Thirty-Nine Steps from Baker Street

by J. R. Trtek

  134 Skye is the largest and most northern of the Inner Hebrides, an archipelago off the western coast of Scotland.

  CHAPTER TWELVE: MY DINNER WITH HOLMES

  In the second week of April, three days after Easter, I greeted Holmes at the Biggleswick rail station, and together we strolled to my cottage as Corporal Scaife conveyed my friend’s luggage in the dogcart. Settled into a spare room and briefly reunited with Martha, Holmes then accompanied me on a walk about the village and its surroundings, in much the same way as I had joined the Jimsons on my second day in the area.

  “I trust this is not your first hike in these environs?” he asked with a smile.

  “Hardly,” I replied. “And I believe I have lost no insubstantial portion of a stone in the bargain. I trust you have planned well your modus operandi while in Biggleswick?”

  Holmes shrugged. “That must always be tailored to the specific objective, of course, and in this instance, Watson, we cannot be too restrictive. Bullivant and Blenkiron believe that the northern branch of the Black Stone is once more up and running, but they do not know to what purpose. It could be merely the gathering of information, yes, but subversion may also remain in the group’s repertoire—recall, after all, that it was this cabal, in an earlier incarnation, that murdered Karolides and thus helped propel civilisation on its present slide toward the abyss.”

  “Do you believe the war will end before we all descend into that black hole?” I asked plaintively.

  “One side or the other must crack at some point,” he replied. “We can only do all that is possible to ensure that ours is not the weaker. And for us, old fellow, that means stamping out the Black Stone once and for all, and then exposing and exterminating that third nest of spies we believe our foe has planted amongst us.”

  “Yet no sign of the last head of Cerberus has been detected?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Is that not troubling?”

  “Of course it is, but until such time as the first glimmering of a useful clue is uncovered, I bide my time unravelling coded German messages in London. And you help heal the wounded here in Biggleswick,” Holmes added, an odd look in his eye.

  At that point, just past the ancient circle of Haven Stones, we came upon the three Weekes sisters, who lived with their mother in a house not far from mine—it was from her that Scaife regularly borrowed the dogcart in which he conveyed me to and from Isham.

  Holmes doffed his cloth cap as I introduced him to the trio.

  “Oh, Mr. Holmes, your profile is such a bold one,” said the first Miss Weekes impetuously. “Has John135 painted you? He should, you know.”

  “Yes,” agreed one of her sisters. “Look at his eyes: so full of implication.”

  “You are a lover of Dégousse, 136 I suspect,” murmured the third Miss Weekes.

  “In point of fact,” admitted Holmes. “I am.”

  “I knew it!”

  “Indeed,” my friend said. “I own a Dégousse.”

  All three sisters appeared ready to swoon.

  “We must write Austin about it,” one said, and at the mention of that name I gently tugged on the elbow of Holmes’s ulster but was too late. One Miss Weekes reached out and lightly grasped the cuff of my friend’s other sleeve, a forward act that evinced from him a look of mild surprise.

  “Austin is our brother,” said the young woman.

  “He’s been in quod137 for months now,” added another sister.

  “That can be the penalty if one is a vocal conscientious objector and not afraid to speak out,” declared the third sibling with a hint of anger. “He suffers there in Dartmoor,” she went on, bristling as she declared fidelity to her brother. “His hardships are unbearable.”

  “But I am certain he will bear them in support of his beliefs,” replied Holmes, now heeding my silent urging to move along.

  “Of course he will,” the sisters asserted, almost in unison, as the detective and I hastily bade them farewell.

  “You did not wish to linger in conversation with those young women?” Holmes remarked as he once more donned his cap. We continued along a path that led past a copse of beech trees, and he added, “Do you not get along with your new neighbours?”

  “They are, most of them, quite well-meaning sorts,” I replied wearily. “And, truly, those three young women are good at heart, and their mother the kindest of souls. However, I have seen so much sacrifice, Holmes—both in France and here at Isham hospital—that I find I now cannot take lightly the indulgences heaped upon those who shirk their responsibilities.”

