Since his career began in 1975, John Lutz has published many novels of suspense, including SWF Seeks Same, which was filmed as Single White Female, and hundreds of short stories of suspense. “The Infernal Machine” centers around a murder involving Richard Gatling’s fearsome precursor to the modern machine gun.
Not that, at times, my dear friend and associate Sherlock Holmes can’t play the violin quite beautifully, but at the moment the melancholy, wavering tunelessness produced by the shrill instrument was getting on my nerves.
I put down my copy of the Times. “Holmes, must you be so repetitious in your choice of notes?”
“It’s in the very repetitiveness that I hope to find some semblance of order and meaning,” he said. He held his hawkish profile high, tucked the violin tighter beneath his lean chin, and the screeching continued—certainly more piercing than before.
“Holmes!”
“Very well, Watson.” He smiled and placed the violin back in its case. Then he slumped into the wing chair opposite me, tamped tobacco into his clay pipe, and assumed the attitude of a spoiled child whose mince pie has been withheld for disciplinary purposes. I knew where he’d turn next, after finding no solace in the violin, and I must confess I felt guilty at having been harsh with him.
When he’s acting the hunter in his capacity of consulting detective, no man is more vibrant with interest than Holmes. But when he’s had no case for some weeks, and there’s no prospect of one on the horizon, he becomes zombie-like in his withdrawal into boredom. And it had been nearly a month since the successful conclusion of the case of the twice-licked stamp.
Holmes suddenly cocked his head to the side, almost in the manner of a bird stalking a worm, at the clatter of footsteps on the stairs outside our door. From below, the cheerful voice of Mrs. Hudson wafted up, along with her measured, lighter footfalls. A man’s voice answered her pleasantries. Neither voice was loud enough to be understood by us.
“Visitor, Watson.” Even as Holmes spoke there was a firm knock on the door.
I rose, crossed the cluttered room, and opened it.
“A Mr. Edgewick to see Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson said, and withdrew.
I ushered Edgewick in and bade him sit in the chair where I’d been perusing the Times. He was a large, handsome man in his mid-thirties, wearing a well-cut checked suit and polished boots that had reddish mud on their soles. He had straight blond hair and an even blonder brush-trimmed moustache. He looked up at me with a troubled expression and said, “Mr. Holmes?”
I smiled. “You’ve recently come from Northwood,” I said. “You’re unmarried and are concerned about the well-being of a woman.”
Holmes, too, was smiling. “Amazing, Watson. Pray tell us how you did it.”
“Certainly. The red clay on Mr. Edgewick’s boots is found mainly in Northwood. He’s not wearing a wedding ring, so he isn’t married. And since he’s a handsome chap and obviously in some personal distress, the odds are good there’s a young woman involved.”
Holmes’s amused eyes darted to Edgewick, who seemed flustered by my incisiveness.
“Actually,” he said, “I am married—my ring is at the jeweler’s being resized. The matter I came here about only indirectly concerns a woman. And I haven’t been to Northwood in years.”
“The hansom cab you arrived in apparently carried a recent passenger from Northwood,” Holmes said. “The mud should dry on this warm day as the hansom sits downstairs awaiting your return.”
I must admit my mouth fell open, as did Edgewick’s. “How on earth did you know he’d instructed a hansom to wait, Holmes? You were nowhere near the window.”
Holmes gave a backhand wave, trailing his long fingers. “If Mr. Edgewick hasn’t been to Northwood, Watson, the most logical place for him to have picked up the red mud is from the floor of the hansom cab.”
Edgewick was sitting forward, intrigued. “But how did you know I’d arrived in a hansom to begin with, and instructed the driver to wait downstairs?”
“Your walking stick.”
I felt my eyebrows raise as I looked again where Edgewick sat. “What walking stick, Holmes?”
“The one whose tip left the circular indentation on the toe of Mr. Edgewick’s right boot as he sat absently leaning on it in the cab, as is the habit of many men who carry a stick. The soft leather still maintains the impression. And since he hasn’t the walking stick with him, and his footfalls on the stairs preclude him from having brought it up with him to leave it outside in the hall, we can deduce that he left it in the hansom. Since he hardly seems a careless man, or the possessor of a limitless number of walking sticks, this would suggest that he ordered the cab to wait for him.”
Edgewick looked delighted. “Why, that’s superb! So much from a mere pair of boots!”
“A parlour game,” Holmes snapped, “when not constructively applied.” Again his slow smile as he made a tent with his lean fingers and peered over it. His eyes were unwavering and sharply focused now. “And I suspect you bring some serious matter that will allow proper application of my skills.”
