by Anita Janda
I hope Holmes isn’t throwing my letters away.
* * *
Mary writes, reminding me that Holmes is depending on me. Am I responding to Sir Henry’s impatience or am I simply feeling impatient on my own account? She misses me, too. So far, six patients have opted to hoard their complaints against my return: Mrs Ogden, Mr Dougherty, Mr Peterson, Mrs Carroll’s Timothy, old Mrs Randall, and young Mr Jellett. She is sorry about Mr Jellett, she did try to persuade him to see Anstruther but “he knows when he is well-suited.” If that isn’t a hypochondriac all over! Cook is sorry to hear about “that Mrs Barrymore, spoiling a good roast.” Mary doesn’t like to promise, but she is of the opinion that Dr Watson can expect a rare dinner to welcome him home when this case is over. She sends her love. (Mary, not Cook.)
I wish this letter had arrived yesterday or, better yet, the day before. I don’t know what to do now. Mary is right, of course. The impatience was mine. It’s a bit grim, having to supply evidence of my friendship for weeks on end while Holmes keeps his own counsel and drops out of sight. I hope Mrs Carroll’s Timothy doesn’t have anything serious. It would be just like Mrs Carroll to decide that my absence from town was an omen, absolving her from any further efforts on Timothy’s behalf. I have abandoned my wife and my practice in order to sit on an egg in Devonshire and, little by little, my fear that it would hatch before Holmes could arrive has given way to the fear that, on the contrary, it isn’t going to hatch at all.
The truth is, I am used to a more active life than this and so, I should have thought, was Sir Henry. Something happens: I report it to Holmes, I describe it for Mary, I react to it in my diary. Through it all I remain convinced that Life is not supposed to happen slowly enough for me to be able to take it down in triplicate. Between events—and we are mostly “between events” here at Baskerville Hall—Sir Henry watches me move my pen across the paper. On his infrequent visits, we bring Dr Mortimer up to date. It doesn’t take long. The local gentry are staying away in droves, crippling my investigation and playing havoc with Sir Henry’s self-confidence, which I am beginning to see has been seriously eroded by Barrrymore’s unaccountable behaviour.
I am sorry now that I didn’t share my suspicions about the Barrymores with Sir Henry, but it did not occur to me that he would take the coldness of his welcome to the Hall so much to heart. In particular, it did not occur to me that Sir Henry could suppose either his manner or his person so unworthy of the Baskerville family line (a line so depraved, remember, as to make the legend of a spectral hound especially devoted to the destruction of its male descendants seem plausible in this day and age) as to render Barrymore’s behaviour upon the doorstep not only excusable, but very nearly justifiable. The Barrymores are not the only servants in the world. I say, let them go—once Holmes arrives and has analyzed the situation, of course. Perhaps I should remind Sir Henry of Holmes’s suspicion regarding Barrymore—his suspicion that Barrymore may have been the source of the anonymous letter Sir Henry received in London, warning him away from the moor. Then again, if Holmes has discarded that hypothesis for some reason, he won’t thank me for recalling it to his client’s mind. Oh, where is Holmes?
Personally, I should have thought Sir Henry could find considerable joy in the prospect of effecting an escape from the listless Mrs Barrymore and her never-ending parade of burnt offerings. I know I do. Sir Henry needs to learn how to look on the bright side. It would not have done for Sir Henry to have begun his tenure at the Hall by turning the Barrymores off, but if they choose to leave, that’s another story and small blame to him. If only he didn’t take everything so personally!
I’m beginning to see that young Baskerville is actually quite shy under his American bravado. More than once he’s told me that he didn’t bargain on becoming a recluse when he moved into the Hall. That’s the way he talks: “I didn’t bargain on this, I didn’t bargain on that.” One way and another, there is quite a bit about life at the Hall that Sir Henry didn’t bargain on. I’m beginning to think that the Hound (if there is a hound) may be the least of it.