  “If you refer to the brother of those three sisters—”

  “And others like him,” I interjected.

  “I do not believe that one who accepts incarceration in Dartmoor prison as a consequence of adhering to principle ought to be considered a shirker, old fellow. And putting a man in gaol is hardly indulging him.”

  “Have you now become a pacifist as well?”

  “Certainly not,” sniffed Holmes. “You should know me better than that, Doctor—pardon me, Colonel. I believe the two years I spent as Altamount testifies to my devotion to the Crown, as does my presence here in pursuit of German saboteurs.”

  “It is I who should beg pardon, Holmes,” I said meekly. “I did not mean to suggest that—”

  “I merely wish to remind you of something, Watson,” my friend said as we strode past the copse and gained a small rise, where we beheld a field of young grass with a rocky outcrop in the distance. “I wish to remind you that the sacrifices to which you refer are on behalf of not only the Crown but also what the Crown itself is pledged to defend: our British way of life, which insists that each should be free to express his own mind.”

  “Or her mind,” I amended, recalling Moxon Ivery’s comment of the week before. “Of course. I avowed that sentiment only the other day. It is a fault of mine that I should let emotion govern my—”

  “To react with emotion is never a fault,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Though, I agree, it can sometimes become a disadvantage. Perhaps we should turn our attentions to other matters.”

  “The landscape, perhaps?” I said, taking in the beauty of the countryside on a spring day as we basked under a sky as blue as a thrush’s egg.

  “Yes,” replied Holmes, bending down. “Or the landscape’s details. One cannot avoid marvelling at the local limestone, can one?”

  “Well,” I said as I heard a lark in the distance. “I suppose not, unless one finds other experiences that are more striking.”

  “It is an oolite,” said Holmes, seemingly oblivious to my remark as he held a small portion of soil in his hand before sifting it between his fingers. “That term is used because it is made up of minute spherical particles resembling eggs. Warm and red-grey when quarried, eventually turning a deep blue-grey,” he mused, studying the granules with care before brushing his hands together as he rose to join me in walking on.

  “You referred a moment ago to German saboteurs,” I said. “Yet, you also indicated that the revived Black Stone network might be dedicated to merely gathering information, as it was before, in parallel with Von Bork.”

  “Yes,” said Holmes. “I did mention both possibilities, did I not? Bullivant is torn between the two views,” he said, looking about us. “I thought long and hard in the carriage during my trip here to Biggleswick, and my tentative assumption is that we are seeking saboteurs and subversives rather than those attempting merely to obtain military secrets.”

  “How so?”

  “Your three Weekes sisters exemplify my train of thought,” said the detective. “By all accounts—and I am certain I will observe more instances that will confirm the view—Biggleswick is a hotbed of pacifist sentiment. Many here are sceptical of the war effort or stand strongly in opposition to it—some to the point of going to gaol to assert that opposition.

  “Persons seeking to gain acquaintance with those who have access to secret government documents or military plans are unlikely t
o adopt such a pose,” Holmes said. “They will, instead, assume the guise of the fervent patriot, the jingoistic blusterer. Based on what you have conveyed to me thus far, I suspect few such individuals are likely to be found within several miles of Biggleswick.

  “No, if the Black Stone have planted themselves here at a centre of anti-war agitation, Watson, I believe it indicates an inclination toward subversion and sabotage. It parallels the need the Germans have to strike a serious blow at Britain’s heart. Mere information cannot satisfy them at this point. Instead, by infiltrating those who, for whatever motive, oppose war with the Central Powers, Berlin is bent upon stirring up trouble among Britons themselves, much as they attempted to set Mexico against the Americans by means of that coded telegram I conveniently deciphered weeks ago. Blenkiron does not completely agree with me, I know, but that is how I see the situation.”

  “And to come round to my original question, how does that view affect our strategy while you are here on holiday?”

  Holmes smiled. “It means that exits and entrances are equally important,” he said enigmatically. “Now then, tell me about this dinner I am to attend with you on Friday.”