“Oh, I do indeed. Uh, my name is Wilson Edgewick, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes made a sweeping gesture with his arm in my direction. “My associate Dr. Watson.”
Edgewick nodded to me. “Yes, I’ve read his accounts of some of your adventures. Which is why I think you might be able to help me—rather help my brother Landen, actually.”
Holmes settled back in his chair, his eyes half closed. I knew he wasn’t drowsy when he took on such an appearance, but was in fact a receptacle for every bit of information that might flow his way, accepting this as pertinent, rejecting that as irrelevant, acutely alert.
“Do tell us about it, Mr. Edgewick,” he said.
Edgewick glanced at me. I nodded encouragement.
“My brother Landen is engaged to Millicent Oldsbolt.”
“Oldsbolt Munitions?” Holmes asked.
Edgewick nodded, not surprised that Holmes would recognize the Oldsbolt name. Oldsbolt Limited was a major supplier of small arms for the military. I had, in fact, fired Oldsbolt rounds through my army revolver while in the service of the Queen.
“The wedding was to be next spring,” Edgewick went on. “When Landen, and myself, would be financially well off.”
“Well off as a result of what?” Holmes asked.
“We’re the English representatives of one Richard Gatling, the inventor of the Gatling Gun.”
I couldn’t help but ask, “What on earth is that?”
“It’s an infernal machine that employs many barrels and one firing chamber,” Holmes said. “The cartridges are fed to the chamber by means of a long belt, while the barrels revolve and fire one after the other in rapid succession. The shooter need only aim generally and turn a crank with one hand while the other depresses the trigger. It’s said the Gatling Gun can fire almost a hundred rounds per minute. It was used in the Indian Wars in America on the plains with great effectiveness.”
“Very good, Mr. Holmes!” Edgewick said. “I see you’re well versed in military ordnance.”
“It sounds a fiendish device,” I said, imagining those revolving barrels spewing death to man and beast.
“As war itself is fiendish,” Holmes said. “Not at all a game. But do continue, Mr. Edgewick.”
“Landen and I were staying at the King’s Knave Inn in the town of Alverston, north of London. To be near the Oldsbolt estate. You see, we were trying to sell the idea of the Gatling Gun to Sir Clive Oldsbolt for manufacture for the British forces. The gun had passed all tests, and Sir Clive had offered a price I’m sure the American manufacturer would have accepted.”
Holmes pursed his thin lips thoughtfully, then said, “You speak often in the past tense, Mr. Edgewick. As if your brother’s wedding has been cancelled. As if now Oldsbolt Limited is no longer interested in your deadly gun.”
“Both those plans have been dealt the severest blow, Mr. Holmes. You see, last night Sir Clive was murdered.”
I drew in my breath with shock. Holmes, however, leaned forward in his chair, keenly interested, almost pleased. “Ah! Murdered how?”
“He was returning home late from the King’s Knave Inn alone in his carriage, when he was shot. A villager found him this morning, after hearing the noise last night.”
Holmes’s nostrils actually quivered. “Noise?”
“Rapid gunfire, Mr. Holmes, shots fired in quick, rhythmic succession.”
“The Gatling Gun.”
“No, no. That’s what the chief constable at Alverston says. But the gun we used for demonstration purposes had been cleaned and not fired again. I swear it! Of course, the local constabulary and villagers all say that Landen cleaned it after killing Sir Clive.”
“Your brother has been arrested for his future father-in-law’s murder?” I asked in astonishment.
“Indeed!” Edgewick said in great agitation. “That’s why I rushed here after he was taken into custody. I thought only Mr. Holmes could make right of such a mistake.”
“Does your brother Landen have any motive for murdering his fiancée’s father?”
“No! Quite the opposite! Sir Clive’s death means the purchase of the Gatling Gun manufacturing rights has been cancelled. As well, of course, as Landen and Millicent’s wedding. And yet . . .”
Holmes waited, his body perfectly still.
“Yet, Mr. Holmes, the sound the villagers in the inn described could be none other than the rattling, measured firing of the Gatling Gun.”
“But you said you examined it and it hadn’t been recently fired.”
“Oh, I’ll swear to that, Mr. Holmes—for all the good it will do poor Landen.”
“Perhaps a different Gatling Gun.”
“There is no other in England, Mr. Holmes. Of that you can be sure. We crossed the Atlantic just last week with this one, and Mr. Gatling knows the whereabouts of all his machines. Understand, sir, this is a formidable weapon that threatens the very existence of nations if in the wrong hands. It will change the nature of warfare and isn’t to be taken lightly.”
