The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II (30 page)

“He said it is a low thing to be predictable to one's enemies. He has authorized me with full powers of decision if I must.” Lestrade produced the necessary letter from the baronet.

“Sir Henry is a cunning fox.” Holmes admired. “Very well. The three of us will venture out and gird this cave-lion in his draughty den.”

“You should not mention the smuggling, Watson. It would not be in the best interests of the people in your sensationalist writings.
”

I set down my pen. “And I will not, I assure you.”

“You practically have, my good Watson. A lantern painted on the Inn-sign! The proximity to Plymouth! The use of Bretons! The stone manse!”

“I did not mention the old shipwreck's lookout, or the unanswered questions about the root cause of the Quantock's
original
wealth, Holmes. I could not mention any of these things without being forced to comment on the local's surreptitious form of income.”

“We are in agreement.” Holmes riposted pettishly. Being feverish never helped his temper, and I ignored it. It was better to encourage him to health. “And do not put Lestrade in the ending.”

“I would not dream of it.”

“Do not be overly descriptive of Quantock. Put him down as the world's scrawniest toad and leave it at that.
”

“I am not sure that is possible, Holmes. There is no such thing as a lean toad.”

“I was referring to his complexion.”

“Holmes, you may read this for yourself when I am finished.”

“Must I?”

Abraham Quantock allowed us entrance to his private study that was so poorly lit it gave him the impression of a lean toad. His flat, moist blue eyes glimmered at Holmes, who was the only one tall enough to meet his gaze, and he spared Lestrade an icy glare. Myself he dismissed as irrelevant.

Holmes found a corner by the window and puffed on the pipe he had carried with him on our journey to the Court. Every inch of his lanky form exuded the boredom of a man who must be present for the sake of appearances but nothing more. As I watched, Lestrade struggled more and more for calm as Quantock's ugly amusement grew at Lestrade's expense.

For my part, I knew Holmes was often unfathomable, but there was no sense in trying to draw him out. He would speak when ready and not before, and Lestrade knew this as well as I. But the little professional was baffled at the seeming loss of his ally.

“My terms are clear.” Quantock said coldly. “Sir Henry cannot disagree that it is against restitution if I am left the poorer from it. I only wish Merripit House.”

“You wish to own it in its original condition,” Lestrade countered doggedly. “That is not to put too fine of a point on it. The house needs work. Stapleton was more interested in netting butterflies than keeping it up. You could have purchased it at any time, but you waited until after Sir Henry bought it.”

“My reasons are my own.”

“And my duty is clear. I will accept your statement and personally deliver it to Sir Henry, but I cannot give you the guarantee that you desire.”

“You shall remind your baronet those are my only terms.”

“I will, but it would go well with you if I had some reason for your decision.”

“No more than it was my Aunt's dream to open Folkestone to naturalists and collectors like herself. Stapleton damaged her original collection and contributed to her untimely passing; it is fitting that her memory receive the benefit of his residence.” Quantock grew agitated with the force of his own words and rose up. “Merripit is ideal for the scientist with the desire to do more than take a pleasant stroll among the trout-streams. It is close to the wands planted for safe passage and one less burden I would have on my family's name.”

“Not to mention your soul,” Lestrade said, in one of his rare examples of dry wit. “You would need to maintain the property, Mr. Quantock. Sir Henry would not let you beggar yourself. Can you afford such a thing?”

“I would own Merripit House only long enough to restore it to fine condition, and then offer it free and clear to the Baldwins, on the understanding that they would host any visitors who come to visit the Moor.”

Lestrade was as speechless as myself. He looked at Holmes, who continued smoking with a bored air, as though this were all a trivial affair. He looked back to Quantock and found his voice. “Is
this
your final word, sir?”

“It is.”

“Then I will explain your position to Sir Henry immediately, but it would help if you also wrote your wishes down on paper, which I and any of these gentlemen would be content to sign.”

“That we would,” I said firmly.

Holmes shrugged. “Oh, I suppose if it pleases you,” he drawled.

Quantock sniffed. “It will do.”

