As our journey neared its destination, his cheerful mien vanished; he became pensive. We were on the moors, those broad stretches of mire and morass that cling like a great scab to England’s face. As if Nature insisted upon a proper setting, the sun had vanished behind thick cloud-banks, and we seemed to have been plunged into a place of eternal twilight.
We soon found ourselves upon the platform of a small country station, where Holmes thrust his hands deep into his pockets, his deep-set eyes kindled, as they so often did when he was beset by a problem.
“Do you recall the affair of the Baskervilles, Watson, and the curse that darkened their lives?”
“Well do I!”
“We are not far from their holdings. But of course we go in the opposite direction.”
“And just as well. That hound of Hell still haunts my dreams.”
I was puzzled. Ordinarily, when Holmes was involved in a case, he viewed his surroundings single-mindedly, sharply aware of a bruised twig while remaining oblivious of the landscape in which it lay. At such times, reminiscence was no part of it. Now he stirred restlessly, as though he regretted having allowed impulse to send him upon our journey.
“Watson,” said he, “let us arrange for the rental of a dog-cart, and get this business over with.”
The pony we procured no doubt had relations among the ones that ran wild on the moors, but the little beast was tractable enough, and it clipped steadily away at the road between the village and the Shires land-hold.
After a time, the turrets of Shires Castle came into view, adding their tone of melancholy to the scene.
“The game-preserves are beyond,” said Holmes. “The Duke has a variegated terrain.” He scanned the country before us and added, “I doubt, Watson, that we shall find a jolly, red-cheeked host in that forbidding pile.”
“Why do you say that?”
“People of long blood-lines tend to reflect the colour of their surroundings. You will recall that there was not a single cheerful face at Baskervillc Hall.”
I did not dispute this, my attention being fixed upon the scowling grey of Shires Castle. It had once been complete with moat and draw-bridge. However, more modern generations had come to depend for defence of life and limb upon the local constabulary. The moat had been filled in, and the bridge-chains had not creaked for many a year.
We were ushered into a cold and cavernous drawing-room by a butler who took our names like Charon checking our passage across the Styx. I soon learned that Holmes’s prediction had been accurate. The Duke of Shires was as icily forbidding a man as ever I had met.
He was of slight stature and gave the impression of being phthisical. It was an illusion. Upon closer inspection I saw a well-blooded face, and I sensed a wiry strength in his frail-appearing body.
The Duke did not invite us to be seated. Instead, he stated abruptly, “You were fortunate in finding me here. Another hour, and I should have been on my way to London. I spend little time here in the country. What is your business?”
Holmes’s tone in no way reflected the ill-manners of the nobleman. “We will intrude upon your time no longer than is necessary, your Grace. We came merely to bring you this.”
He proffered the surgeon’s-kit, which we had wrapped in plain brown paper and secured with sealing-wax.
“What is it?” said the Duke, not stirring.
“I suggest, your Grace,” replied Holmes, “that you open it and discover for yourself.”
With a frown, the Duke of Shires stripped off the wrappings. “Where did you get this?”
“I regret that I must first ask your Grace to identify it as your property.”
“I have never seen it before. What earthly reason had you for bringing it to me?” The Duke had raised the lid and was staring at the instruments with what certainly appeared to be genuine bewilderment.
“If you will draw down the lining, you will find our reason imprinted upon the leather underneath.”
The Duke followed Holmes’s suggestion, still frowning. I was watching closely as he stared at the coat of arms, and it was my turn to feel bewilderment. His expression changed. The palest of smiles touched his thin lips, his eyes brightened, and he regarded the case with a look I can only describe as one of intense satisfaction, almost of triumph. Then, as quickly, the look vanished.
I glanced at Holmes in search of some explanation, knowing that he would not have missed the nobleman’s reaction. But the sharp eyes were hooded, the familiar face a mask. “I am sure your Grace’s question is now answered,” said Holmes.
“Of course,” replied the Duke in casual tones, as though brushing the matter aside as of no consequence. “The case does not belong to me.”
“Then perhaps your Grace could direct us to the owner?”
“My son, I presume. It no doubt belonged to Michael.”
“It came from a London pawn-shop.”
The Duke’s lips curled in a cruel sneer. “I do not doubt it.”
“Then if you will give us your son’s address―”
“The son I refer to, Mr. Holmes, is dead. My younger, sir.”
Holmes spoke gently. “I am indeed sorry to hear that, your Grace. Did he succumb to an illness?”
“A very great illness. He has been dead for six months.”
The emphasis put by the nobleman upon the word “dead” struck me as odd. “Was your son a physician?” I inquired.
“He studied for the profession, but he failed at it, as he failed at everything. Then he died.”
Again that strange emphasis. I glanced at Holmes, but he seemed more interested in the ponderous furnishings of the vaulted room, his glance darting here and there, his thin, muscular hands clasped behind his back.
The Duke of Shires held forth the case. “As this is not my property, sir, I return it to you. And now, if you will excuse me, I must prepare for my journey.”
I was puzzled by Holmes’s behaviour. He had accepted the Duke’s cavalier treatment without rancour. Holmes was not in the habit of allowing people to walk over him with hob-nail boots. His bow was deferential as he said, “We shall detain you no longer, your Grace.”
The Duke’s rude behaviour was consistent. He made no move to reach for the bell-rope that would have summoned the butler. Thus, we were compelled to find our way out as best we could, under his stare.
This proved a stroke of good fortune. We were crossing the baronial hall towards the outer portal, when two persons appeared through a side-entrance, a man and a child.
In contrast to the Duke, they did not seem at all hostile.
The child, a girl of nine or ten years of age, smiled as brightly as her little pallid face would permit. The man, like the Duke, was of slender build. His quick, liquid eyes, although they questioned, were merely curious. His dark resemblance to the Duke of Shires left room for but one conclusion. This was the other son.
It did not seem to me that their arrival was particularly startling, but it appeared to disconcert my friend Holmes. He came to a jerky halt, and the surgeon’s-kit that he was carrying fell to the floor with a clatter of steel against stone that echoed through the great hall.
“How clumsy of me!” he exclaimed, and then proceeded to be even clumsier by blocking me off as I attempted to retrieve the instruments.
The man, with a smile, sprang into the breach. “Allow me, sir,” said he, and went to his knees.
The child reacted almost as quickly. “Let me help you, Papa.”
The man’s smile glowed. “So you shall, my dear. We’ll help the gentleman together. You may hand me the instruments. But carefully, lest you cut yourself.”