“How many times was Sir Clive shot?” Holmes asked.
“Seven. All through the chest with large-caliber bullets, like those fired by the Gatling Gun. The village doctor removed the two bullets that didn’t pass through Sir Clive, but they became misshapen when striking bone, so their precise caliber can’t be determined.”
“I see. It’s all very interesting.”
“Will you come at once to Alverston, Mr. Holmes, and determine what can be done for my brother?”
“You did say Sir Clive had been shot seven times, Mr. Edgewick?”
“I did.”
Holmes stood up from the wing chair as abruptly as if he’d been stuck by a cushion spring. “Then Watson and I shall take the afternoon train to Alverston and meet you at the King’s Knave Inn. Now I suggest you return to your brother and his fiancée, where you’re no doubt sorely needed.”
Edgewick smiled broadly with relief and stood. “I intend to pay you well, Mr. Holmes. Landen and I are not without means.”
“We’ll discuss all that later,” Holmes said, placing a hand on Edgewick’s shoulder and guiding him to the door. “In the meantime, tell your brother that if he’s innocent he need have no concern and might well outlive the hangman.”
“I’ll tell him that, Mr. Holmes. It will comfort him, I’m sure. Good day to both of you.” He went out the door, burst back in momentarily, and added, “Thank you, Mr. Holmes! For me and for Landen!”
Holmes and I stood listening to his descending tread on the stairs. Holmes parted the curtain and looked after our visitor as he emerged onto Baker Street. The shouts of vendors and the clattering of horses’ hooves drifted into the room, along with the pungent smell of London.
“An extremely distressed young man, Watson.”
“Indeed, Holmes.”
He rubbed his hands together with a glee and animation that would have been impossible to him fifteen minutes ago. “We must pack, Watson, if we’re to catch the afternoon train to Alverston.” His gaunt face grew momentarily grave. “And I suggest you bring along your service revolver.”
I had fully intended to do that. Where a member of nobility is shot seven times on his way from inn to home, any act of the direst nature might be possible.
• • •
The King’s Knave Inn was but a short distance from the Alverston train depot, just outside the town proper. It was a large, Tudor structure, bracketed by huge stone chimneys, one at each end of its steeply pitched slate roof.
Wilson Edgewick wasn’t among the half dozen local patrons seated at small wooden tables. A beefy, red-faced man with a thinning crop of ginger hair slicked back on a wide head was dispensing drinks, while a fragile blond woman with a limp was carrying them to the tables. I made arrangements for satisfactory rooms while Holmes surveyed the place. There was a young man seated at a nearby table, looking disconsolate, as if he were too far into his cups. Two old-timers—one with a bulbous red nose, the other with a sharp grey face like a hatchet—sat at another table engrossed in a game of draughts. Three middle-aged men of the sort who work the land sat slumped about a third table, their conversation suspended as they mildly observed us.
“Now, you’d be Mr. Holmes the famous detective,” the red-faced pub owner, whose name was Beech, said to Holmes with a tinge of respect as he studied the guest register I’d signed, “or my guess’d be far wrong.” Alcohol fumes wafted on his breath.
Holmes nodded. “I’ve enjoyed my share of successes.”
“Look just like your pictures drawed in the Daily Telegraph, you do.”
“I find them distinctly unflattering.”
One of Beech’s rheumy eyes was running, and he swiped at it with the back of his hand as he said, “Don’t take a detective to know why you’re here, though.”
“Quite so,” Holmes said. “A tragic affair.”
“Weren’t it so!” Beech’s complexion got even ruddier and a blue vein in his temple began a wild pulsation. A conspiratorial light entered his eyes. He sniffed and wiped again at the watery one. “We heard it all here, Mr. Holmes. Witnesses to murder, we was here at the inn.”
“How is that?” asked Holmes, much interested.
“We was standing here as we are now, sir, late last night, when we heard the infernal machine spitting its death.”
“The Gatling Gun?”
“That’s what it was.” He leaned forward, wiping his strong, square hands on his stained apron. “A sort of ‘rat-a-tat-tat-tat,’ it was.” Spittle flew as he described the sound of the repeating-fire gun. “Well, we’d heard the gun fired before and knew the noise right off, sir. But not from that direction.” He waved a hand towards the north. “In the morning, Ingraham Codder was on the north road to go and see Lord Clive at the house. Instead he sees one of the lord’s grey geldings and the fine two-hitch carriage the lord comes to town in. The other gelding somehow got unhitched and was standing nearby. Lord Clive himself was slumped down in the carriage dead. Shot full of holes, Mr. Holmes. Seven of ’em, there was.”
