The collected papers of.., p.41
The Collected Papers of Sherlock Holmes, Volume 3, page 41
***
On the train, I cleared my throat. We hadn’t spoken since leaving Smallwood’s presence. “He will run again, you know. He fears us now. He fears you. He’s probably already raced to wherever he’s hidden the jewel, certain that we’re going to get there first, to seek it and take it from him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t already taken to his heels.”
Holmes frowned. “I started to have Barker remain on duty, to see where he goes, but it’s really of no concern. It’s bad enough that I’ve traced him here, and disrupted the fragile peace that he thought he’d found.”
That thought surprised me, and Holmes noticed. “I was arrogant, Watson. It’s a trait that I’ve noticed in myself before, and one that I shall have to work harder to avoid in the future. You asked my reason for pursuing this – no client, no fee – and I replied that it was for my own education – ‘if only to satisfy the artist in me’. But I feel that, in my enthusiasm, I have done an injury here, of some sort or another. Once or twice in my career I feel that I have done more real harm by my desire to learn the truth, without taking time to learn the consequences. I need to learn caution – to refrain from acting just to know a little bit more.”
He drifted into silence. Clearly this had shaken him somehow. But that was no surprise, as I felt the same way.
Then, as a number of miles has passed beneath us while we approached the capital, he asked, “Do you believe that there really is a jewel?”
The thought had already occurred to me. “Possibly. He certainly has something that he’s hiding, and that he’s willing to flee in order to keep for himself. His rooms were invaded, and he did flee, as he has before. Some other story might suffice to explain why, but I prefer this one as much as any other. You yourself showed us the evidence of the footprints, and that an object was kept hidden. And he did go to great trouble to construct the secret room.”
“Yes, but did he also construct an elaborate story to cover up whatever it is that he’s really hiding?”
I pondered that for a moment, and then said, “For now, that story of the jewel is as good as any other, I suppose. If he’s simply hiding the loot from some old bond robbery, like Mr. Blessington in his house in Brook Street, I would be vastly disappointed.”
Holmes smiled but said nothing. Much later, as we were well into the metropolis and slowing in our approach to the terminus, he roused himself, knocking his pipe out through the cracked window. “Assuming that it was real… do you wish that we’d seen it?”
“Hmm?” I sat up straighter, having been between wakefulness and uneasy dreams for many miles. “The jewel? I’m curious, certainly. But I think that I’m glad that I didn’t – not that he would have let us. And you?”
“Possibly. I seek the path of logic and an intellectual perspective, but there is a part of me that cannot help but to respond to something like that. A massive jewel, with such a story to go with it. How could I not wish to see such a thing?”
“And yet…” I drifted off, about to mention the fact that the thing seemed to have a corruptive power – at least if one believed Smallwood’s story. Holmes would hold such a thought in contempt. But as usual he knew what I was thinking, and he surprised me.
“I agree, Watson. Perhaps it’s best for both of us that Smallwood never showed us the cursed thing. After all, there must be a reason it for it being sealed up as it was.”
I frowned. “It sounds as if you do believe him then – about all of it, including the tunnel, placed so impossibly by some ancient people. I must admit that I’m inclined to credit his story as well, although there is no firm reason to. As you said, the whole thing might have been some story that Smallwood concocted in order to divert us from what really happened.”
“I suppose. And yet, my friend, it’s good to remember sometimes just how little that we really know. There are certainly even larger jewels in the earth than what was described to us today, and wonders achieved and then lost by the ancients that we’ll never know or understand.”
He set about relighting his pipe. “Let me while away the time in the few remaining minutes before we reach the station with the details of an investigation that I concluded a few years ago in the Preseli hills, in Pembrokeshire. I think that you might find it of interest.”
And the story that he told, first on the train and then finishing in our Baker Street rooms, was nearly as unusual as that provided by Smallwood, and his unique and definitive solution to the problem helped to somehow make the world a little less mysterious – at least on that day.
The Treasures of the Gog Magog Hills
The sudden December cold caused me to pull my coat tighter as Sherlock Holmes and I stepped from the warm little cottage and into the flat gray light of early afternoon. The sunlight was pale and filtered through the low-hanging clouds, scudding by quickly as if a storm were blowing in. The air felt damp and raw, and I regretted that it was likely we’d be walking back into Cambridge from this remote and lonely dwelling.
I looked around, trying to imagine this place of recent tragedy on a sunny day. What had it been like when the young couple who rented it had first arrived, soon after their marriage a year earlier, newlyweds with a lifetime of promise before them? Now, only one of them survived, while the other remained inside with a broken heart.
A year before, the young groom, a noted Trinity College rugby player named Godfrey Staunton had married a housekeeper’s daughter who had been described to us as “good as she was beautiful and as intelligent as she was good”. But poor Staunton had been forced to keep the marriage a secret from his uncle, a conniving old rich man who had no use for either love or wedded arrangements. Thus, Staunton and his bride had settled into this little cottage, some two miles outside of Cambridge on the way to Trumpington, believing that they had a wonderful life before them. But devastation had struck in the form of a terrible illness, and now, after several weeks of suffering and anguish, Mrs. Staunton lay dead inside while her husband sobbed at her bedside, watched over by his concerned friend, Doctor Leslie Armstrong.
