“You mentioned a manuscript.” Holmes steepled his fingers and hooded his eyes. The pipe stuck out at a perilous tilt from between his clenched teeth as he awaited their response.
“To be sure.” Bourne Forster replied. “The English Dialect Society is desperate to publish our findings; their Professor Skeat is jealous of us. He wants to use our work as a capstone for his group’s series on British languages. Were we to associate with him, the Society would insist on sharing our triumph.”
“Most unfair!” his companion said. “It marks the pinnacle of our careers. Why, I can easily imagine our names appearing on next year’s Honours List. We can’t be expected to combine forces with other people. Professor Skeat was furious, but we held firm.”
“We decided instead we might publish our own findings,” Bourne Forster continued. “Our dictionary is - or it was - promised to be the most comprehensive lexicon of the Northumbrian language ever produced. It is to be the crown jewel of obscure English variants, the zenith of etymological accomplishment in this half of the century. Three days ago, I put my own finishing touches on it and sent it over to Dyvelstone for his final comments. He made his corrections and sent it back to me. But it never arrived!”
“How was it sent? Trusted courier?”
“No, sir. I tucked it in the seat of a hired hansom.”
Dyvelstone nodded. “And I sent it back to him by hansom yesterday.”
Bourne Forster assumed a woeful look. “It never arrived.”
“How many copies did you make of your manuscript?”
“It was the only one, Mr. Holmes.” Dyvelstone admitted. “Handwritten. Seventy-three pages.”
”I see. The only extant copy of the dictionary made one trip to you and one trip to oblivion. Did you use the same cabbie, or were there two?”
Dyvelstone answered. “The same one. Tom Hedley is his name. We met him several weeks ago, when he drove us from the British Museum. A young Northumbrian fellow who came to the capital to seek his fortune. Naturally, we were attracted to his morphemes! He has recently performed a couple of small errands for us. We believe him to be trustworthy.” Bourne Forster nodded his head in vigourous agreement. “Certainly, you’ll want to speak with him, Mr. Holmes. Between ten-thirty and eleven o’clock each morning, when trains come in from Waterloo or Richmond, one might reliably find Tom waiting at the Addison Road Station. When he brought me the manuscript on Tuesday, I directed him to come back for it on Thursday, at the same time.”
“Which was?”
“Five o’clock in the afternoon.”
Holmes turned to Bourne Forster. “How was it prepared? Wrapped in paper and tied with string?”
“No, sir. I placed it in a document box with two hinges on the side and a clasp to hold the lid down.”
“And you, Mr. Dyvelstone? How did you return the dictionary to your colleague?”
“In the same box. I placed the box on the seat and closed the hansom’s door. Tom took it away.”
“The box came back to me,” Bourne Forster explained, “but it was empty. Perhaps we erred in relying on Tom. Perhaps he wanted the dictionary for himself?” The poor man looked near to tears.
“What was the route taken?”
They gave Holmes their respective addresses, one in Earls Court, the other in Bayswater. A few moments later, I showed them out with Sherlock Holmes’s promise to investigate.
“A waste of your time,” Lestrade predicted. “I can’t think of anybody who would write such a ridiculous book, let alone want it back.”
“Which is precisely why it should be easy to trace,” Holmes replied. “Say it was the manuscript of the next nautical romance by Russell - like the ones Watson here is always reading. Why, every Watson in the world would attempt to get his hands on the thing.” He turned to me. “What was the name of that new book of his you were reading last night?”
“List, ye Landsmen,” I replied, stoutly.
“Observe how Watson nearly salutes when he says its name, then multiply him by countless other Watsons across the land, and at sea. We would confront a field of thousands of potential suspects. But a manuscript concerning an abstruse subject understood by experts exclusively... only a few will even be aware of the thing, let alone covet it. Therefore, it stands to reason that the more narrow the field of interest, the smaller our assortment of those who might be accused.”
“Is not the most obvious suspect Tom Hedley, the driver?” I suggested.
“The most obvious suspect is ditch work along the Holland Road,” Lestrade countered. “Likely the hansom drove over a hole, jarred the cab, and made the dictionary fly out of the box. Seek its pages in the gutter.”