“So I’ve heard. Did anyone else here this ‘rat-a-tat-tat’ sound?” Holmes managed to describe the gunfire without expectorating. “All three of us did,” spoke up one of the farmers at the table. “It was just as Mr. Beech described.”
“And what time was it?” Holmes asked.
“Half past eleven on the mark,” Beech said. “Just about ten minutes after poor Sir Clive left here after downing his customary bit of stout.” The patrons all agreed.
The young man alone at his table gazed up at us, and I was surprised to see that he wasn’t as affected by drink as I’d assumed by his attitude. His grey eyes were quite clear in a well-set-up face; he had a firm jawline and a strong nose and cheekbones. “They’ve got Sir Clive’s murderer under lock,” he said. “Or so they say.”
“And you are, sir?” Holmes asked.
“He’s Robby Smythe,” Beech cut in. “It’s horseless carriages what’s his folly. If you can imagine that.”
“Really?” Holmes said.
“Yes, sir. I have two of them that I’m improving on and will soon manufacture and sell in great numbers, Mr. Holmes. In ten years everyone in England shall drive one.”
I couldn’t contain myself. “Everyone? Come now!”
Holmes laughed. “Not you, Watson, not you, I’d wager.”
“Young Robby here’s got a special interest in seeing justice done,” Beech said. “He’s engaged to Sir Clive’s youngest daughter, Phoebe.”
“Is he now?” Holmes said. “Then you know the Edgewick brothers, no doubt.”
Smythe nodded. “I’ve met them both, sir.”
“And would you say Landen Edgewick is capable of this act?”
Smythe seemed to look deep into himself for the answer. “I suppose, truth be told, under certain circumstances we’re all capable of killing a man we hate. But no one had reason to hate Sir Clive. He was a kind and amiable man even if stern.”
“Point is,” Beech said, “only the Edgewick brothers had knowledge and access to the Gatling Gun. I say with the law that Landen Edgewick is the killer.”
“It would seem so,” Holmes acknowledged. “But why Landen Edgewick? Where was Wilson?” Beech grinned and swiped again at the watery eye. “Up in his room at the top of them stairs, Mr. Holmes. He couldn’t have had a fig to do with Sir Clive’s murder. Had neither the time nor opportunity. I came out from behind the serving counter and seen him step out of his room just after the shots was fired. He came down then and had himself a glass of stout. We told him we’d heard the gun, but he laughed and said that was impossible, it was locked away in the carriage house him and his brother had borrowed out near Sir Clive’s estate.” He snorted and propped his ruddy fists on his hips. “Locked up, my eye, Mr. Holmes!”
“Very good, Mr. Beech,” Holmes said. “You remind me of my friend Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.”
Looking quite pleased, Beech instructed the waitress and maid, Annie, to show us to his best rooms.
Wilson Edgewick arrived shortly thereafter, seeming overjoyed to see us. He was, if anything, even more distraught over the plight of his brother. He had been to see Landen’s fiancée Millicent Oldsbolt, the daughter of the man his brother had allegedly murdered, and the meeting had obviously upset him. A wedding was hardly in order under the circumstances.
Wilson explained to us that Landen had arrived here from London two days before he and taken up lodgings at the inn. The brothers had declined an invitation to stay at the Oldsbolt’s home, as they had final adjustments and technical decisions to make preparatory to demonstrating the Gatling Gun to Sir Clive.
The night of the murder, from Wilson’s point of view, was much as had been described by Beech and the inn’s patrons, though Wilson himself had been in his room at the precise time of the shooting and didn’t hear the gun.
“The next morning, after Sir Clive’s body was found,” he said, “I hurried directly to the carriage house. The Gatling Gun was there, mounted on its wagon, and it hadn’t been fired since the last test and cleaning.”
“And did you point this out to the local constable?” Holmes asked.
“I did, after Landen was taken in for the crime. Chief Constable Roberts told me there’d been plenty of time for him to have cleaned the Gatling Gun after Sir Clive had been shot, then return on the sly to his room. No one saw Landen until the morning after the murder, during which he claimed to have been asleep.” Holmes paced slowly back and forth, cupping his chin in his hand.
“What, pray God, are we going to do?” Wilson blurted out, unable to stand the silence. Holmes stood still and faced him.