Two days earlier, Holmes had been approached by one of Staunton’s rugby team-mates. With an important game set to take place very soon, Staunton had vanished. This friend had no knowledge of either the marriage or the lady’s illness, as Staunton had made sure that she was unknown to any of his friends or fellow students. Holmes had managed to learn of Staunton’s connection to Dr. Armstrong, and we visited him, only to find him hostile to our purpose. By way of a ruse involving an odorous compound and a gifted drag-hound, we managed to follow Armstrong into the countryside south of Cambridge, only to arrive at the little cottage just after the young bride’s passing. After fully understanding the situation, Armstrong had thanked us for our discretion and we had left both him and Staunton to their sorrow. Now, standing outside, we faced the unpleasant journey back into town.
Our original trek out to the cottage had passed briskly. Pompey, the dog that Holmes had acquired locally to follow the doctor, had led us efficiently and directly there, and the miles had flown with the thrill of the hunt upon us, and no knowledge of the calamity that we would soon discover at the end of our quest. Now, the slow and sad return through the oppressive and damp cold promised to be most unpleasant indeed.
I considered mentioning that we might right back with Dr. Armstrong, but realized that his carriage was far too small, with no room for a dog, and in any case his place was here, with his grieving friend. With nothing left to do but get started, Holmes untied Pompey and we turned north along the wet road.
Thankfully the rains held off and we were able to stay relatively dry. After leaving that house of grief, neither of us felt like speaking, and we made good progress. As we passed the Botanic Gardens, the wind picked up a bit from the east, carrying a fetid smell from the plants that had died for the winter, but we were soon beyond that and ensconced in the busy city streets. Passing along the wider thoroughfares, we made our way across the River Cam to Trinity College, and so on to the address of one Jeremy Dixon, the man who had arranged for us to take possession of the dog. Thankfully we found him at home and returned the skilled beast, along with a well-earned remuneration. Then, a quarter-hour later, we were back at our inn, located along one of the city’s main thoroughfares.
I had assumed that we would retrieve our few possessions from the inn where we had stayed the previous two nights and entrain for the fifty or so miles south to London, but Holmes had a different agenda. “Would it upset your plans if we were to remain for an extra day or so? Now that we’re here, I can spend a little time examining some documents in connection with my ongoing researches into early English charters. I find that an addendum may be necessary, particularly in connection with a message that I recently received from the Vatican regarding the succession of popes from Clement V to Eugene IV. There is a fifteenth-century charter held within the Corpus Christi College that should be the final word on the subject – and it would be a waste to be this close and not take advantage of the opportunity.”
In truth, I had no desire to spend another cold December day in Cambridge, particularly after the grim encounter that we’d recently left, and nothing prevented me from returning on my own to London – I could be back in a couple of hours, and Holmes certainly didn’t need my help in carrying out his researches. When he was on this fresh scent, my presence would be irrelevant to him. However, the capital held no interest for me at the present time, and therefore a subdued exploration of the great university town might not be completely objectionable. I nodded my agreement.
That night found us alone in the dining room, a small secluded space within the small inn. The establishment seemed to be well-kept, although there obviously weren’t many rooms. It was located in one of the city’s busiest streets, and we had spontaneously chosen to stay there two nights before. I had commented upon our arrival on the surprising fact that it didn’t seem very busy, considering its location. In fact, we had only decided upon it because of its location near the home of Dr. Armstrong, whom we had met by way of our investigation into the tragic affairs of Godfrey Staunton.
Holmes nodded. “We seem to be the only guests at the moment, but something is being done right, because there’s no sign of neglect or want about the place. And you’ll have noticed that it seems to have been in the family for quite a while, in one form or another.”
“Really,” I replied, simply to continue the conversation while savoring the truly excellently prepared serving of pork with an apricot glaze, the fatty side crisped to absolute perfection.
“Indeed.” Holmes had opted for the fish, and his choice also looked wonderfully appetizing. “You’ll recall the name of our hosts – Shelford. One of the stones above the fireplace in the main room has that same name carved into it, blackened with age, along with the date 1633.”
I nodded, not feeling the need to discuss the inn’s age, although I knew that some of my American acquaintances might be impressed by such a long association. I critically examined how much of my dinner was left on the plate – not enough, considering how tasty it had turned out to be. But after the apple tart with cream that followed, along with a cup of strong café noir, I was more than satisfied.