“Did you look for it there?” Holmes inquired sweetly.
“I did not, Mr. Nosy Parker. I have real crimes to solve and real criminals to catch. I am not inclined to squander my faculties on two old men and their absurd word list. I told them as much.”
“And they dragged you here.”
“When a professional would have nothing to do with them, they insisted on consulting an amateur instead,” the inspector explained.
“Yet again I am indebted to you, Lestrade, for your fiery spirit of indifference.” Holmes sniffed like a hound at the outset of the chase. “Ah, Watson! This case presents several points of interest. How did such a singular dictionary happen to vanish on a short trip, with a trusty driver, in the daytime? I shall begin my investigation at once. And so,” he made several tight sweeping gestures with the back of his hand toward Lestrade, as if brushing away a crumb, “you are released from custody and are free to go.”
The inspector gulped the last of his coffee and left us.
As our door closed, Sherlock Holmes strode purposefully into his bedroom. Immediately, I could hear him humming a cheerful tune. Mrs. Hudson emerged from the corner and came to retrieve her tray. She paused, dipped her chin shyly, and an uncharacteristic blush spread over her cheek.
“I’m very glad Mr. Holmes is back, Doctor,” she said with a gentle smile. “I can tell you’re happy, too, for the chance to renew your friendship and your partnership. Still I wonder,” she took a step nearer to me, “if you’ll soon prefer to be in your own home again, and, in time, have another Mrs. Watson to brighten your life?”
“In time, perhaps,” I replied, with a sad smile.
“I mention it only because a dear young woman will be joining us at teatime to-day. She’ll stop here for two nights, on a little holiday. She’s my late cousin’s girl, Jane - Jane Nugent is her name. She is intelligent and charming, and quite pretty. She is employed as companion to a widowed lady in the country outside of Newcastle. Naturally I hoped you might show her a bit of London, seeing as Mr. Holmes will be busy with this new case.” We could hear Holmes, still humming in the other room. “Anyway,” Mrs. Hudson sniffed and nodded toward Holmes’s door, “I wouldn’t want him to give her a fright.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “You know - the cocaine, those volatile chemicals, and his habit of shooting bullets at my walls. Jane is a gentle girl, and I’ll not have her upset.”
“I’d be delighted to meet Miss Nugent,” I told her. “Perhaps she’d care to see the Serpentine, or stroll the Embankment?”
At this moment Holmes emerged: Brushed, shined, and neatly attired for a day in town. As he reached for his favourite walking stick, he trumpeted, “Not yet ready, Watson? Hurry into your hat and coat. Our game begins.” I scampered after my things as he turned toward Mrs. Hudson. “We’re off for the English Dialect Society, dear lady. Expect me for dinner the day after tomorrow.”
* * *
Professor Walter Skeat adjusted his pince-nez and cleared his throat with a resonant rumble. A magnificent white beard cascaded down the front of his dark suit. The man’s thick eyebrows plunged to form the letter “V” on his forehead as he glowered acr
oss his desk at us. His card, which he’d lately flipped toward Holmes, lay on the gleaming surface between them. It identified Skeat as a philologist, English linguist, phoneticist, and authority on authenticating dialectic texts, etc. etc. etc. Formerly of Cambridge, he now served as chairman of the Society that was desirous of publishing the new Northumbrian wordbook.
“Bourne Forster and Dyvelstone?” he queried. “They corresponded with me for years, tantalizing the Society with hints of the words and phrases they were collecting. I’ve followed their progress with keen interest. They promise to leave Brockett’s work gathering dust. Naturally, the Society wants to collaborate with them on bringing their dictionary to the public. I have met with them twice in the past three weeks, and I offered to personally place their findings before our committee.
“I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Holmes, and you, too, Dr. Watson,” he continued, “that I am particularly anxious - even desperate - to get my hands on their manuscript. The Society most urgently desires to add it to the county-by-county survey of the native British tongue that we are preparing. Their Northumbrian dictionary will be not just a new landmark in language, but it can finally complete our shelf. Once that is done, I can pack up my laurels, dismantle the Society, and retire to the peace of my study.”