“Watson and I will unpack,” he said, “then you can take us to examine the scene of Sir Clive’s murder, and to talk to the victim’s family.” The rest of that afternoon was filled with the gathering of large as well as minute pieces of information that might mean little to anyone other than Sherlock Holmes, but which I’d seen him time and again use to draw the noose snug around those who’d done evil. It was a laborious but unerringly effective process. We were driven out the road towards Sir Clive’s estate, but our first stop was where he’d been killed. “See this, Watson,” Holmes said, hopping down out of the carriage. “The road dips and bends here, so the horses would have to slow. And there is cover in that thick copse of trees. A perfect spot for an ambush.” He was right, of course, in general. The rest of the land around the murder scene was almost flat, however, and any hidden gunman would have had to run the risk that someone in the vicinity might see him fleeing after the deed was done.
I got down and stood in the road while Holmes wandered over and examined the trees. He returned walking slowly, his eyes fixed to the ground, pausing once to stoop and drag his fingers along the earth.
“What’s he looking for?” Wilson Edgewick whispered.
“If we knew,” I told him, “it wouldn’t mean much to us.”
“Were any spent cartridges found?” Holmes asked Edgewick, when he’d reached us. He was wiping a dark smudge from his fingers with his handkerchief.
“No, Mr. Holmes.”
“And the spent shells stay in the ammunition belt of the Gatling Gun rather than being ejected onto the ground after firing?”
“Exactly. The belts are later refitted with fresh ammunition.”
“I see.” Holmes bent down suddenly. “Hello. What have we here, Watson?” He’d withdrawn something small and white almost from beneath my boot. I leaned close for a better look.
“A feather, Holmes. Only a white feather.”
He nodded, absently folding the feather in his handkerchief and slipping it into his waistcoat pocket. “And here is where the body was found?” He pointed to the sharp bend in the road.
“Actually down there about a hundred feet,” Edgewick said. “The theory is that the horses trotted on a ways after Sir Clive was shot and the reins were dropped.”
“And what of the horse that was found standing off to the side?”
Edgewick shrugged. “It had been improperly hitched, I suppose, and worked its way loose. It happens sometimes.”
“Yes, I know,” Holmes said. He walked around a while longer, peering at the ground. Edgewick glanced at me, eager to get on to the house. I raised a cautioning hand so he wouldn’t interrupt Holmes’s musings. In the distance a flock of wrens rose from the treetops, twisting as one dark form with the wind.
After examining the murder scene, we drove to the carriage house and saw the Gatling Gun itself. It was manufactured of blued steel and smelled of oil and was beautiful in a horrible way.
“This shouldn’t be allowed in warfare,” I heard myself say in an awed voice.
“It is so terrible,” Edgewick said, “that perhaps eventually it will eliminate warfare as an alternative and become the great instrument of peace. That’s our fervent hope.”
“An interesting concept,” Holmes said. He sniffed at the clustered barrels and firing chambers of the infernal machine. Then he wiped from his fingers some gun oil he’d gotten on his hand, smiled, and said, “I think we’ve seen quite enough here. Shall we go on to the house?”
“Let’s,” Edgewick said. He seemed upset as well as impatient. “It appears that progress will be slow and not so certain.”
“Not at all,” Holmes said, following him out the door and waiting while he set the lock. “Already I’ve established that your brother is innocent.”
I heard my own intake of breath. “But Holmes—”
“No revelations yet,” Holmes said, waving a languid hand. “I merely wanted to lessen our young friend’s anguish for his brother. The explanation is still unfolding.”
When we reached the house we were greeted by Eames the butler, a towering but cadaverously thin man, who ushered us into the drawing room. The room took up most of the east wing of the rambling, ivy-covered house, and was oak-paneled and well furnished, with comfortable chairs, a game table, a Persian carpet, and a blazing fire in a ponderous stone fireplace. French doors opened out to a wide lawn.
Wilson Edgewick introduced us around. The delicately beautiful but sad-eyed woman in the leather chair was Millicent, Landen’s fiancée. Standing by the window was a small, dark-haired girl of pleasant demeanor: Phoebe Oldsbolt, Millicent’s younger sister and Robby Smythe’s romantic interest. Robby Smythe himself lounged near the stone fireplace. Standing erectly near a sideboard and sipping a glass of red wine was a sturdily built man in tweeds who was introduced as Major Ardmont of the Queen’s Cavalry.
“Sir Clive was a retired officer of cavalry, was he not?” Holmes asked, after offering his condolences to the grieving daughters of the deceased.
“Indeed he was,” Ardmont said. “I met Sir Clive in the service at Aldershot some years ago, and we served together in Afghanistan. Of course, that was when we were both much younger men. But when I cashiered out and returned from India, I heard the news that Sir Clive had been killed; I saw it as my duty to come and offer what support I could.”
