by J. R. Trtek
“Yes,” said the stranger, taking a step closer to us. “I’ve been eager to admire both it and the fish that inhabit it.”
I took a sharp intake of breath, for I recognised the voice at once.
Sir Walter turned and looked down at the stream, pointing toward it. “Well then, will you look at that big fellow,” he said, indicating a huge trout lurking near the reeds.
“I don’t see him,” said the newcomer.
“There,” declared Bullivant. “Just above that stickle.”
“Oh yes,” said the newcomer. In the twilight, I thought I saw an odd smile play across his face. “You might swear he was a black stone.”
Standing beside Sir Walter, I saw a smile appear on the spymaster’s face as well, just before he broke into another bar of “Annie Laurie.” Then, still staring at the stream, he stopped his tune and asked of the stranger, “Twisdon’s the name, isn’t it?”
“No,” said the man, taking me aback. Then he abruptly he corrected himself. “I mean yes, of course.”
“It’s a wise conspirator who knows his own name,” Bullivant jovially observed, grinning broadly while we watched a moorhen emerge from under the bridge. There was suddenly a rumble, and I turned round to see a dogcart approaching.67
Sir Walter’s mood changed abruptly. “I call it disgraceful,” he said in a loud voice. “Disgraceful that an able-bodied man like you should dare to beg. You can get a meal from my kitchen, sir, but you’ll get no money from me.”
Hannay stepped off the path to allow the cart to pass. The driver, a young man, raised his whip to Sir Walter, who acknowledged the salute. Then, as the cart reached the far side of the bridge, Bullivant picked up his rod.
“That is my house,” he said to Hannay, pointing back a hundred yards or more toward the white gate of his cottage. “Wait five minutes and then go round to the back door.”
And with that, Sir Walter motioned for me to follow him back up the slope to his residence. We quickly strode through the gate and on into the cottage, where Bullivant instructed a servant to attend to Hannay at the back entrance.
“I’ve told my man to lay out several sets of clothing,” he said as we shed our hats and canvas bags. Sir Walter accepted my pole. “My godson shows up every now and then, of course, and has garments stored here. Indeed, I’m certain that the rather worn and filthy tweeds Hannay was wearing just now came from Harry. I expect it will take our guest a while to shave, bathe, and make himself presentable. Shall we also change and then meet in the dining room, Watson?”
“I will be ready as quickly as I can, Bullivant. Of course, I should have wished to ask him the most important question at present.”
“And what is that?”
“If he had seen Sherlock Holmes.”
Bullivant looked at me with compassion and nodded. “Yes, of course. We shall get to that as soon as possible.”
Some minutes later, I sat at a round table lit with silver candles, Sir Walter Bullivant beside me. Across from us, bisecting the longer arc between our seats, was an empty chair.
“At long last, we will have Richard Hannay and all that he knows, Watson,” the spymaster sighed. “Not just that which pertains to the threat against Karolides.”
“Yes,” I replied. “But when will Sherlock Holmes be joining us at the table?”
“I believe that can be accomplished presently,” said the detective in a cheerful tone, “if only one of you will be so kind as to pull up a chair for me.”
I bolted to my feet and turned round to see Holmes standing at the doorway, dressed in a set of brown tweeds a bit too large for his thin frame.
Noticing my expression at the sight of his attire, Holmes smiled and stepped aside.
“I apologise for my appearance,” he said, “but I fear the better set of clothes was already spoken for.”
From behind my friend stepped Richard Hannay, now clean-shaven, groomed, and clothed in evening dress that fitted him to a tee.
“I’m more obliged to you than I can say,” the South African declared to all three of us. “Especially to you, Mr. Holmes, as I’ve repeated constantly between Galloway and here. I’m bound, moreover, to make things clear and right—with respect to the entire matter. I have so much to tell you, but I won’t be surprised if you kick me out,” Hannay said to Bullivant.
As the former fugitive spoke, however, my eyes were fixed upon Sherlock Holmes, who gently walked into the room with a slight limp, a sly smile still upon his face.