“Are you aware that their book is missing?”
“One hears rumours,” Skeat replied darkly, shaking his head. “Dear me, I’ve been so hopeful that the Northumbrian word book will be a triumph. Aside from my professional curiosity, I take a most particular interest in their work. My mother came from a village within sight of the Tyne, and I learnt a fair number of Geordie words at her knee. Ha! Our two scholar friends were thunderstruck to hear a few local phrases roll from my tongue when they were here! I’ve made it plain to Dyvelstone and Bourne Forster that I will be their staunchest ally before the committee.” A sigh escaped him, and he shook his head. “It was a black day when they turned down the Society and told me they would seek to publish without us.”
“Precisely what is the role of your committee?”
“To evaluate the book, to approve it, or to reject it. If the committee found fault with the dictionary, you might be investigating its demise rather than its disappearance.”
“Perhaps, then, the authors did not wish to relinquish control over their own work?” Holmes said.
“There was never a question of control,” Skeat countered, weaving his fingers together and placing his hands on the desk. “It was a question of whether they were going to associate with the preeminent philologists in the land. Like yourself, sir, Bourne Forster and Dyvelstone are amateurs - gifted, but amateurs nonetheless - whereas the gentlemen of the committee are long-credentialed experts in our field. Cataloging words is our mission. Our two friends are undoubtedly tenacious and hardworking, though as yet untested.”
“Exactly how does a researcher pass the test?”
“Publish! And best to publish here. When one publishes with the Society, his work will forevermore be linked to the Pantheon of the profession. We are enlighteners of the language; to publish with us is to ascend the mountain.”
The left side of Sherlock Holmes’s mouth crooked in a sort of smile. “I see. They declined your offer of a rope and a pick ax?”
“They thanked me and firmly turned me down. I haven’t seen them since. I was dismayed, and of course angry.”
“How well would you say you know them, and their work, Professor Skeat?”
“I know them best courtesy of the Post Office,” he admitted. “You understand, as researchers their work takes place in villages and towns, on farms, in factories, and even in mines. These are located hundreds of miles away. They are correspondents who keep me - and the Society - abreast of their findings in letterform.” He pulled open a drawer and extracted a bundle of letters. “These I’ve received from them with the postal marks of Haltwhistle and Corbridge, of Newbiggin and Redburn, of Ashington and Prudhoe, and other towns located there.” Holmes examined the envelopes, and then returned them to the professor.
“And as to the quality of their endeavour? Surely you, who also take an interest in Northumbrian words, will offer an opinion.”
“Dialects should be learnt, like any other subject, by honest hard work,” Skeat told us. Something of the professor stirred in him as he spoke, and he addressed his remarks to an area just beyond my right ear. “Old words ought to be lured from the lips of each individual and diligently catalogued. Such is the higher calling of men like Bourne Forster and Dyvelstone... and me. Old words cannot be permitted to exist in isolation. They must be collected, considered, tested, proven, and then preserved by means of publication. It is only in this way that we can get nearer to the truth and beauty of our mother tongue.”
I closed the door softly as we left, so as not to disturb his reverie.
* * *
Jane Nugent was just as Mrs. Hudson had described her: Charming, and lovely to behold. While her aspect was calm and intelligent, I found her wide hazel eyes to be beguiling. She wore a springtime suit of buff piqué. Her smooth skirt was caught in a neat row of box pleats at the back, peeking from beneath the hem of her jacket. She’d arrived from the station while Holmes and I were out. He deposited me on our Baker Street doorstep, saying he had some business to attend to. I climbed the familiar steps alone. So it was that Miss Nugent and I had our tea together in the sitting room. Despite my several entreaties, Mrs. Hudson would not join us; I suspected she wanted to give us time to become acquainted. Our visitor told me of her placid life in the country, serving as companion to an undemanding elderly woman. In turn, I shared with her a selection of my personal exploits in the Afghan campaign. I described how I came to be wounded by the murderous Ghazis, and told her that I yet carried inside one of my limbs a deadly Jezail bullet. She blanched most becomingly. I confess that I liked her very much.
