Chapter 5. Three Broken Threads

von Arthur Conan Doyle

Sherlock Holmes had an extraordinary ability to detach his mind at will. For two hours, the strange events we had been caught up in seemed to fade away, and he became completely engrossed in the works of modern Belgian artists. From the moment we left the gallery until we arrived at the Northumberland Hotel, he spoke only of art, sharing his rather simplistic views on the subject.

“Sir Henry Baskerville is upstairs waiting for you,” the clerk informed us. “He asked me to show you up as soon as you arrived.”

“Do you mind if I take a look at your register?” Holmes asked.

“Not at all.”

The register revealed two names added after Baskerville's: Theophilus Johnson and family from Newcastle, and Mrs. Oldmore and her maid from High Lodge, Alton.

“Surely that must be the same Johnson I used to know,” Holmes remarked to the porter. “A lawyer, right? Grey-haired and walks with a limp?”

“No, sir, this is Mr. Johnson, the coal owner. A very active gentleman, not older than you.”

“Are you sure you’re not confusing his profession?”

“No, sir! He has been a regular guest here for many years and is well known to us.”

“Ah, that clears it up. And Mrs. Oldmore, too; her name rings a bell. Excuse my curiosity, but sometimes when visiting one friend, you run into another.”

“She’s an invalid lady, sir. Her husband was once the mayor of Gloucester. She always stays with us when she’s in town.”

“Thank you; I can’t claim to know her. But we’ve uncovered an important fact with these questions, Watson,” he said quietly as we climbed the stairs together. “We now know that those interested in our friend haven’t chosen to stay in his hotel. This means that while they are eager to keep an eye on him, they also want to avoid being seen. That’s quite revealing.”

“What does it suggest?”

“It suggests—hold on, my dear fellow, what on earth is wrong?”

As we rounded the top of the stairs, we nearly collided with Sir Henry Baskerville himself. His face was flushed with anger, and he clutched an old, dusty boot in one hand. He was so furious that his words came out in a thick, Western accent, far broader than what we had heard from him that morning.

“It seems to me they’re playing me for a fool in this hotel,” he exclaimed. “They’ll find they’ve messed with the wrong man unless they’re careful. By thunder, if that guy can’t find my missing boot, there will be trouble. I can take a joke with the best of them, Mr. Holmes, but they’ve crossed the line this time.”

“Still searching for your boot?”

“Yes, sir, and I intend to find it.”

“But you said it was a new brown boot?”

“It was, sir. And now it’s an old black one.”

“What! You can’t be serious—?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. I only had three pairs—my new brown, the old black, and the patent leather ones I’m wearing. Last night, they took one of my brown boots, and today they’ve snatched one of the black ones. Well, do you have it? Speak up, man, don’t just stand there staring!”

An anxious German waiter had appeared at that moment.

“No, sir; I’ve asked around the hotel, but I haven’t heard anything about it.”

“Well, either that boot is back before sundown, or I’m going to see the manager and tell him I’m leaving this hotel immediately.”

“It will be found, sir—I promise you that if you can be a little patient, it will turn up.”

“It better, because it’s the last thing of mine I’ll lose in this den of thieves. Well, Mr. Holmes, I hope you don’t mind my troubling you over such a trivial matter—”

“I think it’s worth addressing.”

“Why, you look very serious about it.”

“How do you explain it?”

“I don’t even try to explain it. It’s the maddest, strangest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Perhaps the strangest—” Holmes said thoughtfully.

“What do you make of it?”

“Well, I can’t claim to understand it yet. Your case is quite complex, Sir Henry. When considered alongside your uncle’s death, I’m not sure there’s another case I’ve handled that cuts as deep. But we have several threads to follow, and it’s likely that one of them will lead us to the truth. We might waste time on the wrong one, but eventually, we’ll find the right path.”