“So what say you, Sir Walter?” he asked. “Will this man be thrown out?”
“Certainly not!” replied the spymaster with relish. “Moreover, he will be fed, and fed well. Don’t let anything interfere with your appetite, man,” he told Hannay. “We can talk about everything after dinner. And Holmes, you are most correct in pointing out my lack of manners. It is a joy to behold you, and we must give you a chair at the table without delay.”
I, in the meanwhile, had already started across the room to fetch one.
“My journey north from St. Pancras station was quite uneventful, as I should have expected,” said Holmes later that evening, while we four all sat in Sir Walter’s study, lodged in cluttered comfort amid books, stacks of paper, and trophies.
I sipped my coffee, which came as excellent postscript to a grand meal that had boasted not only champagne but an uncommonly fine port as well. Our earlier conversation at the table had ranged from tiger fish that reputedly catch birds in flight along the Zambesi River to anatomical differences between the manatees of Africa and those of the West Indies. Now, however, our talk was of more serious subjects.
“I believed I had truly little hope of picking up any scent of our fugitive here until I should reach the vicinity of Dumfries,” said Holmes, “and indeed, it was at that station that I found his trail. I had adopted the guise of a parson, and in that pose, I idly chatted with several people there. I confess I neither saw you, Watson, nor heard explicit mention of your name.”
“That was because I had been rather quickly hauled off to Dumfries Prison after assuming an alias,” I replied with mild embarrassment.
“Ha, that is a tale I must hear at some point,” my friend genially demanded. “But to continue, I did hear tell of an incident on the slow line north—some episode of an unknown person debarking from a carriage while its train was stopped. Most people’s recollections focused upon another man tumbling out because his dog tried to run after the stranger.”
“I spoke to that man, the one with the dog,” I said.
“As did I,” declared Holmes. “The canine was most affectionate.”
“Truly?” I said. “I found it rather malevolent.”
“Goodness is in the heart of the beholder. In any case, from the testimony of more than one person, I was able to fix upon the spot where the stranger—whom I assumed to be Mr. Hannay—had left the carriage. I took the same line myself that very day and, when the locomotive slowed significantly at a culvert near the area in question, I jumped from the carriage.”
“Is that how you acquired the limp?” I asked.
“Very observant, old fellow,” Holmes remarked. “And very patient of you to hold that comment in reserve until now. But yes, I confess that I did slightly injure myself when leaving the carriage, though the train was travelling at almost no speed. Still, I was able to hobble at a reasonable clip and wandered off in the direction I had understood Hannay to have taken when leaving the tracks. Very soon, I found evidence of someone’s passage through the brush, and I began to follow those marks as far as I could.”
“At the time, I was intent on putting as much distance between myself and the train,” Hannay interjected. “I wasn’t mindful of covering my tracks.”
“That was fortunate,” Holmes told the man, “for before long, it became clear that you were heading for the mountainous rim off to the northeast.”
He leaned back in his armchair and finished his cup of coffee.
“It seemed a logica
l place for you to go, for it would command a high vantage point from which you might survey the entire moor, all the way back to the rail line as well as south, where the heather gave way to green fields. Bracing myself, I prepared for the long hike ahead of me when, as I paused to watch a golden eagle circle in the sky, I noticed another dark form miming that same motion farther above: a monoplane.”
“Yes,” said Hannay and I, almost in unison. The South African and I looked at one another and then, as a matched pair, at Holmes.
The detective took a deep breath and nodded. “Since you saw it, Watson, and presumably have already mentioned it to Sir Walter,” he said, “perhaps I need not add that, somehow, the sight of that craft making its ominous loops overhead gave me concern. I had left London unaware of any official attempt at aerial reconnaissance to locate Hannay,” he said, glancing at Bullivant.
“And none was ordered,” the spymaster admitted. “In hindsight, I suppose we could have employed you and your pilot in that manner, Watson. I should have thought of that.”