“Decent of you,” I said. “I understand you were a military man, Dr. Watson,” Ardmont said. He had a tan skin and pure blue, marksman’s eyes that were zeroed in on me. That look gave me a cold feeling, as if I were a quarry.
“Yes,” I said. “Saw some rough and tumble. Did my bit as a surgeon.”
“Well,” Ardmont said, turning away, “we all do what we can.”
“You and Doctor Watson must move from the inn and stay here until this awful thing is settled!” Millicent said to Holmes.
“Please do!” her sister Phoebe chimed in. Their voices were similar, high and melodious.
“I’d feel better if you were here,” Robby Smythe said. “You’d afford the girls some protection. I’d stay here myself, but it would hardly be proper.”
“You live at the inn, do you not?” Holmes asked.
“Yes, but I don’t know what it is those fools heard. I was in my shop working on my autocar when the shooting occurred.”
Holmes stared at Major Ardmont, who looked back at him with those unrattled blue eyes. “Major, you hardly seem old enough to have just retired from service.”
“It isn’t age, Mr. Holmes. I’ve been undone by an old wound, I’m afraid, and can no longer sit a horse.”
“Pity,” I said.
“I understand,” Holmes said, looking at Millicent, “that Eames overheard your father and Landen Edgewick arguing the evening of the murder.”
“That’s what Eames said, Mr. Holmes, and I’m sure he’s telling the truth. At the same time, I know that no matter what their differences, Landen wouldn’t kill my father—nor anyone else!” Her eyes danced with anger as she spoke. A spirited girl. “You haven’t answered us, Mr. Holmes,” Phoebe Oldsbolt said. “Will you and Dr. Watson accept our hospitality?”
“Kind of you to offer,” Holmes said, “but I assure you it won’t be necessary.” He smiled thinly and seemed lost for a moment in thought. Then he nodded, as if he’d made up his mind about something. “I’d like to talk with Eames the butler, and then spend a few hours in town.”
Millicent appeared puzzled. “Certainly, Mr. Holmes. But you and Dr. Watson shall at least dine here tonight, I insist.”
Holmes nodded with a slight bow. “It’s a meal I anticipate with pleasure, Miss Oldsbolt.”
“As do I,” I added, and followed Holmes towards the door.
Outside, while waiting for the buggy to be brought around, Holmes drew me aside. “I suggest you stay here, Watson. And see that no one leaves.”
“But no one seems to have any intention of leaving, Holmes.”
He gazed skyward for a moment. “Have you noticed any wild geese since we’ve been here, Watson?”
“Uh, of course not, Holmes. There are no wild geese in this part of England in October. I know; I’ve hunted in this region.”
“Precisely, Watson.”
“Holmes—” But the coachman had brought round the buggy, and Holmes had cracked the whip and was gone. I watched the black, receding image of the buggy and the thin, erect figure on the seat. As they faded into the haze on the flat landscape, I thought I saw Holmes lean forward, urging the mare to go faster.
• • •
When Holmes returned later that evening and we were upstairs dressing for dinner, I asked him why he’d gone into town.
“To talk to Annie,” he told me, craning his lean neck and fastening his collar button.
“Annie?”
“The maid at the King’s Knave Inn, Watson.”
“But what on earth for, Holmes?”
“It concerned her duties, Watson.”
There was a knock on the door, and Eames summoned us for dinner. I knew any further explanation would have to wait for the moment when Holmes chose to divulge the facts of the case.
Everyone who had been in the drawing room when we’d first arrived was at the table in the long dining hall. The room was high-ceilinged and somewhat gloomy, with wide windows that looked out on a well-tended garden. Paintings of various past Oldsbolts hung on one wall. None of them looked particularly happy, perhaps because of the grim commerce the family had long engaged in.
The roast mutton and boiled vegetables were superb, though the polite dinner conversation was commonplace and understandably strained.
It was in the oak-paneled drawing room afterward, when we were enjoying our port, that Millicent Oldsbolt said, “Did you make any progress in your trip to town, Mr. Holmes?”
“Ah, yes,” Major Ardmont said, “did you discover any clues as to the killer’s identity? That’s what you were looking for, was it not?”
“Not exactly,” Holmes said. “I’ve known for a while who really killed Sir Clive; my trip into town was in the nature of a search for confirmation.”
“Good Lord!” Ardmont said. “You’ve actually known?”
“And did you find such confirmation?” Robby Smythe asked, tilting forward in his chair.