Mrs. Shelford, the innkeeper’s wife, had served us personally, making light conversation at the table as she paused without awkwardly lingering because we were the only guests and there was no one else to talk to. She graciously accepted our compliments and then left us to finish our meal in peace. I commented on this, and Holmes smiled, asking me if I recalled the woman at the small and otherwise empty pub in Deptford some years before, where we had tarried to hear word concerning the arrival of a load of smuggled goods. She had insisted on remaining at our shabby table, standing and having a rather one-sided conversation instead of going about her own business. Holmes had ignored her, while I’d perfunctorily attempted to be polite. After she served our drinks, she began to speak fondly of the pub’s owner, and how much she enjoyed working there. “‘Tisn’t everywhere,” she’d said to our horror, as Holmes’s suddenly alert eyes met mine, “that will hire a woman who has the hepatitis.” Needless to say, we’d immediately dropped some coins on the table and decided to take our custom elsewhere.
As we sipped our coffee, the agreeable fire crackling nearby, our comfortable silence obviated any need to speak – but this wasn’t unusual in friends who have known each other for so long. I was considering whether to examine the bookshelves that I’d seen in the lobby, obviously stocked for the pleasure of the guests, in order to find something to read as I whiled away the rest of the evening, when I noticed that we were being watched.
Glancing at Holmes, I saw the he was already aware of the fact. He lifted a hand and waved the boy toward us.
He was around ten, and had been peeking around edge of the dark-framed door that led in from the lobby. He looked behind him, likely to see if he was unobserved, and then approached the table in the same way that a timid pagan believer steps toward a native idol.
In his right hand he held a familiar-looking volume, bound in blue.
The lad glanced my way, but it was clearly my friend that held his attention. “Are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” he asked.
I was glad that Holmes showed no impatience, but then again I wasn’t surprised. He’d always had a wonderful rapport with youngsters, as evidenced by the way he got along so famously with those lads and lasses who made up his Baker Street Irregulars, that unofficial force that served as his unnoticed eyes and ears back in London.
Holmes nodded. “I am.”
The boy held up the book – which I could now confirm was the bound volume, published by Newnes, of The Adventures, collecting a series of twelve short sketches that I’d originally published back in the early 1890’s, during that period when I’d mistakenly believed that Holmes had recently died at the Reichenbach Falls, motivating me to commemorate him and his methods.
“I’ve read about you,” the boy said. “In this book. It’s one of the ones from the shelf in the lobby that we keep for the guests.”
“And your name is – ?”
“George. George Shelford. My parents own the inn. I help – when I’m not in school. I’ve read most of the books in the lobby shelf,” he added proudly. The gestured with the volume. “This is one of my most-favorites. I… I liked it when you killed that snake.” He looked at me. “The way that you wrote it made me feel like I was there,” he added. As an author, I could receive no higher praise, and I thanked him.
George now gripped the book with both hands, his initial boldness retreating a bit as nervousness crept into his mien. “Have you solved any others?”
“Other cases?” returned Holmes. The boy nodded. “Quite a few. Some of them when I was your age – before I even knew that I would one day become a detective.”
The boy’s eyes widened, and then he looked at me, almost accusingly. “Why haven’t you written about any of those others?” he asked, as if in discovering the existence of a previously unknown and untapped vein of treasure, he had somehow been cheated.
“I have,” I replied with a smile. “A few. Is that the only one of those books that you own?”
He nodded, suddenly distracted while considering that there were other stories out there. His eyes widened, and I could see that he was picturing – somewhere – vast libraries filled with hundreds of linear feet of volumes chronicling Holmes’s adventures – many much more thrilling than the twelve in the modest tome that he clutched. Sadly, while there were certainly enough of Holmes’s cases to fill that many books, they hadn’t been published – at least not yet.
I rapidly calculated and said, “I’ve written up and published twenty-six of Mr. Holmes’s cases so far. Twelve more stories like the ones in that book, and two that are a little longer. All of them first appeared in magazines and such, but they’re now collected into four different books. Would you like for me to send you the other three that you don’t have?”
By then he only had eyes for me. He nodded, and bounced a bit on his toes.
“That would be – I mean, thank you, sir! Thank you, Doctor Watson!”
“I’ll send them along after we go back to London in a day or so.”
He seemed a bit overwhelmed, and took a step back, but then a thought obviously crossed his mind, and he stopped, wavering between leaving and remaining. Finally, he looked back at Holmes. Swallowing, as if making an important decision, he said, “Can you teach me how to keep from being followed?”
I was mildly surprised, but I didn’t reveal it. Holmes has been asked much more unusual questions over the years, ranging from whether or not a governess should consent to cut her peculiarly tinted chestnut hair before accepting a job in Hampshire, to whether he would participate in the calculations to construct a theoretical bomb that might be used to take the life of a sovereign, in exchange to save the life of his own brother. (Needless to say, neither the sovereign nor the brother were injured, while the criminal was hanged.)
Holmes crossed his legs, giving his full attention to the question. “I was only remarking to Watson, while sitting at this very table just two nights ago, not long after we arrived, that this area does not lend itself to concealment, and that all of the Cambridge countryside around us as flat and clean as the palm of your hand.”
George shook his head. “It isn’t all like that,” he said. “We have some hills.”
“Then that should help,” replied Holmes. “I attended University here for a while a number of years ago, and I came to know the city fairly well, but I had less chance to explore the countryside. Do you need to lose your pursuers within the streets around us, or in the more rural areas?”
