Mr. Headley wished that there was someone he could call, but old Torrans was long dead, and the Caxton operated without the assistance of lawyers, bankers, or the institutions of government, or at least not with the active involvement of any of the above. Bills were paid, leases occasionally secured, and rates duly handed over to the authorities, but it was all done without Mr. Headley having to lift a finger. The workings of the Caxton were so deeply ingrained in British society that everyone had simply ceased to notice them.
Mr. Headley poured the two guests some more tea, and offered them biscuits. He then returned to the bowels—or attic—of the library, and found that it had begun to create suitable living quarters for Holmes and Watson based on Paget’s illustrations, and Watson’s descriptions, of the rooms at 221B Baker Street. Mr. Headley was immensely relieved, as otherwise he might have been forced to make up beds for them in his office, and he wasn’t sure how well Holmes might have taken to such sleeping arrangements.
Shortly after midnight, the library finished its work on 221B, complete with a lively Victorian streetscape beyond the windows. The Caxton occupied an indeterminate space between reality and fiction, and the library was not above permitting characters access to their own larger fictional universes, should they choose to step outside their rooms for a time. Many, though, preferred either to nap—sometimes for decades—or take the occasional constitutional around Glossom village and its environs, which at least had the merit of being somewhere new and different. The inhabitants of the village tended not to notice the characters unless, of course, they started tilting at windmills, talking about witches in a Scottish accent, or inquiring about the possibility of making a suitable marriage to entirely respectable single, or even married, gentlemen.
Once Holmes and Watson were ensconced in their quarters, Mr. Headley returned to his office, poured himself a large brandy, and detailed the events of the day in the Caxton’s records, so that future librarians might be made aware of what he had gone through. He then retired to his bed, and dreamed that he was holding on by his fingertips to the edge of a precipice while the Reichenbach Falls tumbled thunderously beneath him.
After this mild hiccup, the life of the library proceeded largely without incident over the following years, although the activities of Holmes and Watson were not entirely unproblematic for Mr. Headley. They were fond of making forays into Glossom and beyond, offering to assist bemused officers of the law with investigations into missing kittens, damaged milk churns, and the possible theft of a bag of penny buns from the noon train to Penbury. Their characters having ingrained themselves in the literary affections of the public, Holmes and Watson were treated as genial eccentrics. They were not alone in dressing up as the great detective and his amanuensis, for it was a popular activity among gentlemen of varying degrees of sanity, but they were unique in actually being Holmes and Watson, although obviously nobody realized that at the time.
There was also the small matter of the opium that found its way into the library on a regular basis. Mr. Headley couldn’t pin down the source of the drug, and could only conclude that the library itself was providing it, but it worried him nonetheless. God forbid that some olfactorily gifted policeman might smell traces of the narcotic on Holmes, and contrive to follow him back to the Caxton. Mr. Headley wasn’t sure what the punishment might be for running a narcotics operation, and had no desire to find out, so he begged Holmes to be discreet about his intake, and to reserve it for the peace and quiet of his own rooms.
Otherwise, Mr. Headley was rather delighted to have as residents of the library two characters of whom he was so enamored, and spent many happy evenings in their company, listening as they discussed the details of cases about which he had read, or testing Holmes’s knowledge of obscure poisons and types of tobacco. Mr. Headley also continued to subscribe to the Strand, for he generally found its contents most delightful, and had no animosity toward it for publishing Holmes’s last adventure since he was privileged to have the man himself beneath his roof. He tended to be a month or two behind in his Strand reading, though, for his preference remained books.
Then, in August 1901, this placid existence was disturbed by a most extraordinary development. Mr. Headley had taken himself away to Cleckheaton to visit his sister Dolly, and upon his return found Holmes and Watson in a terrible state. Holmes was brandishing the latest copy of the Strand and demanding loudly, “What’s this? What’s this?”
Mr. Headley pleaded, first for calm, and then for the offending journal, which was duly handed over to him. Mr. Headley sat and, once he had recovered from his surprise, read the first installment of The Hound of the Baskervilles.
“It doesn’t mention my previous demise,” said Holmes. “There’s not a word about it. I mean, I fell over a waterfall, and I’m not even wet!”