Every day, we tramp out on the moor for our exercise and every day, Sir Henry becomes a little bit less American, a little bit more like Heathcliff. He doesn’t walk across the moor anymore, he stalks across the moor. I do my best to keep up, but the terrain is hard on my leg and if I don’t stop periodically to rest it, I run the risk of having it give out altogether, which would be ignominious in the extreme. There’s no conversation in Sir Henry these days. No pleasantries about the weather, no remarks upon the scenery, no plans for the future. He no longer talks about electrifying the approach to the Hall or looking forward to meeting his new neighbours. He carries his gun everywhere—nearly potted poor Cerberus this afternoon. In mistake for a rabbit, he said. I ask you, does a coal black spaniel look like a rabbit to you?
I didn’t know what it was at first, but I do now. And I take full responsibility for it. Because Mary is right, the impatience was mine. The problem is that against all the odds, I have succeeded in communicating it to Sir Henry, who in his natural state, doesn’t have an impatient bone in his body.
Sir Henry, always the perfect host, is taking pains to become a more picturesque protagonist for my story.
I suppose that from Sir Henry’s point of view, it is a short step from becoming a recluse to becoming a romantic recluse. I have never met—or imagined—a more impressionable young man. I know because I enquired, that Sir Henry was born in Devon and lived here until he was well into his teens. You would think he would have more sense. How can I tell him that Heathcliff is a Yorkshire character, not universally admired?
We have these little discussions, he and I, about the Baskerville family name, the Baskerville family legend, the Baskerville family reputation. When we first came to Baskerville Hall, at a time when it might be supposed that such questions would be uppermost in the new heir’s mind, these discussions were spaced with the liveliest exchanges about the prairies of Saskatchewan, the sport to be had there, the unpredictability of the weather, the violence of the gales, the threat of tornadoes. I should like to cross the Atlantic and see Saskatchewan for myself sometime. It sounds a fine life for a young man with no family. Physicians, he tells me, are as scarce as hen’s teeth (!) and may be certain of a warm welcome wherever they choose to settle. Mary has no more desire for travel than Holmes does, I’m sorry to say. But I enjoyed hearing about it. All that is at an end. Since arriving at the Hall, Sir Henry has grown progressively more morose and taciturn. Almost I could believe he had found some evidence of debt or mortgage among the family papers, but he assures me it is no such thing.
“I own it, Dr Watson, free and clear, lock, stock and barrel. I am a wealthy man.”
You would have thought he was announcing the death of his dearest friend. Was there someone special he had left behind in Canada, a girl perhaps, that he was missing now? I was as tactful as I knew how to be, and my friendship with Holmes has been a great education in tact.
“No, nothing like that, Dr Watson. There is no one ‘special to me,’ as you put it, in the whole world.” And we were off for another ramble on the solitary moor.
I give up. If there is any more to this than ordinary loneliness and simple nostalgia for the adventure of Canada and his lost youth, I do not know what it is. These two problems, however, are real, and well within the purview of Dr Mortimer. I wonder what his story is? Some domestic tragedy, I fancy. He never speaks about his wife and I know he’s married. That’s not natural. I begin to wonder about him.
Who told Sir Henry about the Baskerville family legend? Dr Mortimer. Who suspected foul play in the matter of Sir Charles’s death last spring? Dr Mortimer. Who observed more about the circumstances of that death than anyone could have, excepting only Sherlock Holmes? Dr Mortimer. What kind of family legend is it that is in the keeping of the executor of the estate, a stranger to Dartmoor and not a family member?
I am surprised Holmes never asked himself these questions.
Then again, what would be the doctor’s motive? That’s easily answered: the boredom of Dartmoor stands surety for any kind of distempered freak. And why, if he is the motivating force behind these unlikely events, has he brought Holmes into it? Wouldn’t he be the last person to want Holmes involved? But here we are up against the vagaries of human nature. Maybe he is one of those gamblers who plays less for the stakes in the game than for the pride he takes in beating his opponent. There are people like that, I know. Holmes is like that. I may have created this problem by publishing ‘A Study in Scarlet’. Wouldn’t that be awful? If that’s true, then the Hound won’t appear until Holmes does.
