On the southbound train from London that Saturday morning, I had been fortunate enough to glance up from my newspaper in time to spot the ancient chalk man carved into the hillside, westward towards Wilmington. I was closer to my destination than I had realized, and began to ready myself for arrival.
In no time at all, I was standing in the Eastbourne station, waiting for the inevitable confusion that follows an arrival to clear. I was surprised that there had been so many other people making their way down from London and in this direction, but that September had produced some quite pleasant days, and I supposed there was no better time for taking a holiday, as most of my fellow travelers were. I was not averse to spending some time at the coast as well, but in my case, I had been summoned to provide assistance to my friend, Sherlock Holmes, now living in supposed retirement on the Downs, only a couple of miles west of where I now stood.
A man wearing a driving hat, with goggles pushed up, was leaning against the wall near the open exit to the station. As he spotted me, he straightened and walked my way. “Dr. Watson?” he asked.
I acknowledged the fact, and he identified himself as Hipkins, down from London to act as Holmes’s factotum during the upcoming matter, which had attracted interest from the highest quarter. His voice was odd, both flat and a little too loud. I deduced that he had type of damage to his hearing, either congenital or resulting from a later cause.
We stepped out to the street, where Hipkins had parked a disreputable-looking Rover, at least two or three years old. He reached to load my luggage, in this case a single worn portmanteau of black, dull leather. My travel kit is never elaborate due to my former military background, but in this case I was journeying with somewhat more than usual. Hipkins pulled on a pair of driving gloves, and we set off slowly down the crowded street, picking up speed as we reached the road out of town toward Friston and East Dean.
I had a chance to study my driver as he fought with the automobile. He was a tall, thin man, with sallow skin and the look of a malnourished youth that gave me to believe he had grown up in one of the rawer quarters of London. Except for the fairly new-looking goggles, his clothing was worn and well-used, but clean. Before he had pulled on his gloves, I had noticed that his hands looked as if they had done their share of past work.
When we reached the first road that angled to the south, toward Beachy Head, I was surprised that we did not make the turn toward Holmes’s residence, situated as it was on the road running parallel to the great chalk cliffs. It was there that he maintained the reclusive illusion of keeping bees. Oh, to be sure, there was an apiary there, and Holmes was quite interested in studying it. But his retirement had served multiple purposes besides watching the wee creatures (as Mrs. Hudson called them,) some of which I do not propose to relate at this time.[1]
One of the reasons for his move to this part of Sussex, back in October 1903, was to be able to surreptitiously increase the level of his assistance in the work of his brother Mycroft, who has been described broadly but accurately as sometimes being the British Government.
In those days, it had been feared by some, but not all, at the highest levels in government that a massive European war was inevitable, if not in a few years then certainly in a decade or so. Therefore, it had become imperative that someone of Holmes’s intelligence and skill be available and at the forefront of the preparations, providing his own special abilities toward those matters that absolutely needed him – and only him. And that was
partially why I had traveled to Sussex that late summer morning in 1905. For a child had been taken, and even though no threats other than a ransom demand to the family had been made, it was postulated that the kidnapping might be used to pressure the child’s father, a man of some influence, to make some move that would aid a future enemy.
Hipkins was not a talkative driver, possibly self-conscious about his speaking voice, and he simply gestured ahead of us along the Friston Road when he perceived my confusion when we did not turn directly toward Holmes’s villa. I call it a villa because that is how Holmes refers to it, when he is not calling it a farm, but in truth it is a serviceable stone home, with a couple of acres of walled gardens, surrounded by the Downs and located just north and downhill from the highest of the chalk cliffs looking out over the channel. It is a site with a long history in that area, known locally as “H------- Farm.” The house, consisting of a ground floor and cozy first floor as well, is surrounded by trees, and there is a barn of sorts on the eastern side of the property.
Toward the southwest, the Downs slope gradually toward Birling Gap (which both Holmes and I have at times referred to by the less-identifying and anonymously British nom of “Fulworth.”) Holmes had been given the property years before, following the successful conclusion to an investigation that we had conducted in the area[2], and had joked in the years following, when the Capital had proved particularly vexatious, that one day he would retire there and keep bees. Little did I realize that when it was necessary for Holmes to leave both London and his practice at the unlikely age of forty-nine, he would ensconce himself in the beautiful southern Sussex countryside.
Hipkins’s car traveled past the East Dean turn as well, with the small village on the left, and Friston rising above us on the right. I began to wonder exactly where we were going. The answer was obvious in mere moments, as we topped the hill, and the vehicle slowed and then stopped outside the stone wall of the ancient St. Mary the Virgin Church. Through the greenery growing over the stones, I could see Holmes walking in the graveyard, reading the markers, and pushing back the grass where it was long with his stick.
After I had retrieved my single bag, Hipkins dismissed himself, turning and driving back down the hill toward Eastbourne. I did not question this, trusting that he understood his own purpose and role in the matter. But I did realize that I was now a mile or two from Holmes’s villa, and still in possession of my bag. I foresaw an uncomfortable job of carrying it.
“Not to worry, Watson,” said Holmes as I entered the graveyard. “We will make a stop or two on the way back, and I will do my share of acting as a pack mule if the need arises.”
I suppose that my thoughts must have been visible on my face, as had been the case so many times before. I was not surprised at all, only happy to see my friend, since I had not set eyes on him for several weeks. On that last occasion, he had been in London carrying out more of his secret business, and had stopped at its conclusion to share a meal with my wife and me in our Queen Anne Street lodgings. It frequently seemed to amuse him that my home and practice were located in the same building that in times past had been a residence of Boswell.
I looked back and forth around the peaceful graveyard. “A fine place to spend eternity,” I said.
“I doubt,” replied Holmes, “that this hillside will outlast eternity.”
“Well, certainly, everything will fade away. That is the nature of things. One only has to look at some of these stones to see that even they cannot resist time. In terms of how long the church has stood here, in one form or another, they have barely been here for any time at all.”
“In this instance, I was referring to the very land upon which we stand. At some point, this spot will crumble into the sea.”
“It will be some time before that happens,” I said. “We are surely a mile back from the edges of the cliffs.”
“Yes, but a few feet gone, year after year, century after century, and eventually our descendants will have to redraw their maps. As our friend, Hatherley, the hydraulic engineer, told us when he made that unexpected visit four years ago to introduce his latest child, water is the great leveler. Given time, it will dissolve or wear away everything, even the very land that pokes its way above the oceans.”
With this cheery thought, Holmes led me over to a wooden bench, one of several scattered about the graveyard. Some were tucked under the trees along the bordering stone walls, but this one was in the open, with a magnificent view of the Downs. Behind us was the church, parts of it nearing a thousand years in age. A hill rose to the south, and in the distance we could see a couple walking on one of the footpaths that crisscrossed the grass. The birds were flying to and fro, catching the late-season insects. It was hard to believe that somewhere, probably near by, a small boy was being held captive. I refused to believe that he might already be dead.
Holmes and I spent a good three-quarters of an hour seated there in the graveyard, going over his plans for that day and night. It was warm and peaceful, and there was nothing fearful about the place in that bright morning, although I must confess that it might have had a different atmosphere on a windy autumn night.
I listened as Holmes complained that his involvement in the matter, at the specific request of Lord Holdhurst himself, had seriously interrupted his observations of his bees. I smiled to myself, knowing that Holmes would never have refused his assistance in such an affair. I also wondered if he was starting to begin to believe more in the fictional picture of a hermit that he had so carefully created, primarily a solitary and dedicated beekeeper, and only rarely a specially-skilled consultant, currently put out to pasture.
Lord Holdhurst, now quite ancient, was a close friend of the boy’s father, the Earl of H-----, and it was he who had involved Holmes in the matter. The boy had been taken undetected two nights earlier from his own bedroom. A note had arrived with the post the next morning, before the boy was even discovered to be missing, asking for a substantial amount of money, with terms of delivery to be arranged later. The note read that police involvement was forbidden, upon threat of the boy’s life. However, Lord Holdhurst, when advising his old friend, had pointed out that there was no injunction against involving Holmes, who now lived in Sussex, not far from the Earl’s estate.
Holmes had spent less than a day, in disguise, tracing the man who had sent the letter through the local countryside. “It was mere child’s play, Watson,” he had told me. “The letter was mailed from the local post office. I must admit that I had a bit of luck. A man had come in on the afternoon before the child was found to be missing, and dropped a letter into the outgoing basket just as the post office was shutting up for the day. This was before the child had even been taken. The postmistress started to tell the man that she had already gathered the outgoing letters, and that he was too late, but the man was gone. Then she looked and saw that it was a local letter, being sent to the Earl’s home, which is very unusual in these parts, as the locals do not send letters to the Earl. She recognized the man as someone she had recently seen going occasionally into the local pub down the street. Upon further questioning, the woman’s husband had seen the man there a few times over the last few days as well, but did not know him.”
Holmes had not wasted time trying to determine how the kidnapper had entered the estate undetected, or had managed to get away with the boy. Rather, he asked around the villages until he found other people who had seen the man who sent the random letter. By working backwards along this fellow’s route, Holmes had identified where he was staying, in a lonely and recently rented cottage a few miles to the north, and subsequently his identity, one Les Chetwood. Holmes had set quiet inquiries in motion, quickly learning what he could. But there was no immediate sign of accomplices, if any, or of the boy, and he did not want to take the fellow into custody without knowing where the child was being held, or if there were other confederates involved. The Earl was adamant that the ransom must be paid as demanded, to ensure the boy’s safety.
Holmes had sent to London to request the assistance of Hipkins, whom he had used in the past for various matters. A second note then arrived from the kidnappers, also mailed locally, arranging for the daylight exchange of the money in a nearby inn, which was described as a “neutral location.” At that point, Holmes had sent a wire with specific instructions, requesting my presence as well.
I glanced at my watch. The ransom exchange was scheduled to take place within the hour. It was to be in the open, where we would pass over the money, and then, after the man receiving it – presumably Chetwood – safely took it away, the child would be released. Holmes was not happy with the situation, and some aspects about it still puzzled him, but he agreed that retrieving the child safely was the most important consideration, and that it would be fairly easy to pull in his net with the kidnapper – or kidnappers – caught in it later.
Thus, it was due to this ransomed child that I came to be in Sussex on that beautiful morning. But very quickly, unrelated events intruded upon us after our graveyard meeting, unraveling the proposal to deliver the payment, as well as doing much to tangle Holmes’s other plans.
I knew that Holmes was not telling me everything, but he had shared what he felt that I needed to know. Having come to the logical conclusion of our discussion, Holmes stood abruptly. “Now,” he said, “let us make our way down to East Dean, where your arrival will be noted with interest by at least one individual.”
