“Why ever not?”
“Because the Caxton is a secret institution, and has to remain that way,” said Mr. Headley. “No writers can ever know of its existence, otherwise they’d start clamoring for immortality for their characters and themselves. That has to be earned, and can only come after the author’s death. Writers are terrible judges of these things, and if they knew that there was a kind of pantheon for characters here in Glossom, then we’d never hear the end of it.
“Worse, imagine what might happen if the Caxton’s existence became public knowledge? It would be like London Zoo. We’d have people knocking on the doors day and night, asking for a peek at Heathcliff—and you know what he’s like—or, God forbid, a conversation with David Copperfield.”
There was a collective sigh. It was widely known in the Caxton that to ask David Copperfield even the simplest of questions required one to set aside a good portion of one’s day to listen to the answer.
“Nevertheless,” said Holmes, “I can see no other option for us. This is our existence that is at stake—and, perhaps, that of the Caxton too.”
Mr. Headley drained his glass, and paused for only a moment before pouring himself another generous measure.
Oh dear, he thought. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
Preparations for the journey were quickly made. Mr. Headley locked up the library, having first informed a few of the more balanced residents of the reason for the trip, even though he knew that his absence would barely be noticed by most of others. They could spend weeks and months—even years—napping, only waking when a publisher reissued their parent book in a new edition, or when a critical study caused a renewal of interest in their existence.
“Please try not to attract too much attention,” pleaded Mr. Headley, as he paid for three first class tickets to London, although even as the words left his mouth he realized how pointless they were. After all, he was boarding a train with two men, one of whom was wearing a caped coat, a deerstalker hat, and shiny new shoes with white spats, and could not have looked more like Sherlock Holmes if he had started declaring loudly that—
“The game is afoot, Watson!” shouted a cheery voice from nearby. “The game is afoot!”
“God give me strength,” said Mr. Headley.
“Your friend,” said the ticket clerk. “Does he think he’s, you know . . . ?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Headley. “In a way.”
“Harmless, is he?”
“I believe so.”
“He won’t go bothering the other passengers, will he?”
“Not unless they’ve committed a crime,” replied Mr. Headley.
The ticket clerk looked as though he were seriously considering summoning some stout chaps in white coats to manage the situation, but Mr. Headley grabbed the tickets before he could act and hustled his charges in the direction of the carriage. They took their seats, and it was with some relief that Mr. Headley felt the train lurch and move off without anyone appearing to haul them away.
Many years later, when he had retired from the Caxton in favor of Mr. Gedeon, the new librarian, Mr. Headley would recall that journey as one of the happiest of his life, despite his nervousness at the impending encounter with Conan Doyle. As he watched Holmes and Watson from his seat by the door—Holmes on the right, leaning forward animatedly, the index finger of his right hand tapping the palm of his left when he wished to emphasize a point, Watson to the left, cigar in hand, one leg folded over the other—Mr. Headley felt as though he were part of one of Paget’s illustrations for the Strand, so that he might have stepped from his own life into the pages of one of Conan Doyle’s adventures. All readers lose themselves in great books, and what could be more wonderful for a reader than to find himself in the company of characters that he has long loved, their lives colliding with his own, and all being altered by the encounter? Mr. Headley’s heart beat in time with the rhythm of the rails, and the morning sun shone its blessings upon him.