We enjoyed a pleasant lunch, during which little was said about the business that had brought us together. It was in the private sitting room we retreated to afterward that Holmes asked Baskerville about his plans.

“To go to Baskerville Hall.”

“And when?”

“At the end of the week.”

“Overall,” Holmes said, “I believe your decision is a wise one. I have strong evidence that someone is following you in London, and with the millions of people in this vast city, it’s tough to figure out who they are or what they want. If their intentions are harmful, they could cause you serious trouble, and we wouldn’t be able to stop it. Did you know, Dr. Mortimer, that you were followed this morning from my place?”

Dr. Mortimer jumped in surprise. “Followed? By whom?”

“Unfortunately, that’s something I can’t tell you. Do you have any neighbors or acquaintances on Dartmoor who have a full black beard?”

“No—wait, let me think. Yes, Barrymore, Sir Charles’s butler, has a full black beard.”

“Ah! Where is Barrymore now?”

“He’s in charge of the Hall.”

“We should check if he’s really there or if he might be in London.”

“How can you do that?”

“Just give me a telegraph form. ‘Is everything ready for Sir Henry?’ That should work. Address it to Mr. Barrymore, Baskerville Hall. What’s the nearest telegraph office? Grimpen? Perfect. We’ll send a second message to the postmaster in Grimpen: ‘Telegram for Mr. Barrymore to be delivered into his own hands. If he’s absent, please return the wire to Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel.’ That should let us know by evening whether Barrymore is at his post in Devonshire.”

“That makes sense,” Baskerville said. “By the way, Dr. Mortimer, who is this Barrymore, anyway?”

“He’s the son of the old caretaker, who has passed away. They’ve been looking after the Hall for four generations. As far as I know, he and his wife are a respectable couple.”

“Still,” Baskerville said, “it’s clear that as long as there are no family members at the Hall, these people have a nice home and nothing to do.”

“That’s true.”

“Did Barrymore benefit from Sir Charles’s will at all?” Holmes asked.

“He and his wife each received five hundred pounds.”

“Interesting! Did they know they would get this?”

“Yes, Sir Charles often talked about the provisions of his will.”

“That’s quite intriguing.”

“I hope,” Dr. Mortimer said, “you’re not suspicious of everyone who received a legacy from Sir Charles. I also got a thousand pounds.”

“Really? Anyone else?”

“There were many small sums given to individuals and a number of public charities. The rest all went to Sir Henry.”

“And how much was that remainder?”

“Seven hundred and forty thousand pounds.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I had no idea such a massive sum was involved,” he said.

“Sir Charles was known to be wealthy, but we didn’t realize just how wealthy until we examined his assets. The total value of the estate was nearly a million.”

“Goodness! That’s a stake worth playing a desperate game for. One more question, Dr. Mortimer. If something were to happen to our young friend here—please forgive the unpleasant thought!—who would inherit the estate?”

“Since Rodger Baskerville, Sir Charles’s younger brother, died unmarried, the estate would go to the Desmonds, who are distant cousins. James Desmond is an elderly clergyman in Westmoreland.”

“Thank you. These details are all very interesting. Have you met Mr. James Desmond?”

“Yes, he visited Sir Charles once. He’s a man of venerable appearance and a saintly life. I remember he refused to accept any settlement from Sir Charles, even though Sir Charles insisted.”

“And this man of simple tastes would inherit Sir Charles’s fortune.”

“He would inherit the estate because it’s entailed. He would also inherit the money unless the current owner decides otherwise.”

“And have you made your will, Sir Henry?”

“No, Mr. Holmes, I haven’t. I’ve had no time; I only learned how things stood yesterday. But I believe the money should go with the title and estate. That was my late uncle’s idea. How can the owner restore the Baskerville legacy without enough money to maintain the property? The house, land, and funds must go together.”

“Absolutely. Well, Sir Henry, I agree with you about the necessity of going down to Devonshire without delay. There’s just one condition I must insist on: you absolutely cannot go alone.”