I lifted my bag, and we started down the path, separated by a thick hedge from the road which I had so recently traveled upon. I noticed that, even this late in the year, bees were working with great energy all around us. Leaning in, I looked more closely at an industrious little fellow and joked, “One of yours?”
“Hardly,” Holmes replied. “You will notice the slightly tapered abdomen. This is a type of hornet, with remnants perhaps of the European honeybee in its makeup. I hope that they do not encounter my bees, as I fear the outcome.” I leaned back slowly in order not to alarm the hornet or to seem too concerned in front of my friend. Over the last year or so, I had become used to Holmes’s hives, and had come to an uneasy truce with, and even appreciation of, their residents. I certainly appreciated the honey that they provided on those regular visits that I made to Holmes’s villa. Once or twice he had sent jars with me back to London. But I had no wish to have any closer associations with these hornet-like chaps, here in this enclosed hedged path leading down toward the village inn.
We walked for a few minutes in silence, each appreciating the wide views through gaps in the foliage, and anticipating the meeting that we expected upon our arrival. As we approached the village green and the buildings surrounding it, I wondered how many other people on strange missions had met over the years at that inn, which had been standing there now at that location for hundreds of years, and had frequently been the haunt in times past of coastal smugglers. Our appointment today was just the latest in a long list of quiet arrangements there, and no doubt there would be many others to come in the future.
Stepping onto the green, Holmes indicated for me to wait a moment as he went into a nearby stone building. I knew that he had use of some space in the structure, as well as an arrangement to receive messages there, along with what little mail that might find its way to him from individuals who had worked out that he lived in this part of Sussex, while not specifically knowing where. Although he cultivated, with my assistance, the impression of being a reclusive hermit, he did still take on the occasional private consulting job, in addition to those affairs which were assigned to him by his brother. I had the impression that Mycroft did not discourage the private investigations, as they managed to give the impression that Holmes was in Sussex on a full-time basis, being… Holmes.
My friend stepped out of the house, holding an unfolded note. He
informed me that the members of his household, including Mrs. Hudson, were still in London, staying in Baker Street, and that we would be making do for ourselves, at least for a few days. After Holmes’s retirement, Mrs. Hudson had joined him in Sussex, but had retained the lease on 221. When Holmes went back to the Capital on one of his activities for his brother, he regularly used it as a staging area, rather like one of his other London hidey-holes, and often in secret. During the periods when it stood unoccupied, Mycroft made sure that the place was well-kept and cared for.
We reached the door of the inn, ducking our heads as we went inside. I am a fairly big man, having played rugby in my youth, and my friend is very tall. Neither was the common size centuries earlier when the Tiger Inn’s doorway was constructed.
The room was cozy and clean, with a bar across from us, and sunlit rooms opening to either the right or left. Standing and sipping a cold beer was my driver and Holmes’s agent, Hipkins, now missing his driving hat and goggles. He ignored us, and Holmes led me to a nearby corner table in the shadows along the front wall, opposite the bar.
I looked around the taproom, representative of the finest aspects of so many similar inns and gathering places throughout Britain. The great hooded fireplace across the room from our table would make the place very snug indeed on those cold winter nights so close to the sea.
We sat down, and I pulled my case back behind my feet under the table. It made a rough sound as I dragged it along the floor, and Holmes said softly, “Did you pack too many extra collars along with your toothbrush?”
“No,” I replied quietly, “just too much ammunition to go with the service revolver in my pocket.”
At that moment, a small man appeared from one of the back rooms, to the left of the door. Holmes gave a small nod. This, then, was our man, Les Chetwood, the kidnapper that Holmes had managed to identify. He had a pint of something dark gripped in his right hand, and he squinted as he came into the darker room. As he paused for a moment in the low doorway, I had a chance to examine him. He was dressed in wool from head-to-toe, buttoned up and looking too warm for this late summer heat. He had a pale face, with some color on his cheeks that did not seem normal for him. He had thin, sandy hair, brushed straight forward and down toward his eyes. A soft mouth gave an initial impression of weakness, but there was an animal cunning that brightened his gaze as he finally recognized us. As he was taking a step toward us, the front door flew open with a crash, and a tall man in a Coast Guard uniform stepped in.
As the new fellow stopped to let his eyes adjust, Chetwood froze, looking back and forth from the newcomer to our table. No doubt to him, the man just entering appeared to be dressed in some variation of a police uniform.
His eyes having adjusted, the man in uniform saw us and his eyes lit up. “Mr. Holmes!” he cried. “It is so fortunate that you are here! I don’t doubt that you would have been summoned at some point.”
Chetwood, frozen in the door to the side room, our only link to pay the ransom and retrieve the boy, quickly set his glass on the bar and moved toward the door like an animal escaping a trap. Sliding around the man in uniform, he pushed open the door and was gone.
Under his breath, Holmes said, “Blast!” He tensed, as if starting to rise, before changing his mind. Realizing that to pursue Chetwood might make things worse, he settled back toward his seat and said with a sigh, “What is the problem, Commander?”
“Murder, Mr. Holmes! Down at the Coast Guard residences atop the cliffs. I came up to find Constable Anderson. He is getting ready to join me now in his house across the road – he was out working in his garden, you see, it being a Saturday. He told me to wait for him here, and then we would go down together.” The fellow was obviously overwrought, his words tumbling out, one atop another.
Holmes caught Hipkins’s eye, nodding toward the door. Hipkins nodded and slipped out of the inn. “Hipkins will follow him,” Holmes whispered to me. The sound of the Commander’s voice had attracted attention in the back, and a girl appeared through a doorway behind the bar. “Something for Commander Teague,” said Holmes in a normal tone.
“Thank you, sir,” said Teague, as the girl pulled a tall cider for him, already knowing exactly what he would request. “This has made me all rattled, and that’s for sure.” As he took a long draw from the glass, I had a chance to examine him. Middle-aged, soft-looking, no wedding ring. A career man in a backwater post. “We would have called you in, sir, I’m sure of it,” said the commander. “What with someone of your reputation living amongst us now, so close, we would have been fools not to. Old Mr. Emerson would expect it.”
“Mr. Emerson?” questioned Holmes, still irritated at the interruption of our other business, but becoming intrigued by this matter as well. “And he would be – ”
“He is the grandfather of the murdered man,” said Teague. “Ebersole Emerson, of Manchester.”
“Ah,” replied Holmes, “the celebrated and self-made industrialist.”
“That’s right, sir,” said Teague. “It is his grandson, Lieutenant Andrew Warren, who has died not half-an-hour ago in his bed in the guard houses, and not a mark on him.”
“You said ‘murder’,” I interrupted. “Was it poison?”
“Well, to be honest, I don’t know. I wasn’t there when he died, although two of the other lieutenants currently on station were. I was summoned in just after, being in command, you see. From how it was described to me, I would have thought it might be some type of seizure, except that Warren was able to gasp out ‘murder’ to his two mates before he went.
“The duty roster is rather light, today being Saturday you understand, and it’s never very demanding there at the worst of times. There are never many of us assigned here anymore, even during the season. As I mentioned, I am in charge, and as soon as I heard, I put my second to watch the two men who were with Warren when he died, and set out as fast as I could to find the constable.”
I could see that Holmes was about to ask another question, but the door opened, interrupting him. It was Anderson, the constable for that area. He was a large man with a strong touch of Scandinavia somewhere in his background. I had met him several times before, while visiting Holmes on other occasions.
He seemed as pleased as Teague had been at finding Holmes in the inn. A quick recap of what Teague had told us was enough to get him moving. He led us outside and down the narrow lane, away from the green and onto the small road that wound south toward the sea. His wagon was already hitched and waiting, and we climbed aboard and set forth. Personally I was glad to be pulled by a horse, and not conveyed by another automobile.
The way was not far, but there would have been enough time to talk. However, Holmes pointedly did not ask any further questions, preferring to wait until we reached the scene of the murder so that he could form his own impressions, instead of those that were filtered through the eyes of Commander Teague. Seeing that Holmes did not want to overhear Anderson asking anything either, the constable instead talked to me.
“I’ve been reading your stories to my boy,” he said. “He’s five now, so he doesn’t understand it all, but he’s bright, and he follows most of it.”
We passed wide grassy fields on the left, and sloping up toward stands of trees on the right. Both fields were filled with sheep that paused in their grazing to watch us, with one or two trotting curiously toward the fences for a few steps before stopping to watch us pass.
“After one of the stories,” continued Anderson, “I asked him if he wanted to be a detective like Mr. Holmes. Do you know what he said, doctor?” he asked enthusiastically. I smiled politely and said that I did not. “He said that he wanted to be a ‘p’liceman’ like his da.” Anderson beamed with pride.
I murmured that he was fortunate indeed, and wondered privately how many other professions the boy might choose between now and when he reached his majority.
Within a few minutes, the land on either side of the road opened, and I could see the abrupt edge of the horizon that indicated the cliffs were rising before us. The road aimed toward a lower spot, where a cluster of buildings had been constructed. I knew that even here, the land did not open directly onto the beach. Rather, the cliff line dipped, and was simply lower than what was on either side. This was Birling Gap, where the Coast Guard cottages were located, as well as some other newer homes stretching up the hill to the west.
“The road here used to go all the way down to the beach, long ago,” said Anderson, nodding ahead. “As the cliffs have fallen away over the years, the gap there that sloped gently down to the sea and gave the old smuggler’s wagons access to it in dark of night has cracked away and been lost. I fear that eventually the cliffs will keep falling, a bit at a time, until they take the whole village.” I thought of Holmes’s earlier comments regarding the little church and graveyard with sadness.
At Birling Gap, the road upon which we traveled turned sharply east, back toward Eastbourne. Holmes’s villa was less than a mile in that direction, but that was not where we were going. Our destination was that grim set of buildings on our immediate left as we faced the sea, perched back from the cliff top, where the Coast Guard kept a few men stationed. According to what Teague had told us, there weren’t many men there right now, but I was unsure whether this was a seasonal choice, or simply because the place was slowly being abandoned. I didn’t see any men in uniform standing outside, although there were certainly clusters here and there of civilians, residents of the nearby cottages, no doubt, pointing and whispering. Some, having spotted our wagon, began to gesture in our direction. Was it because of the arrival of the constable, I wondered, or perhaps at the unexpected appearance of the famed and celebrated local personality, that retired consulting detective down from London only a couple of years earlier, and still not here long enough to be considered a true resident?
We stopped in front of one of the central buildings, a two-storied affair that did not seem to be too unpleasant, compared to some military-type residences where I have been quartered. We climbed to the ground, and I struggled as I lifted my heavy travel case. “You can leave that in the wagon, doctor,” said Anderson, but I simply shook my head.