One thing at a time. What matters now is not the Hound (if there is a hound), but the depression of Sir Henry’s natural spirits under the weight of his unnatural isolation. Whether or not Dr Mortimer is the mover and shaker behind the spectral hound, he should be able to do something about the Heathcliff part of the problem. As the local medico, he certainly has the entrée into what passes for polite society on Dartmoor and I know he likes Sir Henry, but I don’t suppose it will occur to him and I despair of being able to plant the thought between his ears myself. He is too busy examining our skulls, assessing their cranial capacity and estimating the degree of protrusion of our jaws. His hobby: the human skull, theme and variations. “Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him Horatio,” and so on and so forth. Not altogether inappropriate for a physician, I admit, but intrinsically no more interesting than any other hobby. He was going on last night about the “vacuous description” of the escaped convict that is being circulated by the authorities, who dared to describe Selden as a red-headed fellow of average height, under-nourished (as well he might be after a year in gaol), with a dark beard. It’s not much of a description, I’ll give him that, a beard is a very temporary possession and by definition, most men are of average height, but it turns out that it is Selden’s red hair that Dr Mortimer finds most offensive.
“Have you ever seen anyone with red hair, Dr Watson? Sir Henry? I’ll be bound you haven’t. And you never will. Mark my words: if this chap Selden really had red hair, they would have caught him long ago. He’s probably quite ordinary-looking, really, with brown hair, a wizened face, low-slung jaw and a hungry look. His skull, now, might prove interesting…”
I’ve never seen a double chin, either, but I believe I know what one looks like. Oh, I wish I had thought of that last night! It does me no good whatever to think of it now. And what am I going to tell Mary?
* * *
A few more days of Baskerville Hall and my brains will have turned entirely to mush. It’s not a blackmail case that is keeping Holmes, it is this missing person business of Mary Sutherland. Her “little problem” (“a case of identity,” he called it) has turned out to be more complicated than he thought. Well, I’m not surprised. He had mixed feelings about that case from the beginning. I saw the way he refused to set his fee or accept a retainer from the lady. Quite contrary to his usual custom, although Miss Sutherland couldn’t be expected to know that. I realize the case had a familiar ring to it (how could it not? it was only six months ago that he was approached by the Noble Bachelor, Lord St Simon; the difference between a bride gone missing immediately after the ceremony and a bridegroom gone missing immediately before it, is hardly overwhelming to the man of science), but the fact that he was successful in solving the one does not mean that he will be successful in solving the other. No two cases of pneumonia take quite the same course and no one knows this better than a doctor. One patient recovers, the next one dies, and the doctor whose patients have the best chance is the doctor who refuses to protect his pride with speculation but resolutely sets his face against death and wills them all to recover. So it is with Holmes. He was as confident of his powers as ever (“If you would care to stop by tomorrow evening, Watson, I believe I will be able to elucidate the matter for you”) and yet he would not set his fee. Twenty-four hours later, I am at Baskerville Hall and Holmes is up to his neck in what must have been a fruitless search for the missing man.
On the whole, I am not sorry to be away from London.
Difficult to say what will happen next. On the one hand, it is characteristic of missing person cases that they tend to be solved quickly or not at all. As Holmes explained it to me, “There are always several lines available to the unbiased observer of an investigative disposition. If these have once been tried without positive results, however, further efforts are generally misplaced.” A roundabout way of saying that the rare individual who wants to disappear badly enough to sever all known connections and adopt all new habits will probably succeed. Under ordinary circumstances, Holmes would invest two or at most three days in such a search. These, however, are not ordinary circumstances. The timing could not be more unfortunate: the Cathcart case, the Ripper business, and now Miss Sutherland’s little problem, with nothing to look forward to but a spectral hound. Holmes has often said that he cannot afford to embark upon a losing streak. He must and he can accept the occasional failure, but two failures in a row he can not and must not accept. He is superstitious, is my friend Holmes.
