"I understand," said Holmes, "that horses, especially race horses, rather fancy companions. Roosters, dogs. . . ."
"Some do. Before my father bought Mayswood he raised dogs. But he developed a skin allergy that the doctors attributed to canine hair. That was the end of the dogs."
"Whippets? Greyhounds, perhaps?"
"Dobermans," was the reply. Holmes allowed this subject to drop as well.
By unspoken mutual consent, we all retired to the interior, descending the great stairs towards the dining room where we enjoyed a tasteful luncheon and some excellent burgundy that our host recommended highly. I was prompted to inquire as to where he had secured this vintage but suppressed the question as it seemed in poor taste.
Holmes informed our client that we would return to London via the afternoon train and that he would make inquiries as to the presence in England of a second-story man who had come from or had been in the Argentine. He used the word gaucho in connection with the suspect and said, in an encouraging manner, that a thief with a particular aptitude that was unusual was much easier to find. Deets seemed heartened by this fact, and we took our leave of Mayswood.
The click of wheels on rails along with the burgundy caused me to sleep much of the way back. When I did rouse myself on the outskirts of London, Holmes anticipated my question.
"Of course he knows, Watson."
"What?"
"What the intruder was after. I suspect we do, too. In response to my direct question you noted that Deets said 'I can't tell you.' By that, I assumed that he was bound by a promise, perhaps a fear. Then, too, the stationmaster at Litchfield who directed us to the carriage and the driver both knew our names, and I felt they were aware of the reason for our visit. It would seem that Deets enlisted our services as window dressing. 'Look you, beware, for Holmes and Watson are on the scene.'"
"Come now, that's stretching it a bit, is it not?"
"Possibly, but consider the matter of the horses and the dogs before them."
"You'll have to explain that."
"Captain Spaulding, retired from his explorations, settles down in England and raises dogs. Not the racing breed but Doberman pinschers, the fiercest watchdogs in the world. A reaction to canine hair causes him to drop this activity, and he turns to horse-breeding."
"What is unusual about that?"
"Nothing, until you consider the way Mayswood is laid out. Deets did say it was somewhat like a fortress. In addition, it is surrounded by fenced pastures containing, on all sides, high-spirited stallions and skittish yearlings. Were I intent on approaching the Deets ménage surreptitiously, I would think twice before crossing a field at the risk of being run down by a temperamental thoroughbred. When track champions are set out to stud, they evidence frisky ways. Captain Spaulding was intent on protecting something, and with his passing, his son has remained true to the task."
Holmes had given me plenty to think about. He was, as was his custom, diligently turning his theory this way and that in his mind to allow the light of reason to reflect on its various facets.
The remainder of our trip to Baker Street was made in silence.
Chapter Six
The Call to Colors
I well knew what twists and turns were in store at this point. The world's only consulting detective had involved himself in two matters, not unusually, for at times he had as many as a dozen cases that he handled simultaneously. His "calling out the reserves," as it were, merely signified that one or both ranked as a major challenge, and I had seen the sheaf of cables that Billy had dispatched two nights before. The harvest they produced had to be reaped.
Returning to our chambers was a signal for Holmes to depart after reading messages that had been delivered in our absence. In olden times I had chafed at being suddenly out of things, but I now realized that this was standard procedure in certain of Holmes's investigations. The cables had been dispatched to that ragtag army that his brother had referred to. Some Holmes met elsewhere, like Porlock, the informer, formerly connected with Moriarty of infamous memory. I had never seen the man, and Porlock was not his real name. But Holmes used him along with others whom I did know, some well.
They fell into two camps, this heterogeneous crew with strange backgrounds and unusual, specialized talents. The outside group were seldom spoken of. On rare occasions, an unidentified person of either sex might make a surreptitious visit to Baker Street because of the exigencies of a situation. I took pains not to make note of their features and, as much as possible, to wipe them from my mind's slate lest an unwitting slip of the tongue would cause harm.
The inside group were known by name to Billy, Mrs. Hudson, and myself. They appeared at our chambers frequently and on most occasions I was privy to their conferences with the master sleuth.
I pictured my friend, possibly in one of the many disguises he used so well, now involved with the outside group. Certainly he would be loosening his hounds on the scent of Chu San Fu, and the memory of the Chinese criminal caused me to spend part of the dying day oiling my trusty Webley and checking its load. Holmes had a seeming disregard for his personal safety, which I tried to counterbalance by being as prepared as I could.
When nightfall came, I ate a solitary meal and tried to cushion Mrs. Hudson's concern about the eating habits of her famous tenant. The nutritive needs of the detective were one of the many worries of the dear lady and revealed her extreme patience. When Holmes disappeared, one never knew when he would return, and when he did, he would like as not decide to have a bite, which might range from a nibble of cheese to half a joint of beef. When frustrated by a case, and on the premises, he frequently sat brooding at the table, his meal untouched, and our landlady's wheedling was to no avail. But if Holmes has a problem, Mrs. Hudson had some cause to feel pride in her skill with stove and skillet. Even in those early days when I was still recovering from my wartime wound and subsequent illness, I had been blessed with a good appetite and consistently did justice to her provender.
The dishes had been cleared away and, possibly spurred by our trip to the Mayswood stud, I had made some check marks against entries in the Southgate Plate due to be run over the weekend. Our news dealer, who delivered copies of all editions, included a biweekly racing sheet that I fancied. I had narrowed my choice to Vortex out of Grand Dame by Nurania when there were footsteps on the stairs.
Before I could arise, Holmes opened the door and Slim Gilligan, a valise in one hand, followed him in. The former master-cracksman was our most frequent visitor from the inside group. His lock-and-key establishment, originally financed by Sherlock Holmes, was a successful business venture, small wonder since his workmen, mostly graduates of Dartmoor or Princetown, were skillful indeed. Installing a lock on a front door or making a new key for a file case was child's play to one who has opened a Mills-Stroffner safe in the dead of night by the light of a bull's-eye lantern. It was bruited about in certain circles that Holmes was a silent partner in Gilligan's business, which must have acted as a deterrent should any of the employees consider resuming their wayward paths.
Holmes favored me with a quick nod as he crossed to the desk, unlocking the cash drawer. Gilligan, his cloth hat at a jaunty angle and an unlit cigarette stuck behind one ear, winked in my direction. His expression indicated, "We're at it again."
"There is an inn in the village, Slim," my friend was saying, "and I'm sure you can work out a good cover story."
"A breeze, Guv," was the abnormally thin man's response.