Teague led us inside and upstairs to the room of the dead man, Warren. It was a dark and windowless room, reached by a single door from the hall. The hallway itself had a window, which allowed a small amount of light into what was little more than a cell. Warren was laid out on his bed, his limbs contorted and wound in the twisted sheets. He was in his uniform. There was only a strong lantern lighting the room, which was very close indeed. In addition to Holmes and myself, Anderson, and Teague, the room also contained two uniformed men sitting upright on chairs just inside the door, and another small and grim-looking fellow, also in uniform, standing over them. From the way that he was addressed by Teague, he was obviously the second-in-command left in charge.
“You didn’t have to keep them in here with the body, Fellows!” he cried.
“You did not specify, sir,” said Fellows with grim authority. “I thought that facing the victim might force the guilty party to confess.”
Teague turned away, muttering, “Idiot,” under his breath. Then, as an afterthought, he turned back to his second. “Did it work?” he asked.
“No, sir,” replied Fellows. “The only one that said anything was Lester, here, who begged that we might shut Warren’s eyes.” Fellows glanced at the man on the right, apparently Lester, as if he had admitted his guilt then and there by such an action. Lester was slumped in his chair, his hand to his face, shielding his view of the unfortunate on the bed. “I knew better,” continued Fellows, “than to tamper with the body, sir.”
“Quite right, quite right,” said Teague, turning back to Holmes, who was already leaning over the bed. He was muttering to himself, patting the man’s clothing, examining his hands, and finally leaning in to smell the dead man’s mouth.
“Fresh uniform,” said Holmes. “He had not slept in it. He had arisen and prepared for the day. He is freshly shaved, as confirmed by the used razor, and also the ewer and bowl of soapy water on the table there. Rough going by lantern light.”
We looked toward the wall where the plain table stood. It held the shaving implements, as well as a tall mirror, the previously mentioned lantern, and a few other objects of interest. Holmes moved in the direction of the table, saying as he went, “Watson, would you mind examining the body?”
I bent to my task as Holmes made his inspection of the table. Anderson did not say a word, having completely given the matter over to Holmes. The four guardsmen clustered along their wall, with Fellows giving frequent glances to the two seated men, as if one or both were about to bolt.
I examined the victim, who looked back at me with the filmy gaze of the dead. “Shutting his eyes now,” I said softly, doing so. I saw no evidence of rigor, although I would not have expected it to have manifested so quickly, unless Warren had been diabetic. His hands were smooth, with no roughening indicating any laborious activities. Finally, I copied Holmes’s actions and smelled the man’s mouth. Then I arose and joined Holmes at the table.
He was kneeling, so that his eyes were at a level with items on the table top. Besides those that were related to shaving, there was a fairly new and open bottle of peach brandy with its top lying beside it, some plain brown wrapping paper, wrinkled and torn, and a single glass with dregs of liquid within it, presumably a portion of the brandy.
“Pray,” said Holmes, “take special care not to touch the bottle or the glass.”
I nodded, and then leaned over carefully and sniffed first the glass, and then the open bottle top.
“Cyanide,” I said softly, so that only Holmes could hear me. “The same odor still lingers on his lips.”
“Quite,” he said. Straightening himself, he pivoted and took a couple of steps across the small room, placing himself in front of the seated guardsmen.
“I understand that Lieutenant Warren said the word ‘murder’ during his final struggles. Is that correct?”
Both of the seated men nodded. “Did he say anything else? Anything at all?”
The fellow on the left shook his head, while the man Lester said, “He seemed to be in too much pain to say much of anything.”
“Show them,” said Fellows, abruptly. Both seated men looked blankly at him. The one on the left revealed, upon slightly turning his head, a set of finger-spaced scratches, still raw, down the right side of his face.
“Show them, Lester,” said Fellows again. “Show them your coat.”
Lester rolled his eyes in disgust. Then he plucked out the coat in question and revealed that there was a missing button, the loose threads still prominently attached and quite obvious.
Fellows took a step toward us and held out his hand. Resting on it was a matching button. “This rolled out of Warren’s right hand after he died,” he said with little-disguised triumph. Clearly, he thought that he had the evidence that solved the case.
Lester snorted in disgust. “When we heard him having his attack, we ran in to see what was the matter with him. Gates and I leaned over the bunk, trying to hold him steady. He must have grabbed the button then as he grasped at me.”
“No doubt,” said Holmes, reaching to take it from Fellows. “Is that when Lieutenant Warren scratched your face as well, Lieutenant Gates?”
Gates, the man on our left, involuntarily moved his hand toward his face. “Don’t touch it,” I said. “We don’t want that to get infected. I will clean it momentarily.”
Gates nodded, and answered Holmes. “Yes, sir. He was bent backwards, almost double at one point, with his teeth clenched in agony. His hand got loose and swiped at my face. I didn’t even know it had happened until later, when things settled down.”
“There is evidence of the tissue scratched from your face under the nails of his left hand. You stood on that side,” he said, pointing to the side of the bed corresponding with the victim’s left hand. Gates nodded. Turning back to Fellows, Holmes said, “Why did you assume the button to be of significance? Wouldn’t the scratches have also been an indication of possible guilt, according to your way of thinking?”
Fellows was at a loss, finally saying something about a detective story that he had once read as a boy, wherein a button found in the dead man’s hand had been of the greatest significance. Holmes turned away from him in disgust. To me, he said quietly, “I do not have time for this, Watson. We must wrap this thing up and return our attention to more important matters.”
“A murder is also important, Holmes,” I murmured.
“In this case we can only avenge a death. In the other we can perhaps prevent one.” Then, to the larger group, he asked, “Who is the woman that Warren has been seeing?”
There was silence for just a moment, and then Teague said, “Why, that would be Miss Collins, from one of the cottages up the hill. But how did you know about her?”
Holmes waved an impatient hand. “I must speak with her. These are not exactly appropriate surroundings, although I suppose that we could…” He seemed to lose himself in his own thoughts for a moment, before returning. “No,” he said. “I had thought that it might be of some benefit to question her here, in the presence of the victim, but perhaps it would be better to do so at her own home. Do you think that she is there now?”
“She should be,” said Teague, glancing inexplicably toward Lester of the missing button. Lester did not notice, as his gaze was directed toward the floor.
“Then let us be off,” said Holmes. Then, to Teague and Anderson he said, “Get these men out of here, and lock this room up tight. Make sure that no one touches anything in here. And Anderson, in that group of villagers standing around outside, is there someone that you trust?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the constable.
“Excellent. Put him in a chair in front of this door. I want no one to enter it until we get back.”
“Right away,” said Anderson, hurrying out of the room.
By the time we had moved to the hallway, and Teague had locked the door, Anderson was back with a gnarled man, old before his time, a former soldier from the look of him. “Brown, here, will do,” said Anderson. Holmes nodded and quietly gave the man his instructions before putting him in a chair before the door. The man crossed his arms, planted his feet firmly on the weathered floorboards, and looked as if the Devil himself would not get by.
I requested some medical supplies, and quickly treated the scratches on Gates’s face. While I did so, Holmes took possession of the room key from Teague and slipped it into his pocket. Holmes, Anderson, Teague, and I then exited the building and started walking west toward a line of cottages stretching up to the end of a lane that terminated at the top of the hill. I shifted my heavy travel bag from side to side as we ascended.
Teague chatted at Holmes as we walked, pointing out this and that as we went, and toward the last house at the top, known as “The Haven.” It had a corner tower and a slate roof, and had recently been taken by the Bellamys, a local family that owned all the boats and bathing cots there in Birling Gap. “The daughter, Maud, is quite a beauty,” said Teague. “She’s going to be the cause of trouble around here someday, mark my words.”
“Is she relevant to today’s affair?” snapped Holmes shortly. “Does this Miss Bellamy have any association with the dead man or the other lieutenants?”
“No,” replied Teague, in a more subdued voice. “No, I don’t suppose she does. It is Miss Collins that we go to see. Although I can tell you that, in my experience, if two beauties such as Miss Bellamy and Miss Collins are living in such a small village as this over too long a time, there will be fireworks, and that’s for sure!”
“Tell me of this Miss Collins,” said Holmes, turning away from Teague and toward Anderson, who gathered his thoughts for a moment. We were nearing our destination, and as the man needed more time to answer, he stopped in the lane, really little more than a rutted path. We turned to face him.
“She is an American girl, probably not more than twenty years old. She and her father leased one of the houses back in the early summer. They only have a local woman that they hired for cooking and housekeeping. They don’t have visitors, and there has been idle speculation as to why they would shut themselves up in this little corner of the world.
“Of course, a girl like her is bound to attract some attention. She’s a dainty thing, with fine blonde hair and blue eyes. Some of the ladies here do not care for her. The landlord at the Tiger, for one, told me that his wife believes the Collins girl is going to cause some strife, but perhaps I am just being unfair and repeating gossip.”
At this point, Teague interrupted. “In any case, it was not long after she and her father arrived that she took up with Lieutenant Lester, whom you just met. We’ve had a difficult time keeping his mind on his duties, and he used to make any excuse that he could make to slip away and see his Edith. That is, Miss Collins.
“Then, inexplicably, a couple of weeks ago, she turned her attentions to the dead man, Lieutenant Warren, Lester’s cousin.”
“What?” exclaimed Holmes. “There is a family connection between the two of them?”
“That’s right,” said Teague. “First cousins.”
“I thought that he seemed rather more shaken about the death than Gates,” I said.
“So is Lester also a grandson of the industrialist, Emerson?”
“That I would not know,” said Teague. “I try not to delve too closely into any of the lads’ backgrounds.”
He was finished speaking, and Holmes did not ask any further questions. We turned and resumed walking until we reached a plain-looking house about halfway up the slope. The grounds were tidy without being immaculate. Somehow, the place did not seem to have any personality, having gained nothing from its residents.
Anderson knocked on the door, with no response. He tried again, with more force, and in a few minutes the door was thrown open by a short, solid man, his face red with anger.
“What is it?” he asked in an abrasive American accent. “We don’t want any!”
“I am Constable Anderson,” said the man patiently. “There has been a murder at the guard houses, and we need to speak to you and your daughter about it.”
“A murder?” cried the man. “Well, it has nothing to do with us!” He began to shut the door, but the constable’s large boot had edged in to block the way.
“Police business,” Anderson said in a flat tone, pushing the door steadily open. He took a step forward and said, after he was inside, “May we come in?”
The man, presumably Mr. Collins and the father of the girl in question, gave up with sullen acceptance and allowed us to pass. We found ourselves in a plainly furnished front room, with a large window looking out and down the hill, toward the small cluster of buildings. One could easily see the groups of people still standing and discussing amongst themselves. There would have been no way to spend any time in this room and not see that something was happening there.
Mr. Collins walked ahead of us, and then turned and planted his feet. The light from the window showed a network of fine lines across his choleric face, a visage that was marked with foul passions and ill tempers.