“Dr. Mortimer will come with me.”

“But Dr. Mortimer has his practice to attend to, and his home is miles away from yours. Even with the best intentions, he may not be able to help you. No, Sir Henry, you need to take someone trustworthy who will be by your side at all times.”

“Is it possible for you to come yourself, Mr. Holmes?”

“If things come to a head, I’ll make sure to be there in person. But you can imagine that with my busy consulting practice and the constant requests I get from all over, it’s impossible for me to leave London for an extended period. Right now, one of the most respected names in England is being tarnished by a blackmailer, and I’m the only one who can prevent a major scandal. You can see why I can’t go to Dartmoor.”

“Who would you suggest instead?”

Holmes placed his hand on my arm. “If my friend is willing to take it on, there’s no one better to have by your side when you’re in a tough spot. I can’t say that more confidently.”

I was taken aback by the suggestion, but before I could respond, Baskerville grabbed my hand and shook it vigorously.

“Well, that’s really kind of you, Dr. Watson,” he said. “You see my situation, and you know just as much about this as I do. If you come down to Baskerville Hall and help me through this, I’ll never forget it.”

The promise of adventure always intrigued me, and I felt flattered by Holmes’s words and the eagerness with which the baronet welcomed me as a companion.

“I’d be happy to come,” I replied. “I can’t think of a better way to spend my time.”

“And you’ll report back to me very carefully,” Holmes instructed. “When a crisis arises—and it will—I’ll guide you on what to do. I assume everything will be ready by Saturday?”

“That works for me,” I confirmed.

“Then on Saturday, unless you hear otherwise, we’ll meet at the ten-thirty train from Paddington.”

We were about to leave when Baskerville let out a triumphant shout and rushed to a corner of the room, pulling out a brown boot from under a cabinet.

“My missing boot!” he exclaimed.

“May all our troubles disappear as easily!” said Sherlock Holmes.

“But it’s quite strange,” Dr. Mortimer interjected. “I searched this room thoroughly before lunch.”

“So did I,” Baskerville added. “Every inch of it.”

“There was definitely no boot here then.”

“In that case, the waiter must have put it there while we were at lunch.”

They called for the waiter, but he claimed to know nothing about it, and no amount of questioning could clarify the situation. Another puzzling incident had been added to the series of small mysteries that had unfolded so quickly. Aside from the grim tale of Sir Charles’s death, we had a string of inexplicable events in just two days: the printed letter, the black-bearded man in the cab, the loss of the new brown boot, the loss of the old black boot, and now the return of the new brown boot.

Holmes sat in silence in the cab as we drove back to Baker Street. I could tell from his furrowed brow and sharp expression that his mind was racing, just like mine, trying to piece together a plan that would connect all these strange and seemingly unrelated occurrences. He spent the entire afternoon and late into the evening lost in thought and smoke.

Just before dinner, two telegrams arrived. The first read:

“Just heard that Barrymore is at the Hall. BASKERVILLE.”

The second:

“Visited twenty-three hotels as directed, but sorry to report unable to trace cut sheet of _Times_. CARTWRIGHT.”

“There go two of my leads, Watson. There’s nothing more invigorating than a case where everything seems to work against you. We need to look for another clue.”

“We still have the cab driver who took the spy,” I reminded him.

“Exactly. I’ve sent a wire to get his name and address from the Official Registry. I wouldn’t be surprised if this visit is related to my inquiry.”

The ring of the doorbell turned out to be even more promising than a simple response. A rough-looking man walked in, clearly the cab driver.

“I got a message from the head office that someone here was asking about No. 2704,” he said. “I’ve been driving my cab for seven years and never had a complaint. I came straight from the Yard to ask you what you have against me.”

“I have nothing against you, my good man,” Holmes replied. “On the contrary, I’ll give you half a sovereign if you can provide me with clear answers to my questions.”