“I was of the opinion that Mr. Hannay would likely be able to elude detection from above,” Holmes replied. “Moreover, inspection from the ground is de rigueur, and taking a person into custody always requires one to have both feet firmly planted on earth in any case. But we stray from the story. I thought the aeroplane must be piloted by our antagonists, the Germans, and the presence of such a craft there in Scotland in turn required a base of operation.
“I made the assumption that Hannay would also notice the aircraft and, given the relatively barren ground to the north, then decide to head south toward the cover of trees. Thus, I made in that direction as well. In addition, though I knew finding Hannay was an important goal, I also realised that I might accidentally have detected another centre of German espionage operations, which would require investigation. Going south might achieve both objectives, I reasoned.”
“And did you locate where the aeroplane was based?” asked Bullivant.
“Not upon that first day. I hiked in its direction, having decided to concern myself directly with Mr. Hannay only if our paths should cross. The aeroplane made its eventual descent too quickly, however, and dropped from view before I was close enough to determine its exact landing area, and so I waited the rest of the day for it to rise again, which it did not.
“Though I could perhaps have camped upon the moor that night, I chose instead to approach a cottage, where a couple and their two sons lived. They were not much for conversation, but their hospitality was more than adequate. I, in return, good-naturedly assisted them in some simple chores. Well-fed and having slept soundly that night, I set out the next day with a good pack of supplies from the family and assumed another watch of the sky, which paid off handsomely, for I spotted the monoplane rising within an hour of starting my vigil.
“I did not follow the craft’s repeated circling off toward the west, but rather hiked the direction from which I had seen it ascend. It was a land of hills, which broke into ridges separated by dales that were as wide as they were shallow. I found myself in occasional fields of heather, and there was a winding stream I crossed more than once. I came upon a dyke and jumped it, despite a leg that still ached persistently—”
“Perhaps I should examine it presently,” I suggested.
“In a while, old fellow. Allow me to continue,” insisted Holmes. “I was soon climbing a gentle slope, which I judged part of the highest rise of land in the area. It was there that I came upon a rather well-kept road. I did not follow it but rather hiked alongside a stream, which paralleled the roadway. The bracken was deep there, and the high banks, I felt, would screen me sufficiently from passing motors.
“In time, I came upon a deserted cottage and overgrown garden, beyond which I saw young hay and a stand of wind-blown firs. I infiltrated the trees and walked through them, crossing a small stream, and from the far edge of the woods espied a house, its chimney smoking, some several hundred yards away.”
“It looked so innocent and welcoming,” said Hannay. “Eventually, I saw it as well,” he explained to Bullivant and me.
“I immediately became suspicious when I noticed, in those woods, a wire stretched above the ground,” Holmes said. “I surmised it was part of an alarm system, and that suggested I might indeed have found the German lair. From within, I circumnavigated the stand of firs, again encountering the small stream, and noted that the slope continued upward still more, to a more heavily forested summit. After a moment’s thought, and being most careful of my lines of sight—including that from above—I made my ascent.
“The trees at the top, I found, gave way to an open oval at the very acme of the ridge. It was green turf, I tell you, so well-kept that it resembled a huge cricket field. Near the middle was a swivelling wind vane upon a tall pole.”
“An aerodrome,” whispered Bullivant.
“Precisely,” replied Holmes. “I had found the monoplane’s resting place, and in so doing, I felt more confident than ever that I had uncovered the location of yet another haven for German spies.
“I scrambled back down the slope and once more into my protective cover of firs. There I sat and waited for some time, until I heard a roar from above. Peering through the branches, I saw the aeroplane approach from the west and then descend below the treetops at the ridge’s summit to land upon that well-manicured oval lawn.
“I withdrew deeper into the trees and, several minutes later, saw two men emerge from the forest above me, both dressed in flying clothes. They walked down the ridge, passing perhaps fifty yards from my enclave, and so on to the house. I kept watch, but nothing further transpired.