On a chair near the window was a girl, as opposite from her father as could be in every way, the late-morning sunshine reflecting from her blonde hair. With the light behind her, she appeared angelic. However, when she stood and took a step toward us, there was something wrong in some subtle way, almost too insignificant to be noticed. Perhaps it was just a smile behind her eyes, even as her face showed horror as she asked in a throaty whisper, “There has been a murder?”
No one immediately answered as the girl resumed her seat. Anderson remained standing near the front door, while the rest of us found chairs. Then, Holmes faced her and began to speak.
“That is correct, Miss Collins. Lieutenant Warren of the guards was poisoned this morning, and is dead. We understand that you and he had been seeing something of each other in recent weeks.”
“No!” she said. “Not Andrew!”
“Now, wait a minute,” said her father, standing near his daughter. “What are you trying to do? We barely knew any of those people.”
“Nevertheless,” said Holmes, “this is a very small community, and it is known that your daughter had been associated with the dead man. We would not be doing our duty if we did not at least ask her a question or two.” Turning back to face the girl, he said, “Clearly, this has upset you.” He reached into his pocket, fishing out a silver case. “Would you care for a cigarette?”
Mr. Collins bellowed, and Anderson muttered something about the inappropriateness of offering something like that to a delicate lady. Teague simply looked scandalized. Holmes raised his eyebrows in innocence and returned the case to his pocket.
“My apologies. I have often found the use of tobacco to be relaxing, and thought that Miss Collins might benefit from it as well.” Turning back to her, he said, “Is there any information whatsoever that you can provide for us that might help to clear up this matter?”
“No,” she said, softly. “Nothing at all. Andrew, that is to say, Lieutenant Warren and I were simply acquaintances, that’s all. I enjoyed talking with him, and sometimes walking along the shingle at the base of the steps. He had traveled some in his youth, and was full of such interesting stories. It is so lonely here, ever since father chose to come to this place. I was just – ” She stopped, dropping her head with a small sob.
We were all silent for a moment, embarrassed and not sure what to say. Then Holmes reached into another pocket and pulled out his small memorandum book, a gift from a grateful former client. It was small, only three inches tall, and about two inches wide. The book consisted of a mirrored metal case, enclosing minute sheets of notepaper inside, and it had been useful to Holmes on at least two occasions, not for making notes, but for signaling by turning the mirrored surface this way and that into the sun. I myself had fond memories of that memorandum book, as once it had helped to save our lives.
Holmes fished the stub of a pencil out of his pocket, opened the book, and wrote quickly for a moment or two on one of the tiny pages. Then he closed the book and rested its metal surface on one knee as he spoke to Miss Collins, who had raised her head in curiosity in the meantime, to see what Holmes was doing.
“I have prepared a statement, just a sentence really, indicating that you know nothing of this matter. Would you care to read and sign it?”
She nodded, and he handed her the case. She opened it, and read aloud, repeating what Holmes had essentially just said. “ ‘I, Edith Collins, know nothing about the murder of Lieutenant Andrew Warren.’ ”
“Here now,” said her father. “Why do you want her to sign that, anyway? My daughter isn’t signing anything.” He began to reach for the notebook, but Holmes was quicker, retrieving it from her hand.
“Oh well,” he said, taking it back. I noticed that he held the shiny case by the edges, and did not return it to his pocket. “It is not necessary, and perhaps you are right, sir. I apologize if I have overstepped my welcome.”
“Quite right, you have,” muttered Collins.
Holmes rose abruptly. “Gentlemen, our business is elsewhere, then. Thank you both for your time.”
I could tell that both Anderson and Teague were surprised that we had made the effort to climb the hill and take the time to see the lady, only to leave almost immediately. Anderson, having worked with Holmes on a few occasions in the past, probably had an inkling that Holmes was working toward some goal. I, who knew Holmes much better, was certain of it, and besides that, I was fairly sure that he must have managed to accomplish it.
Before I knew it, we were back outside and on the lane, walking down toward the low area that was Birling Gap. Anderson and Teague were out in front of us, speaking about the murder, and more specifically, about how someone like Miss Collins could not help but to be a motivation for a passionate crime. Holmes and I fell back, and then stopped altogether. I set my travel bag on the ground by my feet. Anderson and Teague noticed our absence and turned, but Holmes waved them on, and they continued their walk down the hill. I nodded toward Holmes’s hand, which still carefully held the metallic memorandum book by its edges.
“Did you get what you needed?” I asked.
“I believe so,” he said. “I want just a moment to examine this when we return to the guard houses.” He held it up, turning it this way and that in the light. “It is likely that our first arrow hit the bulls-eye. If it had not, we might have found it necessary to repeat the same subterfuge with Miss Maud Bellamy.
“I would like to finish this distraction up quickly and get back to our real business. I’m taking something of a short-cut through this murder, although perhaps a leap would be a better metaphor, as we are so close to the cliffs. But if it works out, we can quickly put this distraction behind us.”
He glanced back toward the house, and his eyes narrowed. Following his gaze, I saw Miss Collins, standing framed in the large window, watching us intently. Holmes glanced toward his memorandum book, still held prominently by the edges. Then he seemed to relax, saying, “That may have been an unfortunate mistake, but it cannot be helped now.” Then, mysteriously he added, “Perhaps it will even provoke her into doing something to our advantage. Now, let us rejoin our companions.”
Back at the guard houses, we were met by Hipkins, who was standing outside waiting for us. He handed Holmes a note, and said something to him softly in that odd voice of his. Holmes nodded and thanked him. “Do you want me to take your bag on to Mr. Holmes’s farm?” asked Hipkins, reaching for the portmanteau in my hand. I shook my head, saying that I would keep it with me. Hipkins touched a finger to his forehead, and turned to go.
Holmes followed him for a moment, giving him some whispered instructions. Hipkins nodded and continued on his way.
Holmes then returned and faced me, while Anderson and Teague waited by the door to the building. “Hipkins followed Chetwood when he left the inn,” said Holmes. “The man hung about until he saw us depart with Anderson, and then went back inside. He wrote a note and asked that the innkeeper make sure that it was delivered to me. He then went back to his hiding place off the Eastbourne road, which I located yesterday. Hipkins saw no sign of any associates along the way, or of the boy. He returned to the inn, managed to convince them that he was working for me, and retrieved the note for personal delivery, as you saw.
“According to his message, Chetwood realized that the interruption of the ransom exchange was not my fault, and he has rescheduled for tonight, with certain conditions.”
“And those would be…”
“Later, Watson. Let us proceed with this business while it is still fresh.”
Holmes walked to the building, where he asked Anderson and Teague to continue to wait. Then he led me back inside and upstairs to the dead man’s room. Dismissing the man, Brown, guarding the room, after ascertaining that there had been no attempts by anyone to enter, Holmes pulled the key from his pocket and unlocked the door. We went in, and Holmes motioned toward the table.
The lantern was still lit, but otherwise the room was very dark, as it had been during our first visit. However, this worked to Holmes’s advantage.
“Lean over and look at the brandy glass with the light behind it.”
I did so, and saw that there were several finger marks on it, obviously from a man’s hand, based upon their size. “Do you see anything significant?” Holmes asked.
I pointed to a place on the glass without touching it. “This mark in front is the thumb, and the other prints, four of them, closer together on the opposite side of the glass, are clearly the fingers.”
“And?” prodded my friend.
“There is only one set. He must have only picked it up once, when he took it up to drink the brandy, and set it back down again.”
“What else can you determine?”
“It was his left hand that lifted it, based on the angle and direction of the marks.” I added.
“The victim is left-handed,” said Holmes. “It is obvious from an examination of his muscular development.”
“That is the hand that he used to scratch Gates’s face,” I said. “It was the hand that had some of Gates’s tissue under the nails.”
“That is of no significance,” said Holmes. “The man was in his death throes. If he had been mysteriously attacked and strangled, for instance, and then found to have tissue under his nails, it would have been damning for the suspect that was found with such corresponding marks on his face. But we believe that this man was poisoned. The scratches mean nothing. What is of significance,” Holmes said, “is that the dead man’s left thumb, the thumb that held the glass, has a scar across the large pad, as shown in the finger mark on the glass.”
I bent to look at the glass again, and saw that indeed the evidence of the scar was there. “What of it?” I asked. “We are going on the assumption that the brandy in the glass is poisoned, since we can smell the bitter almond scent of cyanide wafting up from the dregs. We have smelled it from the bottle, and from Warren’s own mouth. We can also assume that he poured the drink for himself, probably just after he finished his morning toilet and got into his uniform, as he was preparing to leave and start his day.”
“Correct,” said my friend. “Now look at the brandy bottle with the light behind it as well.”
I bent again, and with a bit more difficulty, saw a similar-sized set of male finger marks on it, some from a left hand and some from a right. This time I was careful to note that on the left-hand thumb there was indeed a scar across the thumb pad.
“Again, I do not see the significance,” I said. “Obviously, Warren used his right hand to hold the brandy bottle as he took off the cap with the left. Setting the cap down, he shifted the bottle to his left hand, his dominant hand, and then poured some of the brandy into the glass on the table. He left his finger marks as he did so, and then set down the brandy bottle to pick up the glass, again with his left hand. Holmes, what does this accomplish, other than to confirm that the man poured the poisoned brandy for himself? The question is, who put the poison in the brandy?”
“Look at the bottle once more. And look past the victim’s finger marks this time.”
I peered at the bottle with the oily marks illuminated by the lamp behind them. At first I was ready to admit defeat. And then, suddenly, I saw it. It was as if I were a child again, lying on a hillside looking at clouds with my brother. He would point at one and tell me that it looked like a horse or a dragon or some such shape. I would look and look, seeing nothing, and then suddenly it would lock into shape, as it did this time.
“Exactly,” said Holmes, seeing my enlightened expression. He brought around the memorandum book, and, still holding it by the edges, positioned it beside the brandy bottle.
“The other finger marks – ”
“The ones partially underneath those of the victim?” he said.
“Yes. Warren’s marks overlay a set of smaller ones, superimposed on top of them.”
“Because the smaller fingers held the bottle at some time before the victim.”
“And the finger marks on your notebook case there – ”
“Indeed. They match exactly. You will notice the three slight grooves or wrinkles, running parallel on the pad of the right index fingers as seen on the polished memorandum case cover when she held it to read what I had written.”
I nodded “These three parallel marks are also on the brandy bottle.”
“As I said, it was a long shot. I had seen these finger marks during my initial examination, and read from them that a woman, based on their size, had initially handled the bottle. Mind you, the marks belonging to Warren and the woman are the only ones on the otherwise clean bottle. I already knew from an examination of Warren’s hand that the thumb mark with the scar on the larger set of marks belonged to him, placed there when he poured his final, fatal, drink, which took place sometime after the smaller marks were applied.