“Indeed,” Holmes said. “One might say I reconstructed the crime. The murderer lay in wait for Sir Clive in a nearby copse of trees, saw the carriage approach, and moved out to be in sight so Sir Clive would stop. With very little warning, he shot Sir Clive, emptying his gun to be sure his prey was dead.”
“Gatling Gun, you mean,” Major Ardmont said.
“Not at all. A German Army sidearm, actually, of the type that holds seven rounds in its cylinder.”
“But the rapid-fire shots heard at the inn!” Robby Smythe exclaimed.
“I’ll soon get to that,” Holmes said. “The murderer then made his escape, but found he couldn’t get far. He had to return almost a kilometre on foot, take one of Sir Clive’s horses from the carriage hitch, and use it to pull him away from the scene of the crime.”
Robby Smythe tilted his head curiously. “But why would Landen—”
“Not Landen,” Holmes cut him off. “Someone else. The man Eames only assumed was Landen when he heard a man arguing with Sir Clive earlier that evening. Landen was where he claimed he was during the time of the murder, asleep in his room at the inn. He did not later return unseen through his window as the chief constable so obstinately states.”
“The constable’s theory fits the facts,” Major Ardmont said.
“But I’m telling you the facts,” Holmes replied archly. “Then what shooting did the folks at the inn hear?” Millicent asked.
“They heard no shooting,” Holmes said. “They heard the rapid-fire explosions of an internal combustion engine whose muffling device had blown off. The driver of the horseless carriage had to stop it immediately lest he awaken everyone in the area. He then returned to the scene of the murder and got the horse to pull the vehicle to where it could be hidden. Then he turned the animal loose, knowing it would go back to the carriage on the road, or all the way here to the house.”
“But who—”
Phoebe Oldsbolt didn’t get to finish her query. Robby Smythe was out of his chair like a tiger. He flung his half-filled glass of port at Holmes, who nimbly stepped aside. Smythe burst through the French doors and ran towards where he’d left his horseless carriage alongside the west wing of the house.
“Quick, Holmes!” I shouted, drawing my revolver. “He’ll get away!”
“No need for haste, Watson. It seems that Mr. Smythe’s tyres are of the advanced pneumatic kind. I took the precaution of letting the air out of them before dinner.”
“Pneumatic?” Major Ardmont said.
“Filled with atmosphere under pressure so they support the vehicle on a cushion of air,” Holmes said. “As you well know, Major.”
I hefted the revolver and ran for the French windows. I could hear footsteps behind me, but not in front. I prayed that Smythe hadn’t made his escape.
But he was frantically wrestling with a crank on the front of a strange-looking vehicle. Its motor was coughing and wheezing but wouldn’t supply power. When he saw me, he gave up on the horseless carriage and ran. I gave chase, realised I’d never be able to overtake a younger man in good condition, and fired a shot into the air.
“Halt, Smythe!”
He turned and glared at me.
“I’ll show you the mercy you gave Sir Clive!” I shouted.
He hesitated, shrugged, and trudged back towards the house.
• • •
“Luckily the contraption wouldn’t start,” I said, as we waited in the drawing room for Wilson Edgewick to return with the chief constable.
“I was given to understand the horseless carriage can be driven slowly on deflated tires,” Holmes said, “but not at all with this missing.” He held up what looked like a length of stiff black cord. “It’s called a spark wire, I believe. I call removing it an added precaution.”
Everyone seemed in better spirits except for Robby Smythe and Phoebe. Smythe appealed with his eyes to the daughter of the man he’d killed and received not so much as a glance of charity.
“How could you possibly have known?” Millicent asked. She was staring in wonder at Holmes, her fine features aglow now that her world had been put back partly right.
Holmes crossed his long arms and rocked back on his heels while I held my revolver on Smythe.
“This afternoon, when Watson and I examined the scene of the murder, I found a feather on the ground near where the body was discovered. I also found a black sticky substance on the road.”
“Oil!” I said.
“And thicker than that used to lubricate the Gatling Gun, as I later ascertained. I was reasonably sure then that a horseless carriage had been used for the murder, as the oil was quite fresh and little had been absorbed into the ground. The machine had to have been there recently. When Smythe here tried to make his escape after shooting Sir Clive, the muffling device that quiets the machine’s motor came off or was blown from the pressure, and the hammering exhaust of the internal combustion made a noise much like the rapid-fire clatter of the Gatling Gun. Which led inn patrons to suppose the gun was what they’d heard near the time of the murder. Smythe couldn’t drive his machine back to its stall in such a state, and couldn’t silence it, so he had one of Sir Clive’s horses pull him back. If only the earth hadn’t been so hard this would all have been quite obvious, perhaps even to Chief Constable Roberts.”
