, and I vouched for you. For me, it’s been a whirlwind since midday yesterday. I had several invites to stay the night, which I’ve declined, preferring to camp here with the plane. Some local men have agreed to take turns guarding the craft, however, should I take brief leave of her.”
“I believe we will have no problem in getting the local constabulary to assist in that endeavour.”
“The more the merrier. And what of you, sir, now that you appear to be a free man again?”
“I still need to speak with someone in the district, hopefully by this evening. I trust I will find you here for the next two or three days?”
“You will indeed,” replied the officer. He glanced back at his craft, where a boy was shouting to the girl on the ski skid to move over and make room for him. “I think I’ll need to tend to matters here right now, sir. Perhaps I will stay the night at one of the cottages about—and I’ll leave word with those who will guard the aeroplane as to where I’ll be. However, I shall be at the ready should you need me. Me personally, that is,” he added, “for the plane herself is somewhat low on fuel, of course. My understanding is that more petrol is to arrive later today, according to what Major Reardon told me before we departed Hulton.”
With that, I returned to the company of the local constable and two inspectors, informing them of my need to go to the home of Bullivant’s godson, Sir Harry Christey. Charlie Taylor told them where the residence was, and Inspector Wilson gently refused my request.
“As I mentioned earlier, Mr. Price, Inspector Thomson and I must be in Gretna by late afternoon, which it’s nigh getting onto as we speak,” he said. “Sir Harry’s estate is apparently up toward Moffat, whence we came. There’s simply no time for us to convey you there and then make our destination by the deadline. Then, too,” he added, looking sideways at the constable, “it’s really the fault of the locals that you’ve been detained for so long, and so they should be the ones to accommodate you. I am afraid the best we can do is take you back into Dumfries.”
It was an offer I accepted, but there now seemed small likelihood of my finding any vehicle to convey me by a decent hour to the residence of Bullivant’s godson, which lay some distance to the northeast. It would be dark long before I should arrive there on foot, and with no guide I was likely to become lost in the meanwhile, were I to set out on my own. There apparently being no one immediately prepared with cart or horse or motor to convey me to my desired destination, I resigned myself to staying another night in Dumfries when Charles Taylor turned to me in the motorcar as we sped back to town.
“I’ve just recalled something regarding your Sir Harry Christey,” he said. “He’s in politics, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” I said. “I believe his godfather mentioned that fact to me.”
“Ah, well then,” the constable replied, a weary but hopeful smile on his face. “I believe I can manage to get you to him by this evening, Mr. Price.”
* * *
45 This is probably a reference to Bristol Flying School at Larkhill on Salisbury Plain. It was founded by the British and Colonial Aeroplane Company, later known as the Bristol Aeroplane Company, and at the time was recognised as one of the finest flying schools in the world.
46 From Watson’s sketchy description later in the narrative, the aircraft appears to have been an early version of the Avro 504, which was first delivered to the Royal Flying Corps in 1913. Produced in greater numbers than any other plane of the First World War, it quickly became obsolete but saw continued use for many years as a training aircraft.
47 Radcliffe Camera is a building which initially served as Oxford University’s library, eventually specializing in science. Well before 1914, its book collection was moved elsewhere, and it became a reading room for the Bodleian Library. That it was the place where the paths of Holmes and Moriarty first crossed is a rather significant revelation, if the narrative can be trusted, and it leads to more than one question—e.g., was that initial meeting at Oxford as teacher and student? If not, when and under what circumstances did it occur? Sadly, there are no more references to the event in Watson’s account.
48 This quotation, as well as the reference to “dreaming spires,” is from the poem Thyrsis by Matthew Arnold. Its citation may give some hints about Watson’s taste in literature, but it might also be relevant to the matter of assigning dates to the events in this text.
49 The Royal Flying Corps was an arm of the British Army, while the Royal Naval Air Service was the corresponding air service of the Royal Navy. The two organizations were merged to create the independent Royal Air Force in April 1918.
50 That Watson would include in his account a detail as intimate as this walk into the woods, no matter how obscurely related, seems somewhat out of character and casts some doubt on the authenticity of this narrative. The First World War changed mores, however, and this story, if genuine, would probably have been composed sometime in the 1920s. Perhaps by then the doctor had acclimated to Jazz Age attitudes, and his sense of circumspection accordingly loosened at bit.
51 Hall Pycroft was Holmes’s client in “The Adventure of the Stockbroker’s Clerk,” which took place in Birmingham in the late 1880s.
52 The Lake District is a mountainous area in the northwest portion of England notable for, as might be expected, its lakes, but also for forests and mountains, the latter known as fells. There is no known narrative by Watson of the case obliquely referred to in this passage.
53 The Solway Firth is an inlet that forms part of the border between England and Scotland.
54 A gillie is an assistant to a fisherman or hunter.
55 “Behold the waters of life.”
56 At the time, two mechanics were assigned to each plane in a Royal Flying Corps squadron. One, called a rigger, was responsible for trueing up the aircraft’s wings and fuselage, which were made of wood and braced with wire and turnbuckles. The fitter, meanwhile, looked after the engine.
CHAPTER SIX: THE SPEAKER & THE INNKEEPER
“We’re not very political, the missus and I,” the constable said quietly as the automobile re-entered Dumfries. “On the other hand, Murray the tobacconist is a rather fierce Liberal and has been trying to get me to attend a rally this evening up in Brattleburn, and I just recalled t
hat he said Sir Harry’s going to be one the speakers, along with some Colonial personage—an old Australian premier, I think.”
“And where is Brattleburn?”
“It’s a bit of a ways to the northeast, but still closer to Dumfries than Sir Harry’s residence. And the journey is not a long one if you’ve got a motorcar, which is true of one of Murray’s friends. The two of them are attending the rally tonight. You could simply ride along.”
“Yes, but I had hopes of reaching Sir Harry sooner than this evening.”
“Ah, I see. Well, alternatively, I believe I can instead arrange for a cart to take you to Sir Harry’s residence, departing earlier. May I see those instructions again, sir?”
I produced the directions to the Christey estate that Sir Walter had written down for me, and upon reading them, Taylor declared getting me there by cart would pose no problem at all.
“Most likely, though,” he advised, “I canna get it arranged until a bit afore supper, and then the trip itself would be a long one, for the fellow I have in mind to take you would be making many stops along a circuitous route. Nonetheless, he would get you to this address shortly after nightfall.”
“But Sir Harry will no doubt have left for that rally by then,” I said.
“Aye,” said Charlie Taylor in dismay. “That would pose a problem, would it not?”
“And simply hiking to Sir Harry’s would not take me there any sooner?” I asked. “Even if I started out presently?”
“No, I would reckon,” replied Taylor. “The distance is too far.”
“Well,” I said with disappointment, “I suppose I will wait for that ride to the rally. In the meanwhile, perhaps a walk around Dumfries and vicinity will clear my mind.”
“Very well,” said Taylor. He gave me an inquisitive look as our motor stopped before the prison. “Are you perhaps thinking as well of the need to scout out the location for that aeroplane field?”