“One can also make a small leap, when considering the paper there on the table that was no doubt wrapped around the brandy bottle. Perhaps it was a gift? If so, then obviously the victim had not touched the bottle until after he unwrapped it. Quod erat demonstrandum, the person who had wrapped it was the last person to touch the bottle before giving it to the victim. And is it not reasonable to assume that this was the same person who poisoned the brandy?
“Having decided a woman was the poisoner, we then learned that a specific woman was involved with the victim. As you recall, we do not have a lot of time to waste trying to break down her story. I therefore devised a quick and crude stratagem to get the girl’s finger marks.”
He thought for a moment, and then said, “I know that you are aware of the theory that every man, woman, and child has unique markings on their fingers, and that efforts are being made to devise some way to classify them through various points of congruence.
I nodded, and he continued. “Before my departure from London, I had worked some on the problem, and I later passed on my findings to the Yard. Just a few years ago, they started making use of this finger mark classification system, but we certainly did not have the time to go through the whole process today, especially when this short-cut has essentially told us what we wanted to know. Why bother to collect and record the lady’s finger patterns to match established classifications, when the three parallel lines on that one fingertip tell us all that we need to know?”
He glanced toward the dead man. “And here we are.”
“But what is her motive?” I said. “Was her honor violated in some way? Was it revenge?”
“I cannot say for sure, but I have one or two ideas that I intend to explore. I suspect that she was simply running out of time.”
Holmes turned toward the door, but stopped when I asked, “Do you think that her father could be involved in some way? I’ve rarely met someone who resembles a more likely criminal.”
Holmes shook his head and laughed, that peculiar silent laugh of his. “I have already done some research on Mr. Collins. I make it my business to keep track of any new neighbors that arrive in this little community. He was the sole witness in the Grantham Trials earlier this year, in Chicago. He bravely testified, despite numerous threats against both himself and his daughter, and as a result, nearly two dozen evil men were convicted, with seven terminating their journeys at the end of ropes. Afterwards, it was certain that he would be safer elsewhere, and he made his way to this sleepy little corner of the world, where he and his daughter have tried to live quietly ever since. Unfortunately, his daughter has rashly ruined his plans.”
Holmes led me out into the empty hallway, where he relocked the door. Downstairs, Holmes asked Teague for the private use of a telephone, and he was led into one of the adjacent houses. He was back in ten minutes or so, informing us that he had arranged for one of his agents in London to verify some information. He did not expand on what that information might be. In the meantime, all that we could do was to wait.
Teague made a cup of tea for me, but Holmes refused the offer. Instead, he paced back and forth, sometimes stepping outside to smoke his pipe. As we passed the hour mark after Holmes’s telephone call, the enthused conversation that had been going on between Anderson and Teague seemed to reach a lull. Teague had been explaining that for the last few weeks, it had only been the five guards who were occupying the post, which was never considered important, even at the best of times. Holmes roused himself to ask whether it was planned for the men to depart from the station completely. “Why, yes, Mr. Holmes,” said Teague. “We are entering a political climate where manning of this post is considered unnecessary, and we are closing it down for now. This, however, has happened often in the past, and will again. Soon, purse-strings will loosen, and someone else will be back here, staying until such time as the politicians once more become parsimonious.”
Both Anderson and Teague resumed speculating on which of the two men, Lester or Gates, seemed the most likely to have poisoned Warren’s brandy, with Lester being the obvious candidate. It was generally assumed that in any case, it must be due to some tangled connection to Miss Collins, and the competition for her affections. Teague idly pronounced that perhaps it was Fellows who had poisoned the brandy, but he had no real reason for this assertion, as it turned out. It was just wishful thinking.
After sitting in silence for a while, we were suddenly roused by the sound of Fellows’s voice, calling to Holmes, who had stepped outside. A man was on the telephone, reporting to Holmes from London. We heard Holmes acknowledge the information, as he went to speak to his agent.
Knowing that Holmes did not want us listening over his shoulder, I encouraged my two companions to wait with me. It did not take long before Holmes came in and told us the summary of his conversation.
“The dead man, Lieutenant Warren,” he began, “was the sole heir of his grandfather, Ebersole Emerson. The next in line is the dead man’s first cousin and fellow guard, Lieutenant Lester.”
“I knew it!” cried Teague, rising to his feet. “I knew that he was the killer!”
Anderson shook his head. “If so, how could he have been so stupid? Surely there would have been a more discreet way to go about it, and to avoid being so immediately and closely connected with the crime. He could have done it somewhere else, at some other time – any other time! Is this Lester an impulsive or stupid man, commander?”
Teague shook his head. “No. No, he is not. But you can be sure that it was because of that girl’s involvement. After all, just a few weeks ago, she threw him over for his cousin, Warren. Perhaps Lester was jealous. A man bent on murder does not think clearly.” Turning from Anderson, he said, “Do you not agree, Mr. Holmes? That Lester killed him because of the girl?”
Holmes, lost for a moment in thoughts of his own, and having no interest in the ongoing speculations of Anderson and Teague, raised his eyes and said, “What? Lester the murderer? No, not directly, at least. Tell me, Commander, how did these two cousins come to be assigned here together like this? Isn’t that somewhat odd?”
“Warren’s assignment was purely through the influence of his grandfather, or so I understand. He wanted him to put in several years of service of some type, in order to build his character, so to speak. He probably arranged things so that both cousins would serve together. It’s not unusual, when someone of position and influence takes an interest and throws his weight around.”
Holmes nodded, and then looked sharply at the door, which had been suddenly thrown open with great violence. Standing there was Mr. Collins, the American. Behind him, looking flustered, was Fellows. “Where is my daughter?” the older man thundered.
We looked at him in shock, but with no answer. He repeated his question, adding, “She left almost as soon as you did, heading down the hill. I couldn’t stop her. I’ve never been able to stop her. She said something about speaking to young Lester. When I finally decided to come find her, I met a man who said that she had gone off toward East Dean with the scoundrel, riding in the back of a wagon-for-hire.”
“What?” said Teague. “Lester has gone?” He turned to look toward Holmes.
My friend simply smiled. “She has been provoked, after all,” he said cryptically.
“I knew we should have guarded them,” muttered Anderson.
“He has well over an hour’s head start on us,” said Teague. “I guess that answers the question. Lester was the murderer.”
“There is more to this matter than you know,” said Holmes.
“I don’t care about any of that,” bellowed Collins. “I want my daughter brought back now!” He turned toward Holmes. “You’re the famous detective. Find her!”
Holmes made no move to spring upon the girl’s trail, simply saying, “She will be back here shortly, I assure you.”
That did not satisfy Collins, who turned to Anderson.
“You then. You’re the police. Rescue her from that murderer!”
“At once,” said Anderson, standing up and moving toward the door. “I will telephone immediately and have every direction watched. If you will come with me, then, Mr. Collins?” He led the fuming man outside, and shut the door behind him. Holmes resumed his contemplations, and did not appear overly concerned.
Anderson returned in a few minutes without Collins, but accompanied by another man, a stranger, who stood by the doorway. Anderson informed us that he had sent Collins home to await word, and that he had arranged things so that a watch would soon be in place for Lieutenant Lester and Miss Collins, in whatever direction they might happen to go. “But I hope that they don’t go across the open country,” he added. “There are paths every which way out there. But if they reach another town or village after leaving from Eastbourne, they will be spotted.”
The man who had returned with Anderson was old, short, and suspicious. Anderson called him forward from where he waited by the door, stating, “This is Goins. Lester hired him to drive them both to Eastbourne in his wagon.”
“Oh, yes?” said Holmes, with only mild interest. “And did you deliver them there successfully, Mr. Goins?”
Goins mumbled something that was totally incomprehensible to me, but seemed to make sense to both Anderson and Holmes. The gist of the man’s statement, after it had been translated, was that he had deposited both Lester and Miss Collins at the Eastbourne station, and the last he had seen of either of them was when they went inside. Each had been carrying a small bag. Goins was thanked and dismissed.
At that moment, Anderson was called back to the adjacent building to receive another telephone call. He quickly returned, beaming. “They’ve got them! Caught two stations up the line, they were, standing on the platform, arguing, and calling attention to themselves.” He shook his head. “It seemed someone had recognized them and brought them to the notice of a constable on watch.”
“Yes,” interrupted Holmes, “that someone would have been my agent, Hipkins. I asked him to keep an eye on Miss Collins, should she choose to do anything interesting, such as arrange to meet with one of our suspects, or to depart the local area. I told him that if she left with someone, he was to stay on their track, and then to turn them over to the police as soon as it was feasible.”
Anderson gave Holmes a strange look, a mixture of admiration and vexation. I had seen that same look on the faces of many a Yarder for more than two decades now. “I was told,” continued Anderson, “Lieutenant Lester had changed his mind about leaving with the girl. He had just purchased two tickets back to Eastbourne when he was caught, and was telling the girl that she had to come along with him, although she was very much in disagreement with that idea. Now why would he decide to come back?”
“Perhaps he had learned the truth and knew that it was the right thing to do,” said Holmes. His statement made sense to me, but I could tell that the other two men were puzzled. “Let me explain.
“I approached the scene as I have done at so many others before, with no preconceived notions in my mind.” He then continued to lay out his reasoning for Anderson and Teague, telling them of his observations that a woman had first handled the poisoned brandy bottle, why he wished to obtain samples of Miss Collins’s finger marks, once he learned that she was the girl most likely involved, and how he had determined that she had held the poisoned brandy bottle at some time before the victim, making it probable that she was the killer.
“While this is only a theory, I believe she felt that she could marry one of the lieutenants, thus becoming the wife of the heir to a fortune. It was probably several weeks ago, when she switched her attentions from one cousin to another, that she probably learned that her first interest, Lieutenant Lester, was not as interesting as Lieutenant Warren, since the latter was actually first in line to inherit his grandfather’s fortune. No doubt she discovered this fact from conversations with one or the other of them, or from both. She threw over Lester for Warren, as her prospects in this place must have seemed very remote indeed. With the discovery of a couple of heirs to a vast fortune right under her nose, and the opportunity to marry one and escape this dreary life with her father, she was surely and overwhelmingly tempted.
“I had learned from my source in London, as related to me here by telephone, that Warren was the primary heir. For some reason, Edith Collins decided to kill Warren and make Lester the heir. Perhaps she thought that she had a better chance with Lester, and wanted him placed in the more advantageous position. She may not have originally intended to murder Warren so soon, but was possibly provoked into acting quickly, as she had learned that the station was being closed and the two men would soon be transferred beyond her grasp.