  Two days later, as the first hints of twilight crept in from the east, Holmes and I followed a footpath that climbed through great beech trees just beginning to leaf, and there we encountered a short expanse of hill pasture that stretched to the rim of a vale. Leaving the trees, we found ourselves walking along walls built of thin, flat grey stones without mortar, their edges rendered pastel by the weather and colonies of lichen. Strips of burgeoning meadow weed displayed themselves like carefully planted borders, and beyond, in the enclosed fields, sheep stood calm watch on our progress. Below, our goal—Fosse Manor—was visible through distant woods, and farther away, passing over hills to the south, we could discern the old Fosse Way itself.138

  We had hiked from my cottage in Biggleswick and now viewed a much smaller village nestled in a crook of the hill upon which we stood. A church tower sweetly chimed the hour, competing with no other sounds besides the twitter of birds and a gathering evening breeze that rushed through the topmost branches of the beeches.

  We descended to the manor lodge and there stood before its redbrick façade, which was smothered in magnolias just starting to bud. As I raised my hand to grasp the knocker, the door opened to reveal Mary Lamington.

  “I sensed you were there, Major Watson,” she said demurely and then smiled. “Actually,” she said in a plainer tone, “I have been peering through the window for the better part a half hour and just now saw the two of you approach.” She glanced behind before whispering, “Good evening, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Miss Lamington.”

  “And you will present your friend, then, Colonel?” the young woman abruptly asked in a louder voice as a servant approached from down the hall.

  “This is Sherlock Holmes,” I said as the man approached to take our coats and hats. “The famed consulting detective, now retired.”

  “Retired by my own wish,” added my friend. “And if I am famous at all, it is entirely due to the effort of my tireless biographer.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” said Miss Lamington for the benefit of the servant, who withdrew carrying our garments. “Shall we go in?”

  She led us through the large entry and then on past a broad staircase and along panelled walls upon which were hung prim family portraits. At the end of the corridor we caught sight of our hostesses, neither of whom I had yet met, but who were unmistakable even before Mary Lamington introduced us.

  The Wymondham sisters, Miss Doria and Miss Claire, were each nearing a half century but dressed in styles common to women half their age. Miss Doria was tall and thin, her pale hair bound by a fillet round her head. Miss Claire, by contrast, was shorter and plumper, as well as less skilled than her sister in the application of cosmetics.

  “Ah, Mr. Watson,” said Miss Claire, “It is a joy to have you here.”

  “And we appreciate your wearing of civilian clothes,” Miss Doria added circumspectly. “We hope you do not object to our preference for leaving military rank—indeed, everything military—outside these walls.”

  “I have no objection whatsoever,” I replied good-naturedly. “My assignment is irrelevant to the enjoyment of good company.”

  “And we welcome your friend as well,” Miss Claire said. “We hope you are enjoying your stay in the district, Mr.—Mr. Holmes, is it?”

  “Yes to both enquiries,” said the detective, who refrained from continuing when a young man entered the hall.

  It was Launcelot Wake.

  “Halloa, Colonel Watson,” he said to me, a greeting which caused both Wymondham sisters to wince. “And you are Sherlock Holmes, I am told,” he remarked to the detective.

  “I am, yes.”

  “I confess I knew nothing of you until several days ago,” Wake declared with blundering innocence. “Odd, I suppose, since I work in the Home Office. However, I have recently read two or three of your stories in old magazines borrowed from Letchford—well, I suppose I should say your stories, Colonel. They are rather quaint in their way.”

  As Holmes smiled in amusement, I acknowledged the remark, uncertain whether to take it as compliment or complaint. Still, I was grateful for no mention of Doyle.

  “Launcelot is our cousin,” said Miss Claire. “Just as Mary is our cousin. Or distant nephew and niece of some sort, respectively. Have we ever understood the family connections?” she asked her sister.

  “Come to the table, all of you,” said Doria. “Perhaps we may untangle them there.”