I hope he will not feel obliged to go to Italy. But no—surely he will not leave the country while Sir Henry is in danger. Miss Sutherland’s case is urgent only to Miss Sutherland.
I feel better now. Holmes won’t write until he has solved his case of identity and then he probably won’t write, either, but will simply take the next train to Devon. He may wire us before he leaves town, but I wouldn’t bet on it—he does like to make an entrance. Until then, it is my job to protect Sir Henry. In all fairness, I don’t suppose I could have contributed anything to the resolution of Miss Sutherland’s “little problem” beyond my sincere good wishes for my friend’s success and his client’s eventual happiness.
Unlikely in any event that this would have made an adventure for me. Too similar by half to ‘The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor’, which, as an adventure already available in written form, naturally has pride of place in its author’s affections, for all that publication is forbidden me for the present. It was interesting, even so, to observe his two clients’ very different reactions to their experience. St Simon, who had had his American (and her antecedents) thoroughly investigated before making her an offer, was nevertheless completely convinced that his bride had disappeared of her own free will, quite possibly with the fixed intention of making a fool of him. Miss Sutherland, who in sharp contrast to Lord St Simon, knew practically nothing about her intended, much less his antecedents, was equally convinced that her fiancé had been spirited away from her against his will and was in grave danger. I wonder why that should be so?
* * *
If Mrs Barrymore’s culinary talents are known to the neighbourhood (and I see no reason why they shouldn’t be, the Barrymores have been in service at the Hall for time out of mind), that alone may serve to explain our social isolation. There is no reason for Sir Henry to take all of the credit to himself, and so I told him. I am beginning to lose my patience with that young man. God forgive me, but he does not seem to have the temperament for this business. He is as nervy as, as Mrs Barrymore.
We heard the Hound again last night. That is, we heard the call of an animal that Barrymore tells us is believed by the locals to be the Hound of the Baskervilles. Somehow I doubt that Holmes would be as impressed by this intelligence as Sir Henry was. Upon my word, I do not look forward to the prospect of spending Halloween at Baskerville Hall with Sir Henry! Was it only yesterday that I was telling myself that I could put up with my exile if only I knew what was keeping Holmes? I must have been mad. It is impossible to predict how long it will take him to lay the ghost of Miss Sutherland’s past. I could be stuck here for months! Patience, Watson, patience.
I keep telling myself there must be some way for me to put my time here to good use. It is no secret to me that it is the want of any useful occupation that is making the waiting so difficult. I write to Mary, I write in my diary. It is three days now since I h
ave written to Holmes—there has been nothing for me to say. I can’t send Holmes a description of the moor at sunset or a quick sketch of the furnishings in the dining room. [Note: I must remember to inquire into his progress on the Sutherland case when next I write. That will give him something to think about.]
I know what Mary would say if she were here. Sir Henry is happily inured to my writing and too much the gentleman in any case (and in spite of his current Heathcliff routine) to request a recitation of me. I might just as well redd up some old adventure as fadoodle around with this one. I can almost hear her voice.
Mary seems to think—and I am bound to admit, Holmes frequently appears to suffer from the same delusion—that every investigation brought to a successful conclusion is worth the telling, and it is no such thing. Mary would leap at the chance to send me my notes if I asked her to, but I have no desire to raise her hopes by making the request. I know what it must be costing her to write me every day and never once ask me whether I am keeping my journal. Besides, I don’t need my notes to remind me of the adventures that I could tell if I would (and if I could see my way past the various plot knots that infest them). The list is nothing if not short. There is the Rufus Jamison case (Holmes’s clear favourite) and there is the plight of the lusty King of Bohemia. God knows how he got Holmes’s name, but he did.