“I doubt if she had any true plan, but rather she was clumsily reacting to situations as they presented themselves. I’ve seen this type of situation before, as has Watson. A rash action is taken, with no thought as to the consequences. Sometimes, even with a clever murderer, the effort to control events leads to additional murders, each easier for the killer than the one before. In this instance, the girl could think of no better plan after her foolish impulse of poisoning the brandy and giving it to Warren than to convince the other heir to flee with her.
“After we all left the Collins’s house, I stopped to show Watson the memorandum case with her finger marks. I then looked back to discover that Miss Collins had seen me doing so from her window. Although I’m certain that she could not know why this was of interest to me, she probably did remember holding the case, and she perceived that I suspected her involvement and guilt.
“She is young and unsophisticated and not very clever, and is not cut from the same cloth as a hardened murderer. Therefore, she reacted without thought, as would be expected, and came down the hill to convince young Lester to flee with her. I do not think that he was actually involved in the murder. He could have arranged for the death of his cousin any number of ways at other times, rather than relying on whatever scheme the Collins girl could devise. I believe that shortly up the line, he realized the entire truth about what she had done, or else she had already told him something about it before they left, and he comprehended the full consequences of escaping with her. He then immediately purchased tickets to come back here and face the music, and was in the process of forcing her to join him, when both were apprehended.”
And such proved to be the case. When they both arrived back at the house where we waited, they were brought before us, Lester standing upright, and Miss Collins spitting and struggling like a trapped cat. Her father was kept outside by a suddenly and surprisingly able Fellows.
Lester confirmed Holmes’s solution of the matter. “You must understand that neither Andrew nor myself,” he said, glancing coldly toward Miss Collins, “were completely attached to the lady. However, she was pleasant enough company, while we were stationed here, and it was certainly interesting to meet an American girl. I enjoyed our little flirtations, but when she took up with Andrew a few weeks ago, I did not find myself suffering from any serious disagreements about it.”
“You lie!” cried the girl. “You said you loved me!”
“A summer romance,” said the young man offhandedly. I had thought he might have been of better character, after learning how he had already chosen to return to the village just before his capture. Now, I felt that I understood his nature more clearly. How sad that this girl had allowed herself to commit murder in order to make this young man the heir and subsequently – she foolishly hoped – her chosen husband.
After we had departed the Collins’s house, the lady had realized that she had fallen under suspicion, although she did not know how or why, exactly as Holmes had theorized. She had decided to convince Lester to flee with her before it was too late, and to marry him once they were away.
“If she meant nothing to you,” said Holmes, “then why were you convinced to leave with her so easily? Surely you must have understood that such an action would draw attention toward you as the guilty party.”
Lester fumbled at that point, and Miss Collins burst in. “Because he knew that he had been hinting to me that he would be better off with his cousin dead. He didn’t know yet for sure that I had done it right then, but he was afraid that I might tell someone some of the things that he had said to me, and that would get him in deep. He finally agreed when I said that we should run away together. It was only a little later, when he made me admit everything to him on the train, that he realized that just because he had wished for Andrew to be dead and had put the idea in my head, it didn’t make him guilty. He said he had come to know that running away with me was foolish, and that we must go back. He dragged me off the train. I ran out of the station, but he caught me and brought me back. I went easily enough, as I didn’t want to attract any attention, and I thought that I could still talk him around to leaving. He bought the return tickets, and that’s the spot where we were caught.”
“She is correct,” said Lester, pulling himself together. “Simply mentioning that my life would be eased considerably with Andrew’s departure, so to speak, does not make me guilty. I cannot be blamed just because someone else foolishly chose to act upon that statement without my knowledge or consent.”
“Ah,” said Holmes, “the tired defense of Henry the Young King after the murder of Thomas Becket. ‘Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?’ I fancy your grandfather will not be sympathetic to your position, Lieutenant Lester.”
“Alas, I fear that you are correct.”
Lester’s situation resolved itself as expected. In spite of the fact that no actual or direct instruction could be established from young Lester to the girl regarding the murder of his cousin, the wealthy grandfather, Ebersole Emerson, quickly disinherited Lester, instead favoring his fortune on a great-niece of excellent character who subsequently used the money to assist the poor with great success.
Later, after the Collins girl was officially in custody and Lester held for further questioning, Holmes and I departed. Anderson had seemed rather ill-tempered after the girl’s arrest, as if it pained him that a young woman would commit such a crime. He had offered the use of his wagon to drive us to Holmes’s villa, but Holmes insisted that we would rather walk. I must have given some sign of dismay, for Holmes himself took my heavy travel bag and carried it. “After all,” he said, as we watched Anderson’s wagon, along with the prisoner and Lester disappear over the distant hill, “it is my fault that you are bearing such a heavy burden.”
“That statement,” I replied, “could apply to more of our adventures together than I care to count.”
He laughed, and started up the hill along the cliff tops behind the guard houses, choosing to walk that way, rather than along the road below.
The views were incredible, though we both stayed well back from the edge, where every now and then a long crack ran parallel to the cliff-line, indicating where the next collapse would likely occur. There were also numerous pits and holes in the ground as we walked, some hidden by the thick grasses that grew along our way. Occasionally I would see a grouping of dark snail shells, some as big as my thumb joint, clustered here and there around these holes. These allowed the rainwater to run down into the ground, and on into pockets and voids behind the cliff face. As each of these tiny chambers in the ground beneath us grew with each rainfall and winter freeze, the cliffs were further weakened. I saw that Holmes was correct and that, over time, the edge of the country at this point would keep receding, and long past the span of our lives, the entire shape of the coast would become unrecognizable. However, this knowledge could not take away from the beauty of the place that afternoon. The sun, the color of the sky, the birds wheeling in the air, were all nearly indescribable. And then I saw the travel case swinging at the end of Holmes’s arm, and I felt a chill. The matter of the kidnapped child quickly put my postcard reverie in perspective.
We were climbing slowly toward one of the higher cliffs, which rose to the south of Holmes’s farm, directly between it and the sea. Once I turned and looked back toward Birling Gap behind us. The locals were still standing and talking in groups of various sizes. There was no one at the Collins house, halfway up the far hill.
“I feel sorry for the man,” I said. “They came all this way in order to hide, and to protect his daughter, and then she destroyed everything during a moment of stupidity.”
“Quite,” said Holmes. “Perhaps, if her path had never crossed that of Warren and Lester, her life, and theirs, and even that of Mr. Collins, would have had far different outcomes.” He had been looking with me back toward the village. Resuming his walk to the top of the tall cliff, he said, “Hopefully the fact that our path is now converging with that of the kidnappers will provide an outcome for them that they did not anticipate.”
We walked silently for a moment, and then I asked about the new arrangements for the delivery of the ransom.
“The exchange is set for tonight,” Holmes said, shifting my bag from his right to his left hand. We had reached the top of the cliff, and he stopped, but he did not set the bag down. He looked at the sea, and then down the hill, across the scrub, toward his farm in the distance and across the road. “I sometimes think that I should drag a bench up to this spot, so that I might come up and contemplate life’s mysteries in solitude.”
“You would be too obvious up here,” I said. “Constable Anderson would find you and try to involve you in every petty crime in the district. If you do not make yourself visible up here, then he will have to go to the villa whenever he wants your help, and there attempt to pass Mrs. Hudson, who will never let him know whether you are actually at home or off on one of Mycroft’s quests.”
“Ah, Mrs. Hudson. My own Cerberus.”
“Holmes!”
“Hmm? Perhaps that is too harsh. I do not know what I would do without her.”
“Speaking of doing,” I said, reminding him of my earlier question about the new arrangements, “what is the plan for tonight?”
“I am to deliver the money to a house north of the road to Eastbourne. From the directions given in the note, it is the very same house that I had previously determined to be Chetwood’s current den. I suspect that after he gets the money, he has arrangements in place to immediately flee to the Continent, trusting that even though he has been seen, we will not know who he is or how to trace him. Oh, the arrogance of the stupid criminal. One would hope that, somewhere in the midst of his escape plans, he intends to release the boy, or at least tell me how to find him.
“When the time comes tonight,” Holmes continued, “I am to bring the money alone. Your presence here is unexpected, and you were specifically mentioned in the latest letter from Chetwood. He insists that you remain seated in the front parlor of the villa over there during the time of the exchange, in front of a window with a lit lamp beside you. I don’t know if it is so that I’ll know that you are exposed and can therefore be threatened while I carry out the delivery of the money, thus keeping me in line, or if the kidnappers simply want to make sure that I don’t have the use of my good right arm.”
I appreciated this compliment, but bristled at the idea that Holmes was required to deliver the money alone, and I said so. “It is surely a trap,” I concluded.
“A valid argument, Watson,” he said. “But do not forget that we know Chetwood’s identity, and that we already knew about the house where the exchange is to take place. I have other assets in place on the chessboard, and this change of plan does not spoil anything.”
I knew that one of the assets was Hipkins, but I did not know who else might be involved. Constable Anderson had given no sign that he was privy to anything about the kidnapping, which was in accordance with the instructions originally sent to the Earl, forbidding police involvement.
Holmes took one last look toward the sea, and then with a deep breath, he set off down the hill, leading to right or left as necessary through the undergrowth. We soon reached the road, and crossed to the drive leading toward the house, nestled nearly invisible back in the trees.
We made do for ourselves for the next several hours, discussing old times and Holmes’s current activities. Mrs. Hudson had left more than ample supplies in her kitchen, and we had a late luncheon, although I must admit that mine was considerably more substantial than Holmes’s. Soon after, I was not surprised to find myself falling asleep into a pleasant afternoon nap. When I awoke, it was clearly getting on toward evening, and Holmes was moving about in another part of the building.
He came in a few minutes later, wearing a rough, worn, and familiar-looking suit. While I tried unsuccessfully to place where I had seen something like it before, he crossed the room, positioning a lamp underneath the large window facing the road. Turning toward me, he said, “I will be leaving soon, Watson. Get what you need to pass an hour or two comfortably here in this chair by the window. Might I suggest some of that tobacco in the tin on that table? It was a recent gift from a vicar in Berwick-upon-Tweed, after I located a particularly bonny emerald that had been secreted two hundred years ago in a hidden cavity in his mantel.”
He left the room, and then returned once more, stopping near my chair and leaning down to retrieve my portmanteau, where it had been sitting since our arrival several hours before. “My thanks for bringing this,” he said. “When the Earl needed someone to go around to his bank and collect the quarter-of-a-million pounds for transport to Sussex, I could think of no better man.”
I grumbled a response, and said, “I wonder how people would have reacted today if they had known I was carrying such a sum with me as we traipsed back and forth across the countryside.”
“You might have even turned poor Miss Collins’s head, had she but realized the nature of your burden.”