In short time, Quantock drafted a terse statement and we all signed it. Lestrade let no emotions escape his face, but I could tell he was simmering with rage under his calm mask. It was not until we were well outside shouting-distance from the Court that he finally opened his mouth.

“I've talked to brick walls with more sense!” he roared. “And if that man ever gave anything to anyone ‘free and clear' it was a germ!”

Holmes was so overcome with hilarity he was unable to regain his composure for some minutes, during which he clapped the little Yarder on the back and leaned upon his shoulder. I thought it a rare sight, with long and lean Holmes bent over the small police detective.

“Be calm, Lestrade!” he cried. “Rest assured, you have done your duty. You saw my lackadaisical performance and responded beautifully to my rudeness, which delighted Quantock so well he assumed he had the upper hand in the debate. Now we shall make haste and inform Sir Henry of the latest development.”

Sir Henry's promised electric lights perched like soldiers down the drive of Baskerville Hall, and the ragged greensward was neatened by the thrifty use of white-faced sheep. Small ponds cunningly crafted from the native stone dotted the landscape, shimmering like mirrors and populated by many gossiping birds.

What we took for a gardener proved to be Sir Henry himself, dressed for digging with a large straw hat. He grinned as he waved us over to the edge of a large, shallow circle sliced into the sod, barely more than two inches deep and filled to the brim with clear water.

“Just in time for dinner!” He laughed. “Come and see my dewpond - a real marvel, eh?” The Neolithic collection-pool was a testimony to the skill of Dartmoor's early forbearers, and the convenience of sweet water lured the wild ponies from an early death in the Mire.

“That, and my new mares,” the baronet told us. “I've been improving the bloodstock.” He turned to Lestrade with his hands on his hips. “I expect you have news for me. Come in and let's talk over a drink.”

Lestrade sadly gave a summary as we walked inside the Hall. Stapleton's impressive collection of butterflies hung on the walls, but even I could tell Sir Henry planned to move them out as soon as he could.

Sir Henry was startled. “I knew he was contrary, but... Mr. Holmes, can you riddle this?”

“Perhaps. A separate party hired me to facilitate an equitable solution for all involved. Can you add anything?”

The baronet shuddered. “I've dealt with enough snakes that I can't help but respect them for being good at a job no-one else in Creation wants. But this...” He rose to serve a strong rye bourbon. “This out-Herods Herod, by thunder!” With a troubled air, the young baronet turned to Lestrade. “I thought I was giving you a straight job, not a wild goose chase.”

“Lestrade is capable of fulfilling his duty, Sir Henry,” Holmes assured them both. “And the matter can still be resolved cleanly.”

“I'll believe you, Mr. Holmes, but I wouldn't believe anyone else.” Lestrade rubbed at his brow.

“No-one need believe. Simply tell Quantock to come here tomorrow to sign the agreement. Watson is a splendid fellow in a pinch, and he can be trusted to add his signature of witness to the agreement, am I correct?”

“Indeed,” I said stoutly. “Although I have no more an idea of what you wish than Lestrade.”

“Or me.” Sir Henry lifted his hand like a boy in a schoolroom. “But I'll be ready for anything!” He grinned. “And I'll be glad to see this through!”

“Excellent!” And without further warning, Holmes turned and dashed down the Hall with the speed of a schoolboy, stopping by turns to peer up the walls and skipping down again. The three of us gaped, but at the very end we saw him grab something in the murk and run back with the object under his arm. It was the light-speckled moth next to the baronet's elbow in the newspaper clipping.

“Your job will be simplicity itself, Lestrade!” Holmes declared. “Merely place this on Sir Henry's desk like so - there! Right next to where the deed shall rest. A delightful conversation piece, is it not?” He beamed with his hands on his hips and admired his handiwork as we again looked at each other, baffled.

“This is one of your tricks, is it not, Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade asked in resignation.