Holmes came in late that night, and was away before the sun rose the next morning. As I’d promised our landlady, I accompanied Miss Nugent on a drive though some of London’s neighborhoods. The mare clip-clopped along Oxford and Bond Streets, to Mayfair and St. James. It promised to be a delightful day, bright and pleasantly warm. Our route took us to the Mall, where I amused her with my story of a past visit to the Diogenes Club. As we passed the Palace, I described for her a couple of the small favours Holmes and I had performed on behalf of the Crown Prince. We went along Constitution Hill, when, to my astonishment, the cab did not double back to Park Lane and so on north and home, but very deliberately headed west in the Brompton Road. “Hey there,” I called, knocking on the roof of our hansom, “you missed the turn! We’re bound back to Marylebone!” I twisted round to look through the small opening behind us, where, to my astonishment, on the sprung I beheld my friend and associate Sherlock Holmes, grinning down at me.
I scarcely recognized him at these close quarters, so it’s not surprising I hadn’t known it was he who helped us into the cab back in Baker Street and had served as our driver for the past thirty minutes. He was dressed in a long close-fitting black coat, with leather boots and knitted gloves. Side-whiskers, along with a thick moustache, were newly applied to his face. His nose was reddened, giving him a look of a man who liked his gin. A black bowler was rammed onto his head, completing the disguise. Holmes waved a long whip in the air with a flourish, touching the mare on her point. She instantly responded by stepping into a rapid trot.
“Dr. Watson, what is happening?” Miss Nugent placed her small, trusting hand upon my sleeve, but I could see that she was troubled.
“Never worry, my dear,” I responded warmly. I scarcely knew whether to chuckle or weep. Unbeknownst to her, Jane Nugent had been swept into an undertaking only Sherlock Holmes could devise. I had served alongside him on many a criminal campaign, while she was but a fresh recruit. “We’re having a bit of an adventure, that’s all,” I reassured her. Still, I worried about
keeping her out of harm’s way.
And so we progressed, turning at the Natural History Museum, then again at Kensington Road. West, ever west, skirting the gardens and flying across High Street. By the time we’d achieved Holland Park, I was certain as to our destination: The Addison Road Station. There, Holmes pulled into the line with a half-dozen other hansom cabs, and released the lever so that our door opened. I leapt out and assisted Miss Nugent in alighting. Holmes climbed down and surveyed the other drivers waiting in twos and threes beside the hansoms.
“Really, Holmes, this is too much, even for you,” I whispered. “Miss Nugent is with me...”
“Silence,” he hissed, never taking his eyes from the other cabbies. “We’re just in time to make the acquaintance of Tom Hedley, he of Northumbrian manuscript fame.”
I turned to make my apologies to Miss Nugent, but was stopped by a sudden expression of exhilaration on her face.
“Dr. Watson, tell me,” she asked. “I heard you call him ‘Holmes’. Is that really Sherlock Holmes?”
“I’m afraid so,” I replied.
“But this is wonderful!” she said. “Cousin Martha’s letters tell so little. She did write recently that she knelt under a window and turned his bust while somebody shot at it. Is that true?” I nodded wordlessly. “May I meet him?” she asked.
“We find ourselves in the middle of one of his investigations,” I told her. “In my own experience of these things, it’s best to remain composed and observe everything you can, for it may be helpful to him later.”
She tucked her hand under my arm and we walked slowly along the pavement. We approached, and then passed, Hedley’s cab. At the one in front of it Miss Nugent stopped and petted the nose of its tired brown horse. I remained beside her, shielding her from any danger.
Holmes assumed a rolling swagger. He rubbed his chin and grinned at Hedley. ‘Say, now, you’re the driver wot lost that dictionary!” he exclaimed. The man was nearly as tall as Holmes, rail-thin, with a shock of dark hair. Like Holmes, his attire was the sombre black of a London cabbie. But where Holmes affected a grin, Hedley scowled. “I backed my opinion with sixpence,” Holmes continued. “Davy, over there, says you’re not, but I say you are: You are Tom, the cabbie wot drives books.” He added with a wink, “And loses ’em!”
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX Page 36