I admonished him that such a statement was in poor taste. “Perhaps you are right. In any event, I shall attempt to take care of your case, and to bring it back to you in as good a condition as I have received it.”
I laughed, thinking of the many strange places the poor bag had already visited during the course of my adventures with Sherlock Holmes. But my attention was called back as he gave me one final instruction.
“Stay here in the chair until I return if at all possible,” he said. “In case someone is truly watching the house. I will finish my arrangements and slip out the back. Hipkins is waiting with the Rover in the barn, and he will drive me from there. I should be back with news soon, and I trust that it will all be good.”
And with that, he left the room. I heard him in the rear of the house, and then he walked through and out the back without any further communication. In a few minutes, I heard the low rumble of the automobile as it pulled out of the barn, and then past the front of the house and out to the road. It turned toward the east, and was gone.
I could see nothing from the window except my own reflection. It was unnerving indeed to think that I might be watched at this very minute. Perhaps an assassin was lining up the sights of a rifle, or an air gun perhaps, on my silhouette in the window. How could Holmes have asked me to make such a target of myself, considering the number of enemies that both of us had accumulated over the years?
But no, I said, calming myself. I trusted my instincts, and I felt nothing of the well-honed and long-earned sensation that one has when he is being watched. Sitting there in the comfortable chair, I felt nothing. I was certain that, in spite of the instructions to keep me out of the action and to deprive Holmes of my assistance, no one was out in the darkness that night.
Nearly two hours later to the minute, I heard an automobile pull into the yard in front of the house. It stopped, and then there was the sound of a single door opening and closing. Footsteps crossed the gravels, and the front door flew open. Standing there, with an evil look upon his lean and sallow face, was Hipkins.
I stood up, the book on my lap falling to the floor. “What is the meaning of this?” I cried. “Where is Holmes?”
“Do be careful with that volume, Watson,” said the voice of Holmes from Hipkins’s mouth. “It is nearly a hundred years old, and I paid a pretty penny and even greater effort to track it down.” I realized why Holmes’s old suit had looked familiar before he left. He had clothed himself in nearly the same clothing that I had seen earlier that day upon Hipkins, although I could not fathom why. He stepped to a mirror, and began to rearrange his face back from Hipkins to Holmes. “That book came from the basement of a shop in Charing Cross Road, and I nearly broke an ankle fleeing up the uneven steps to lead the owner’s nephew, who just happened to be Phelps, the Bickleigh murderer, into my trap.”
“I trust,” said I, as I bent to pick up the book on the floor, “that you can explain everything. But that can wait. The boy?”
“Safe in his father’s house,” said Holmes, pulling wadding from his mouth that had changed the shape of his face, making his cheekbones more pronounced and adding gaunt shadows underneath. “Most of my time has been spent at the manor, explaining the sequence of events to the Earl. The rescue itself was almost immediate.”
He excused himself, and returned in a few minutes, attired in his own clothing and a dressing gown, and wiping the last of the sallow coloring from his face. While he had stepped out, I retrieved my bag from by the door, where Holmes had dropped it when he entered. It was back to its normal condition – that is to say, not filled with a quarter of a million pounds.
Holmes settled into his chair and thanked me for the brandy that I had poured and placed by it. “So Hipkins was involved?” I said.
“I am afraid so,” said Holmes, “up to his eyes. I am very disappointed in him, but it seems that his greed, or perhaps simply his loyalty to his stepbrother, outweighed any feelings he might have had for staying on the right side of the law.”
“His stepbrother? Chetwood, you mean?”
Holmes nodded. “After I traced Chetwood and learned who he was, I set my agents to finding out details of his background. One thing that was repeated from several sources was his close association with his stepbrother, one Alfred Hipkins. Imagine my surprise at this unexpected connection, as Hipkins had been acting for me for several years now. He was never an Irregular, you understand, as he was recruited more recently by Shinwell Johnson, and I had always found that I could trust him. He had certain skills that sometimes came in handy. You may have noticed his odd voice?”
I nodded, and Holmes continued. “The result of being too close to an explosion a few years ago, when he was trying his hand at safebreaking. He had no difficulty reaching the location of the safe, but he was not so skillful with his use of explosives. It was thought that the experience, for which he was never implicated or arrested, had been enough to scare him onto the straight and narrow.
“At first, the relationship that I discovered between Hipkins and Chetwood was nothing but a curious fact. However, when I asked the Earl for a list of current and former employees at his estate, thinking that the ease in which the boy was taken right under their noses might be explained by the familiarity possessed by a former staffer, I was amazed to see that Hipkins had worked for a time in the Earl’s stable, back in the mid-‘90’s. He had been let go then after being implicated in a theft, although he had vociferously maintained his innocence. Here, then, was a link, although its exact shape and connection would have to be explored. However, I now knew that Chetwood, who was definitely involved in the kidnapping by his action of mailing the ransom letter, had a close stepbrother who had worked on the estate where the child was taken, and also had reason to be angry with the Earl.
“I set some further inquiries in motion in London regarding Hipkins as well, and learned that he had been out of town since approximately the time of the kidnapping. He had not been seen in this area, but he could have been here, possibly acting as the boy’s captor, and keeping himself out of sight.
“I arranged for a message to be passed to him, wherever he might be, by one of his trusted associates in London who did not realize my true purpose. I urgently requested his aid on a matter in Sussex. This might not seem unusual to him, as he has helped me numerous times before, especially since my retirement, and of course he knew that I lived here now. Certainly it would be an odd position in which to find himself if he was already here, involved in the kidnapping. In any case, he could not easily refuse to help me. And within a few hours, he presented himself here to offer his services.
“My agent here confirmed that Hipkins did not arrive by train, and further determined that the Rover driven by him was rented in Eastbourne two days before my message was sent asking for his assistance.”
“Who is your agent?” I asked. “Siger?”
“Of course,” said Holmes, without elaboration. I nodded. This is not the place to explain or discuss the assistance provided to Holmes by young Siger during those early years of the new century, but suffice it to say that Holmes would have been greatly hobbled as he carried out various tasks for his brother Mycroft throughout that time had he been deprived of the aid provided by his young apprentice.[3]
“So Hipkins arrived on the scene, then?”
“Correct. He officially presented himself to me, and we discussed the proposed arrangements for delivering the money to the kidnapper at the Tiger Inn. I did not let on that I knew the kidnapper’s identity, and I did not mention Hipkins’s connection to Chetwood. And I did not tell him that you were the man who would be bringing the money down from London. He could honestly perceive, from his position on the inside, that I was not involving the police, and was seemingly attempting to faithfully adhere to the kidnapper’s demands.
“It must have shocked him to see that you were the man who arrived this morning in Eastbourne with the money. But upon reflection, he would understand that you were the obvious choice. My only worry was that he would knock you on the head and take the bag during that short drive from the station to St. Mary the Virgin. However, he was being watched during that time, and he would not have escaped.”
“I suppose that you did not tell me because you felt that I would have shown to him in some way that I was aware of his involvement,” I said, having experienced this same type of controlled ignorance many times before. “It would have been nice, however, to know going in that I faced the possibility of having my head knocked.”
“Ah, but I did not truly think anything of the sort would happen. They had no reason to believe that the ransom would not be paid, allowing the two villains to slip away into wealthy anonymity – or at least they planned for that. If Hipkins had stolen the money from you directly, then his association with that crime would be undeniable, and he would be an identified fugitive. Besides, neither Hipkins nor Chetwood has ever shown any indications of truly violent actions in their past.”
“A quarter of a million pounds can make a man alter his behavior fairly quickly. But do go on with your story.”
Holmes took a sip of brandy. “As you know, the exchange this morning was interrupted by Teague, and then by our subsequent involvement in the murder investigation. As Chetwood fled the inn, I nodded that Hipkins should follow him. Actually, I wanted Chetwood to know the truth, that the meeting was interrupted for an unexpected and legitimate reason, and that we had not reneged on our agreement to meet at a neutral location and deliver the money.
“Later, Hipkins lied to me and reported back that Chetwood had waited and written the note to revise the details of our next meeting. In fact, as Siger let me know later, Hipkins and Chetwood had a close discussion and wrote the note together. It was never left for me at the Tiger Inn, as Hipkins said. Rather, it was simply brought by him to me at the guard houses.”
“Where Hipkins then offered to take my bag with the money in it and deliver it here.”
“Well, he might not have hit you on the head for it an hour or so earlier, but you can’t blame him for trying to get it another way,” said Holmes, laughing.
“And your disguise? What did that accomplish?”
“It was something spur of the moment. By then I knew that Siger was waiting there at the house, and I wanted to rattle Chetwood. When I left you here by the window, I completed my transformation into Hipkins. Then I went out to the barn in the darkness. Hipkins paid little attention to me, so I was able to approach him from behind and quickly render him unconscious with chloroform. After binding him and tossing him in the back of the Rover, I drove to Chetwood’s house.
“I parked and went to the door. Chetwood answered my knock, no doubt expecting to find Sherlock Holmes standing there with the money. Instead, he discovered Hipkins, back in the shadows, urgently explaining in Hipkins’s odd voice that the plan had gone wrong, and that we needed to move the boy as soon as possible.
“With a curse, Chetwood flew past me and around to the back of the house. I followed as he led me into a distant copse of trees, and on through onto a narrow trail down toward a marshy hollow. On the far side of that was another stand of trees, and at its verge was an old building, not much more than a roofed pen, used at some point in the past by a sheep farmer, but now obviously abandoned.
“Chetwood forced his way inside through the nearly collapsed doorway and pulled aside a stack of lumber to reveal the Earl’s son behind it, tied and gagged against the back wall, and watching us with large terrified eyes. I later determined that he had not suffered any damage, but it was certainly not clear to me at that moment. As Chetwood leaned toward the boy, I stepped up with my chloroform bottle and pad, making good use of it for the second time tonight. Then I gave two blasts on my cab whistle, which is a sound rarely heard in these parts, I can assure you, and Siger seemed to form out of the very shadows. We freed the boy, bound Chetwood with the same ropes taken from the lad, and got them both back to the house and the car. The two men were left with an astonished Constable Anderson, along with a quick explanation and a promise for more soon, and the boy was returned to his father.”
“All in all, a good night’s work,” I said.
“It is not over yet, I fear,” said Holmes, as the sound of a wagon drawing up outside became louder. “I believe that will be Anderson, asking for the promised elaboration upon the capture of the two men that are now in his custody.”
And so it was. Holmes spent the next hour or so sociably explaining to Anderson the full nature of the events of the last few days. At first, Anderson was quietly irate that such a matter had not initially been brought to his attention, but he eventually realized that his involvement would have been noticed, and might have led to more danger for the boy.
Finally, Anderson rose to depart, and the house returned to silence as Holmes and I resumed our seats, with one more brandy poured for each of us. We did not speak for some time.