“Well, I’ve had a good day, that’s for sure,” the cab driver said with a grin. “What do you want to know, sir?”

“First, your name and address, in case I need to reach you again.”

“John Clayton, 3 Turpey Street, the Borough. My cab is out of Shipley’s Yard, near Waterloo Station.”

Sherlock Holmes noted it down.

“Now, Clayton, tell me everything about the fare who came and watched this house at ten o’clock this morning and then followed the two gentlemen down Regent Street.”

The man looked taken aback and a bit sheepish. “Well, there’s no point in me telling you anything, since you seem to know as much as I do already,” he said. “The truth is, the gentleman told me he was a detective and that I shouldn’t say anything about him to anyone.”

“Listen, my friend, this is serious business. You could find yourself in a tough spot if you try to hide anything from me. You say your passenger claimed to be a detective?”

“Yes, he did.”

“When did he say this?”

“When he got out of the cab.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“He mentioned his name.”

Holmes shot me a triumphant glance. “Oh, he mentioned his name, did he? That was careless. What name did he give?”

“His name,” the cab driver replied, “was Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

I had never seen my friend so completely stunned as he was by the cabman’s answer. For a moment, he sat there in silent disbelief before bursting into hearty laughter.

“A touch, Watson—an undeniable touch!” he exclaimed. “I feel a rival as quick and clever as I am. He got the better of me that time. So his name was Sherlock Holmes, was it?”

“Yes, sir, that was the gentleman’s name.”

“Excellent! Now tell me where you picked him up and everything that happened.”

“He hailed me at half-past nine in Trafalgar Square. He said he was a detective and offered me two guineas if I would do exactly what he wanted all day without asking questions. I was more than happy to agree. First, we drove to the Northumberland Hotel and waited there until two gentlemen came out and took a cab from the rank. We followed their cab until it stopped somewhere around here.”

“This very door,” Holmes interjected.

“Well, I couldn’t be sure of that, but I suppose my passenger knew all about it. We pulled up halfway down the street and waited for an hour and a half. Then the two gentlemen walked past us, and we followed them down Baker Street and along—”

“I know,” Holmes said.

“Until we got three-quarters of the way down Regent Street. Then my passenger threw open the trap and shouted for me to drive straight to Waterloo Station as fast as I could. I whipped up the mare, and we got there in under ten minutes. He paid me the two guineas, like a gentleman, and dashed into the station. Just as he was leaving, he turned around and said, ‘It might interest you to know that you’ve been driving Mr. Sherlock Holmes.’ That’s how I came to know the name.”

“I see. And you didn’t see him again?”

“Not after he went into the station.”

“How would you describe Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

The cab driver scratched his head. “Well, he wasn’t exactly easy to describe. I’d say he was around forty years old, of average height—two or three inches shorter than you, sir. He was dressed like a gentleman, with a black beard that was cut square at the end, and he had a pale face. I can’t say much more than that.”

“Color of his eyes?”

“No, I can’t say that.”

“Nothing else you remember?”

“No, sir; nothing.”

“Well then, here’s your half-sovereign. There’s another one waiting for you if you can bring me any more information. Good night!”

“Good night, sir, and thank you!”

John Clayton left, chuckling, and Holmes turned to me with a shrug and a wry smile.

“Snap goes our third thread, and we end where we began,” he said. “The clever rascal! He knew our number, knew that Sir Henry Baskerville had consulted me, spotted me in Regent Street, guessed that I’d gotten the number of the cab, and sent back this bold message. I tell you, Watson, this time we have an opponent who is worthy of our skills. I’ve been checkmated in London. I can only wish you better luck in Devonshire. But I’m not comfortable about it.”

“About what?”

“About sending you. It’s a nasty business, Watson, a very dangerous one, and the more I see of it, the less I like it. Yes, my dear fellow, you may laugh, but I assure you, I’ll be very glad to have you back safe and sound in Baker Street once more.”