“Not at all likely,” Millicent said.
“It was Smythe whom Eames overheard arguing with Sir Clive,” Holmes continued. “And Major Ardmont, who is a member of the German military, knows why.”
Ardmont nodded curtly. “When did you realise I wasn’t one of your Cavalry?” he asked. “I knew you were telling the truth about being in the cavalry, and serving in a sunny clime,” Holmes said, “but the faint line of your helmet and chinstrap on your sunburned forehead and face don’t conform to that of the Queen’s Cavalry helmet. They do suggest shading of the helmet worn by the German horse soldier. I take it you received your sun-darkening not in India but in Africa in the service of your country.”
“Excellent, Mr. Holmes!” Ardmont said, with genuine admiration. “Mr. Smythe,” he said, “had been trying to convince Sir Clive to get the British military interested in his horseless machine as a means to transport troops or artillery. A hopeless task, as it turned out, with an old horseman like Sir Clive. Smythe contacted us, and introduced me to Sir Clive. He told Sir Clive that if the British didn’t show interest in his machines, he’d negotiate with us. And we were quite willing to negotiate, Mr. Holmes. We Germans do feel there’s a future for the internal combustion engine in warfare.”
I snorted. Much like a horse. I didn’t care. The image of a thousand sabre-waving troops advancing on hordes of sputtering little machines seemed absurd.
“Sir Clive,” Ardmont went on, “showed his temper, I’m afraid. He not only gave his final refusal to look into the idea of Smythe’s machine; he absolutely refused to have as his son-in-law anyone who would negotiate terms with us. Possibly that’s what the butler overheard in part, thinking Sir Clive was referring to Landen Edgewick and Millicent rather than to Mr. Smythe and Phoebe.”
“Then you were with Sir Clive and Smythe when they clashed,” I said, “yet you continued to let the police believe it was Landen Edgewick who’d had the argument.”
“Exactly,” Major Ardmont said. “To see Mr. Smythe off to the hangman wouldn’t have given Germany first crack at a war machine, would it?”
“Contemptible!” I spat.
“But wouldn’t you do the same for your country?” Ardmont asked, grinning a death’s head grin. I chose not to answer. “The feather?” I said. “Of what significance was the feather, Holmes?”
“It was a goose feather,” Holmes said, “of the sort used to stuff pillows. I suspected when I found it that a pillow had been used to muffle the sound of the shots when Sir Clive was killed. Which explains why the actual shots weren’t heard at the inn.”
“Ah! And you went into town to talk to Annie then.”
“To find out if she’d missed a pillow from the inn lately. And indeed one had turned up missing—from Robby Smythe’s room.”
“An impressive bit of work, Mr. Holmes,” Ardmont said. “I’ll be leaving now.” He tossed down the rest of his port and moved towards the door.
“He shouldn’t be allowed to leave, Holmes!”
“The good major has committed no crime, Watson. English law doesn’t compel him to reveal such facts unless questioned directly, and what he knew about the argument had no exact bearing on the crime, I’m afraid.”
“Very good, Mr. Holmes,” Ardmont said. “You should have been a barrister.”
“Lucky for you I’m not,” Holmes said, “or be sure I’d find some way to see you swing alongside Mr. Smythe. Good evening, Major.”
• • •
Two days later, Wilson and Landen Edgewick appeared at our lodgings on Baker Street and expressed appreciation with a sizable cheque, a wedding invitation, and bone-breaking handshakes all around. They were off to Reading, they said, to demonstrate the Gatling Gun to the staff of British Army Ordnance Procurement. We wished them luck, I with a chill of foreboding, and sent them on their way.
“I hope somehow that no one buys the rights to their weapon,” I said.
“You hope in vain,” Holmes told me, slouching deep in the wing chair and thoughtfully tamping his pipe. “I’m afraid, Watson, that we’re poised on the edge of an era of science and mechanization that will profoundly change wartime as well as peacetime. It mightn’t be long before we’re experimenting with the very basis of matter itself and turning it to our own selfish means. We mustn’t sit back and let it happen in the rest of the world, Watson. England must remain in the forefront of weaponry, to discourage attack and retain peace through strength. Enough weapons like the Gatling Gun, and perhaps war will become untenable and a subject of history only. Believe me, old friend, this can be a force for tranquillity among nations.”
Perhaps Holmes is right, as he almost invariably is. Yet as I lay in bed that night about to sleep, never had the soft glow of gaslight, and the clatter of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones below in Baker Street, been so comforting.