Then, Holmes said to me, “What you said before. About feeling sorry for Mr. Collins, moving here from America to hide from his enemies and protect his daughter, only to see his plan come apart because of her stupidity.”
I could see that he was exploring his thoughts as he went, and allowed him to find his way. After another silent moment, he continued. “Is there a pattern to it all, Watson? Does one person cross another’s path for a reason? Was Lieutenant Warren destined to die here because of the awkward machinations of an American girl, who was only in this location at this time because of her father’s activities? If we could fly over London, like the bees resting in the hives out there, and perceive the paths and wanderings of all the habitants below us, what strange intersections would we see, where each encounter pushes a person off in one direction or another along a dark and unknown path?”
I took a sip of brandy. “Living down here so close to the sea has inflamed your philosophical side,” I said. “What is it that brings on these pensive thoughts?”
“Perhaps it is being involved more and more with Mycroft’s work,” he answered. “For years, Mycroft has been a voice crying in the wilderness, warning of the possibility, nay, even the likely inevitability, of a European war, the likes of which have not been seen before. My involvement in these cases has brought me to an awareness that I have not previously had of his perceptiveness.”
“You and I have both been involved in certain matters before this, wherein the possibility of a European conflict has been identified and diverted. You were not completely unaware of this type of thing before your supposed retirement a couple of years ago.”
“I was aware, but it did not affect me on a daily basis. Down amongst the trees, taking on this or that case, I did not fly above and see the forest. The bigger picture, you understand. Perhaps I should have assisted Mycroft sooner, or more often, as he kept insisting. As I did during those three years when I was presumed to be dead.”
“You have done a great deal of good with those cases ‘down amongst the trees’ over the years,” I said. “You have helped many people.”
“But could I have helped more, perhaps, on a greater scale?” He shifted in his seat. “Do you know how a bee leads the members of the hive to a discovery of food?”
“No, I suppose that I never considered it.”
“When a likely find is made, say flowers at that critical peak of bloom, with the nectar at its most tempting, the explorer bee returns to the hive and performs a dance of sorts, simply loaded with coded information that will give the direction and distance from the hive to the treasure. I have seen this for myself.”
“I fail to understand – ”
“Do you recall the hornets that you observed this morning on the path leading down toward the inn?”
“Yes.”
“I am afraid that some day, one of those hornets will cross paths with one of my bees. Perhaps it will be part of the plan, or instead it could just be a puff of breeze that makes one or the other go left instead of right, up instead of down. On that day the hornet might not be interested in finding a food source that has been discovered. Instead, he may find it a more useful service to lead his own troops to where my bee’s home hive is located. He will return to his own place, and do a dance of death letting them know exactly where to go. Man is not the only creature that goes to war, Watson.”
“So you fear that the hornet tribe might attack and destroy your hive?” I said.
“Exactly. And the more that I perform tasks for Mycroft, the more aware I am that at some time in the future, almost certainly, a hornet, by plan or chance is going to find or be given a reason to lead his attackers against our peaceful domestic hives. I am troubled, Watson, because I do not know which seemingly random encounter, which piece of shared information, which riot or insult or even assassination of some unknown pawn will be the spark that touches off the powder keg that all our tangled treaties have wrapped around us, to mix a metaphor. Is it any wonder, then, that I ponder whether there is a plan for us all, or if we simply function in a kind of mindless chaos?”
I had never heard my friend sound as worried or resigned as on this night, and I did not know quite what to say. “All of this possibly random entanglement that you perceive around us is not a bad thing,” I finally offered. “I have said it many times before: if I had not encountered you following my return to England after Maiwand, I would likely have ended up broken or dead, like so many of the other poor injured soldiers that washed up in the cesspool of the capital. That random encounter certainly turned out to be a good thing, branching out from there in many ways.”
Holmes smiled. “Perhaps you are right, Watson. I’ve become maudlin in my old age.”
I shook my head in mock dismay. “Old at fifty-one. How should that make me feel, then, a full year and a half older than you are?”
“Indeed.” He stood then, and walked over to the side of the room, where a desk was piled with papers. “I was looking through some old documents from my trunk the other night. Would it surprise you, Watson, to learn that our meeting at Barts was not the first time that our paths had crossed?”
“Not at all,” I said. “Over the years I’ve become aware of several instances when we met unknowingly before that New Year’s Day in 1881. London, after all, is not that big a city. Especially in the late 1870’s.”
Holmes found the sheet that he was looking for and tossed it to me. “Do you remember anything about that?” he asked.
I glanced at the writing. Although faded, it was obviously Holmes’s distinctive fist. The date at the top was 19 November, 1879. I scanned the contents of the document, and then a flash of memory washed over me.
“I recall this,” I said. “I was on leave from Netley, and I had come up to London for a few days, and had gone to see the race-walking competition in Islington.”
“A wobble, they called it,” interrupted Holmes.
“Exactly. Those poor fools would walk for a week round and round a track for very poor rewards indeed. One of the men had taken ill, and I was called into the tent where he was resting to examine him.”
“And he later died, as you might recall,” said Holmes. “From strychnine poisoning.”
I nodded. “It initially seemed to be a saline deficiency, and I recommended rest and that he be pulled from the race. Later, his symptoms worsened, and he passed away. I made my report at the time to the policeman in charge, and returned the next day to Netley. I never heard what happened after that.”
“The important part, as far as you are concerned, is that you were allowed to return to Netley to complete your training to become a military surgeon, thus making it possible for you to be in Afghanistan, where circumstances caused an injury that forced your return to London, where you met me, and – having tied up your fortunes with mine for so many years – it seemed the logical conclusion that you would be called down here today when I needed your assistance once again, leading us to have this conversation here tonight. More brandy?”
“Certainly, but what about this matter has brought it to your attention now? Obviously you were involved, as this document is a report or diary entry about the case. Perhaps if I read it again more closely – ”
“Do not bother. I shall summarize for you. When the competitive walker was taken ill during the wobble and you were summoned, there was no indication that he was truly dying. It was only after your visit that it was ascertained that he had been poisoned with a massive overdose of strychnine. The police sergeant in charge of the case, realizing that you had spent some time alone with the patient before his condition became worse, theorized that you might have given him the fatal strychnine yourself for some unknown reason during your examination. After all, who would suspect a doctor? The victim was initially only somewhat ill before you examined him. After you were with him, alone, I might add, he became worse and died.”
“But… but I had no idea of any of this!” I cried, feeling a defensive panic for an event that had happened and then been settled over a quarter-century earlier. “It was ridiculous to think that I might have murdered the man.”
“Obviously, but the sergeant did not know anything about you. To him, you were just another young man in his late twenties. You might have had your own hidden association with the dead man, and finding yourself with the means, determined to kill him. You and I have seen something similar in the past. Do you recall the unexpected encounter with Dr. Mells of Templecombe? Or more recently, the sinister plan of Dr. Knox and the Waringstown Tincture?
“It was only after the police sergeant consulted me during the course of his investigation, visiting my rooms in Montague Street, that I was able to nudge him toward the correct solution. You never even knew that you had been under suspicion.”
“That is true. I simply went back to Netley and resumed my studies.”
“But this is my point,” said Holmes. “If the sergeant had not questioned me, then things might have taken a different turn. At that time I was preparing to leave the country for many months, to join the Sassanoff Company in their American tour. What if I had already been gone? The sergeant might have arrested you on suspicion, just to be on the safe side.[4]
“Most likely your innocence would have been proven, but even so, the simple fact that you were involved could have been enough to be a blot upon your record. Your entire future might have been altered. Might it have been better? Who knows? You could be living in a fine house, winding up an honored career while looking out over your heirs. Or you could have started a decline then and there that ended your story far sooner than it should have.
“So tell me, Watson, was it part of the plan that the police sergeant consulted me, thus freeing you from his suspicions early in the process, or was it random? Are we all simply specks suspended in solution, attracting or repelling one another in some Brownian Motion of humanity until the end?”
This was too deep for me, so late at night with one too many brandies inside me. I tried to divert the subject. “Why were you looking at these papers from your trunk?” I asked.
“Ah,” Holmes replied with a smile. “Perhaps it truly was part of the plan that the former police sergeant, and subsequently a respected inspector, sent me a letter a day or so ago, requesting my assistance on a new matter. In a fit of nostalgia, I pulled out the old papers to review various instances of my previous aid to him over the years, and when I saw the details of this case from 1879, including your name and profession as one of the suspects, I realized just how our paths had crossed before. The story suggested itself to me as we were discussing the random versus predetermined nature of existence. Is your wife expecting you back soon?” he asked abruptly.
“Why, no. I told her that I might be here for several days, possibly until the next weekend. Why?”
“The inspector is now retired and settled in the west of England, specifically in Chudleigh Knighton, not so very far from that place that you called Coombe Tracey a few years ago in one of your publications.”
He reached for an additional document from the mound teetering on the desk and handed it to me. “It relates to this,” he said. I glanced down. It appeared to be a monograph of a dozen or so worn pages, entitled, Some Instances of Sacrifice and Subsequent Hauntings in the Middle Ages in Order to Obfuscate Information Regarding Treasure.
“He seems to have come across an interesting little case down there,” said Holmes, “and if you are so inclined, we will leave for there in the morning. I think that you will find it to be an excellent addition to your chronicles.”
And his assessment of the situation turned out to be true, although I did not know why then. Over one more brandy, Holmes told me a few more details, and I agreed that it certainly sounded interesting indeed. When he had revealed all that he was willing to for the moment, I left him there, smoking his pipe, and ascended the stairs to get some rest for the morrow.
1 Editor’s Note: See “The Adventure of the Missing Missing Link” in The Papers of Sherlock Holmes Volume I (2013).
2 Editor’s Note: For more information regarding Holmes’s acquisition in 1900 of his retirement cottage in Sussex, listen to “The Adventure of the Out-Of-Date Murder” from The New Adventures of Sherlock Holmes Radio Show (September 17, 1945), or read about it in The Lost Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (1989), transcribed by Ken Greenwald.
3 Editor’s Note: For more information about the true identity of Holmes’s apprentice, Siger, see “The Adventure of the Other Brother” in The Papers of Sherlock Holmes, Vol. II (2013).
4 Editor’s Note: The events of the “wobble” contest and the murder that took place there in November 1879 are obviously those that are recounted in Wobble to Death (1970), presented to the public by Peter Lovesey. This is the first published of eight excellent books (and one short story, along with several television episodes from the early 1980’s) featuring Sergeant Cribb, the unnamed policeman to whom Holmes refers. Interestingly, Wobble to Death does not mention Cribb’s consultation with Holmes at all, nor the fact that Watson, who simply appears as an unnamed doctor examining the dying man, was ever under any suspicion.