  The dining room was markedly in contrast to the hall. Here the panelling had been stripped from the walls, which were now covered, as was the ceiling, with a dead-black satiny paper. All round us hung imposing paintings of modernist bent, each in gold frames. I gave the lot but little notice, but Holmes immediately took an interest in them.

  “The Weekes sisters inform us that you own a DéGousses, Mr. Holmes,” said Miss Claire with enthusiasm.

  “Yes,” replied my friend.

  “We are seeking one ourselves,” Miss Doria revealed. “Do you not marvel at his use of texture?”

  I turned toward the long dining table as Holmes and the Wymondhams discussed art, observing that there were places set for several more than those of us already present. I ran down, in my mind, the list that Miss Lamington had compiled, comparing it with the empty seats and then, as if cued by my thoughts, three figures appeared at the opposite entry.

  Two I recognised at once: Aronson, the novelist, and Letchford, the reviewer for The Critic. Between them was a slender woman of early middle age whose face resembled nothing less than that of a classic Greek sculpture. Her eyes flashed about the room, and an impish smile curled the edges of her bright red mouth.

  “Ah, we are almost all assembled!” the woman declared loudly, even before being introduced, and the two Wymondham sisters turned abruptly from their artistic discussion with Holmes to face the three newcomers.

  “So we are, Vespera,” replied Miss Claire. “I believe Mr. Ivery is the only one not yet arrived.”

  “Perhaps we should arrange ourselves nonetheless,” said Mary Lamington, taking charge of the gathering. “But we still have introductions to get out of the way, do we not?”

  I declared myself already acquainted with Aronson and Letchford, whom I presented to Holmes. That left only the mystery woman.

  “Ah, but the celebrated Miss Vespera Cochrane needs no introduction,” said Holmes in a most gallant fashion. I stared in amazement at my friend as he approached the woman and took her hand. “I witnessed your London debut years ago and found it an unalloyed pleasure.”

  Discreetly, I reached for a chair to steady myself.

  “You are acquainted, then?” asked Miss Claire as Letchford and Aronson stifled chuckles.

  “I fear not,” said the woman identified as Vespera Cochrane, eyeing Holmes with amusement, “but it is a situation
easily remedied.”

  “This is Sherlock Holmes,” said Mary Lamington, again stepping into the breach. “Perhaps you have heard of him, as he obviously has of you?”

  “I fear that I am not familiar with the name,” replied Miss Cochrane.

  “Not familiar with the name of Sherlock Holmes? Surely you jest, madam,” came the full-throated voice of Moxon Ivery from behind. I turned and saw the man, immaculately dressed, standing by Miss Doria Wymondham in the entrance through which Holmes and I had come. After a momentary pause, he strode to the centre of the room.

  “Mr. Ivery,” said Holmes, a remark which appeared to surprise the newcomer, who raised his left hand to his chest, exposing a slight discolouration about his smallest finger.

  “I shan’t bite,” said the detective puckishly as he extended his right arm in greeting.

  “I do not believe we have been previously introduced,” declared Ivery, shaking the other’s hand. “I wonder how you knew my name. I am hardly as famous as you, sir, and I should think your acquaintances would predominantly be those of the criminal class.”

  “My friendships extend to more respectable circles as well.”

  “I suppose, then,” said Ivery, regaining his composure, “that it was your deductive facilities which gave you my name?”

  “My identifying you without introduction is hardly remarkable and most definitely does not merit being called a deduction,” said Holmes. “A moment ago, one of the Miss Wymondhams remarked that we lacked one guest, a Mr. Ivery. When you appeared, I took it that our missing member had arrived. Anyone else in that same situation would have drawn the same conclusion, I think.”

  “Ah, I see,” replied Ivery. “That’s simple enough. Well, greetings to all,” he said to those in the dining room, a gesture that earned a frown from Launcelot Wake. “I do apologise for my lateness.”

  “Apology is unnecessary,” Sherlock Holmes assured him. “When one is confronted by a sudden emergency that requires immediate correspondence, all else must come second, must it not?”