The Adventure at Baskerville Hall & Other Cases

on the point of saying, but I would go along with it.
    "Anything which may seem to have a bearing, however indirect, upon the case, and especially the relations between young Baskerville and his neighbours, or any fresh particulars concerning the death of Sir Charles. I have made some enquiries myself in the last few days, but the results have, I fear, been negative. One thing only appears to be certain, and that is that Mr. James Desmond, who is the next heir, is an elderly gentleman of a very amiable disposition, so this persecution does not arise from him. I really think that we may eliminate him entirely from our calculations."
    This was an extraordinary volte-face of opinion from the man who had once rebuked me for letting personal qualities cloud my judgement – and stated calmly that the most winning woman he ever knew had poisoned three children for their insurance money – and my irritation was briefly overtaken by surprise at this uncharacteristic assertion.
    "Holmes," I began curiously, as he turned away from me to stare fixedly out of the window at passers-by, "are you–"
    The cab jerked to a stop and a thump on the roof told us that we had reached the station, and my halting query was lost.
    "Here you are," Dr. Mortimer announced, interrupting my thoughts. With a start of surprise, I saw that we were already at Baskerville Hall; I had been so lost in my musings that I had not been aware of time passing.
    The rain was starting to come down heavier, and so I did not linger long over my goodbye to Dr. Mortimer. He cordially refused my invitation to dine at the Hall, saying that he preferred to get home before the downpour worsened, and when I got in I found that I had returned so late my only company was a friendly note from Sir Henry saying that he had already dined and retired and that I should do the same. I was not in the least bit offended – one of the things I liked about my new acquaintance was his free and easy nature – and I had to admit that, given how distracted I had been all day, I was perhaps not the most engaging dinner companion.
    * * * *
    The following morning, I awoke feeling refreshed, my long walk before dinner having given me an excellent appetite and a deep, restful sleep.
    At breakfast, after bidding me good morning and enquiring after my plans for the day – a walk into Coombe Tracey, to enquire about the two men living out on the moor – Sir Henry passed me the newspaper that he had folded open to a certain page.
    "I wondered if you would like to return to London for a couple of days to see it before it closes," he said as I perused the advertisement for the exhibition at the National Gallery of Pre-Raphaelite artists. "It's said to be the best yet, and I reckon Dartmoor must be quite dull for you after London."
    "Much as I appreciate your thoughtfulness, I fear I cannot," I said lightly. "If I returned to London without you then I dread to imagine the dressing-down that Holmes would give me at Baker Street. And besides, I have already seen it."
    "Have you? What did you think?"
    As I described the exhibition – in particular a painting called The Eve of St Agnes that had captured my imagination for its parallels with my own situation – I could not help but recall the circumstances under which I had seen it.
    Holmes, when he had re-emerged from the traffic on the road after chasing the driver halfway down the street, was breathless and white with vexation.
    "There now!" he seethed. "Was ever such bad luck and such bad management, too? Watson, Watson, if you are an honest man you will record this also and set it against my successes!"
    "Chin up, old man. Nothing to be done," I said mildly, thinking, Well, at least you seem to be in one piece after flinging yourself in front of a half a dozen fast-moving hansom cabs in that reckless manner. Not that it would occur to you that I might be the slightest bit put out if you weren't.
    I had not thought that my acerbic thoughts were visible on my face but perhaps something of them was, for Holmes suddenly said, "Well now, there only remains for us to find out by wire the identity of the cabman, number 2704, and then perhaps we might fill in time at a picture gallery. I believe the National Gallery is currently hosting an exhibition of the Pre-Raphaelites, to whom I know you to be partial, and which also puts us conveniently close to Sir Henry's hotel for our rendezvous at two o'clock."
    It was true that I had seen announcements in