“Not at all, Lestrade. Simply remember,” he lifted his hand, “‘I swear to you that The Merripit House Collection is complete!' Every specimen that rightfully belonged to Jack Stapleton will be returned to its walls so that Mr. Quantock can accept the deed on his terms. Mr. Quantock agreed before witnesses that he would personally repair Merripit as part of his concession to the plight of the Baldwins.”

“Why am I thinking of a pony and a potato right now?” Sir Henry muttered with smile upon Holmes. “I've seen your look in a man's eye before, friend, and it was always right before someone got their comeuppance.”

“You give me too much credit, Sir Henry.” Holmes pursed his lips. “And now, you spoke of dinner?”

Here my pen falters, for though I have often devoted my thoughts to this crucial scene, I still cannot give full description to how Quantock strode proudly into Baskerville Hall, only for his swagger to crumble like sand under rain as his eye fell upon Sir Henry's desk. He paled before our eyes, and his greeting quivered in his throat.

“Good morning, Mr. Quantock,” the baronet said
. With his fingers laced together upon the blotting-paper, and his large hazel eyes unblinking upon the newcomer, our friend smiled. “I believe you wished to own Merripit House?”

With a shaking hand, Quantock signed his agreement to Sir Henry, and Lestrade, Holmes and I added our witness. Merripit House thus passed from Baskerville Hall to Folkestone Court, and Quantock was promptly beggared in the repairwork that was past his means. He was close to penniless when he passed the house to the Baldwins. That good couple promptly sold it back to Sir Henry for no more than the value of the Candlebat Inn, and reside comfortably there to this day. It was a far better fate than Quantock's, for he soon was forced by penury to do as he had sworn in revenge, and had to sell what he could and return to London. Allow me to say that the purchaser would have made Miss Oriana proud, for they thought her dream of a Museum a sensible one, and Folkestone breathed fresh relief at a new source of money.

“Sentimentalism, Watson!” Holmes protested. “And of the basest kind. You would have them think it was purchased out of the kindness of the heart!”

“I doubt the Foreign Office would like it if I mentioned their interest in the property, Holmes. They do like to keep their eyes on private entrepreneurs.”

“Bah,” Holmes sneered. “In any case, your tale is missing large chunks. You will have to splice in a build-up of atmosphere with our journey to Folkestone and keep up an over-inflated account of my behavior to unsettle Lestrade.”

“I thought to put that in later. Tuesday is almost upon us.”

“At least there will be fresh milk.”

“All right, Mr. Holmes.” Sir Henry had gathered us all before the fireplace, for even summer in Dartmoor is chilly. He gnawed on the stem of a new pipe in a seeming picture of content. Only the gleam in his eyes and the smile on his lips said otherwise. “You played a long game, and you came out on top again, but it is done and time for the magician to spill his tricks.”

Holmes bowed with a pleased mien to be compared to a magician, and bowed again as Lestrade and I leaned forward.

“Quantock only pretended to be callous of his Aunt's work. In reality, he was quietly replacing choice specimens and selling the originals. He could do this because of her failing eyesight, and he started with the pieces high up, knowing she would be content with examining her paintings and sketches. But the real plum, the prize specimen, was the Vandeleur Moth, which you so kindly placed on Sir Henry's desk, Lestrade.”

“What!” Sir Henry stared wildly at the silent moth. “You mean that Moth named after Stapleton back when he was passing as Vandeleur?”

“The same.”

“By thunder!”

“Yes. I asked myself if it was indeed that worthy moth, but although my suspicions were strong, I had no confirmation until Lestrade gave me the proof I needed with the news of Quantock's sudden desire for Merripit House.

“Stapleton knew from his friendship with Mortimer that the Folkestone Collection was worthy of a visit, and one day he did just that. He must have felt as though his secret days were numbered when he saw the very moth credited with his old name from East Yorkshire was under glass! If its presence became common knowledge, eventually a Yorkshire expert would come to visit, and his disguise would be circumspect. He did not think that his distinct hobby was already a danger to his identity, but we have established his ‘hazy thinking' in the past. Naturally he had to have the moth, but he could not ask overtly - Miss Quantock's dream of a museum was public. No, he had to recover this specimen covertly.