“Late that day, I returned to the cottage where the couple and their sons lived, and there re-established the bonds I had previously forged. I told them I was a naturalist studying the distribution of various species of bee, and they graciously agreed to put me up each night. And, as they provided me with food and a place to sleep, I continued to assist them on their plot each day, before leaving to stand vigil by the house and aerodrome.”
“It must have been quite boring for you, Holmes,” Bullivant remarked.
“Oh, quite the contrary,” Holmes replied. “On the second day, ironically, I chanced to discover a group of swarming Apis mellifera.”
“I beg pardon,” intoned Bullivant.
“European honey bees,” I said.
“Very good, Watson,” said Holmes cheerily. “You were paying even closer attention than I had suspected. Yes, observation of the new colony helped pass the time.
“With each sunrise, I camped within that stand of firs, watching the house and observing the comings and goings of the monoplane and its crew, when not making notes on the activities of my bees. More than once, a motorcar arrived at the house and then left. And so the time passed for me, as I waited for either an opportunity to enter that den of presumed foreign agents or for Mr. Hannay to arrive as a captive, whereupon I was determined to set him loose.”
“And I did arrive eventually,” the South African said, “except that I did so as a free man, of my own accord.”
* * *
61 In The Thirty-Nine Steps, the town is identified as Artinswell, which appears to be a fictional name.
62 According to John Buchan’s account in The Thirty-Nine Steps, Bullivant’s godson tells Hannay that Sir Walter goes to his Berkshire cottage for Whitsuntide, the week following Whitsunday, which is another name for the Christian festival of Pentecost. In 1914, Whitsunday fell on May 31, and so Whitsuntide would have been the first week of June. The summer solstice, on the other hand, fell on June 21 in 1914. This discrepancy is relevant to the issue of dating events in Watson’s narrative.
63 Collops are slices of meat. Sugarelly, or liquorice water, is a soft drink that was popular in Britain at the time.
64 Located in Forfarshire—now known as Angus—in Scotland, Montrose station was the first operational military aerodrome in the United Kingdom. At the time, it would have been the
base for the Royal Flying Corps’ No. 2 Squadron. It continued in operation after the creation of the Royal Air Force but was closed in 1952.
65 The editor has not been able to find any documentation relating to the speculation about to be given, but it is possible that, with his unintended nap, Dr. Watson became the first person to sleep aboard an aircraft in flight.
66 The River Test is in Hampshire.
67 Despite its name, a dogcart is a vehicle drawn by a single horse.
CHAPTER EIGHT: GANG AFT AGLEY
“After reaching Dumfries on that first day,” said Richard Hannay, “I did take the slow Galloway train north, as Mr. Holmes surmised, and got off at a little station along the way. From there, I followed a road that straggled over expanses of brown moor.
“It was a gorgeous evening,” he said, and as the South African recounted his trek, commenting on the odd, rooty smell of bogs, comparing the hills to cut amethyst, and relating how he fashioned a walking stick of hazel and whistled as he trod the glen of a brawling stream, I understood how deeply rooted in nature’s realm was this man.
“Eventually, I came to a herd’s cottage,” he told us. “There I asked a woman with a weathered face if I might have a night’s lodging, and she offered me a bed in the loft, as well as a hearty meal of ham and eggs, scones, and sweet milk.
“Later, her man came in from the hills. He was a lean giant with a huge stride, and like his wife, he asked no questions. I sensed they thought me a cattle dealer, however, and I played to that supposed impression by speaking a good deal of such animals. The man knew a little of local markets, and I kept in mind all that he related, thinking I might be able to use the information to maintain my false guise.”
“That was resourceful of you, Mr. Hannay,” said Sir Walter Bullivant. His eyes narrowed behind the tortoiseshell spectacles, and I could see his shrewd mind plotting as he contemplated his guest.
“The couple refused any payment,” said Hannay. “They generously fed me breakfast the next morning, and I set off with the intention of returning to the railway line to board a carriage heading back south, for I reckoned that it would be the trains travelling north that would be most closely watched.”
