Chapter 42

“It is of the first importance not to allow your judgment to be biased by personal qualities.”

-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Sign of the Four

“Help, I’m bleeding,” Philip Green yowled.

The woman wore a white silk shawl over her shoulders. She lowered it to the floor.

“This gun may be small,” she said, “but I know how to use it. Now you,” she pointed the gun at me, “pick up that shawl. Wrap his hand with it. Make it tight and put pressure on it. That should stop the bleeding. Only time will tell if he needs stitches.”

I handed the flashlight to Tom and gathered up the shawl as she suggested. Philip Green was in pain. Blood ran from an obvious bite mark on his hand, but his jacket sleeve had protected his wrist, minimizing the damage.

“What’s going on here?” the woman demanded. “Who are you?

“That monster attacked me,” Green pointed as I wound the shawl around his hand. It was unclear whether he meant to identify Wolfie or Tom.

“How did you get in here?” the woman inquired.

None of us uttered a word.

“Didn’t you see the No Trespassing signs?”

“We were looking for Bates, the Estate Manager,” I told her.

“And you thought he’d be here in the main complex in the dark? That’s quite a story. You,” she pointed the gun at me again. “Show me your driver’s license.”

“It’s in my car,” I said. “Who are you? And where is Bates?”

“First let’s answer my questions. Get his license,” she said to me, pointing the gun at Green.

Green pointed to his pants pocket with his good hand.

I groped for his wallet. “Sorry,” I apologized and I took it out and removed his Illinois Drivers License.

“Now give it to me.”

I handed it over. She glanced at it. “And you,” she pointed at Tom. “Bring me yours.”

Tom fumbled trying to remove it from his wallet. She grabbed his wallet and told him to back off.

Wolfie snarled as the woman shook the gun at Tom. “Control him, or I’ll shoot him. I’ll shoot you both if I have to,” she threatened.

Tom commanded Wolfie to sit and stay. Wolfie sat, but his ears vibrated. He was on alert.

“So,” she said, still shaking the gun, “you’re Mr. Green and you’re Mr. Joyce. Who’s she?”

“Her name’s McGil,” Green said in a strained voice. “She’s his assistant.”

“I’m Grace Dunbar, Director of the Grange Foundation,” she said. “I live here in the main compound. Bates was the caretaker, but he’s no longer here. What are you doing here?”

Grace Dunbar was average height and weight, and I fancied she’d had a boob job. Her red hair was short-cropped in a chic cut, and she wore designer slacks and a black turtleneck that showed off her curvaceous figure. She wore no jewelry except a pair of pearl earrings, but she had on a pair of cognac Chloé leather boots that were spectacular and way out of my price range. I reminded myself that she wasn’t the enemy. She’d walked into a tumultuous situation and taken control. I didn’t want to make it worse. I might be able to catch her off guard and overpower her, but those green eyes glowered behind her stylish glasses, and I hesitated. She looked like a hungry barracuda. Even if I succeeded in getting her gun, what good was it going to do? We were in the pot, the water was boiling, and we were going to be served for dinner.

When there was no answer, she demanded again, “So what ARE you people doing here? How’d you get in?”

Green, who’d calmed down but had turned pale, perked up as he said, “I’m an internationally known Sherlockian scholar. Maybe you’ve heard of me? I’m here because I believe there’s another manuscript written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle that isn’t on the inventory for the Grange estate. I believe it may have been hidden somewhere here at the Haven. I want to be the one to find it. It’s as simple as that.”

“You’re...” she looked again at his license, “Mr. Philip Green, right? What makes you think there’s another manuscript here? I was under the impression that everything in the estate had been catalogued for the auction.”

“So was I. Until a few days ago. Then I heard about this other manuscript. I’m here quite legitimately. Since I’ve been asked to help the estate contact the best bidders for its collection of Sherlock Holmes and other Conan Doyle materials and help them get the best prices at the auction, I feel it’s only right that I investigate this possible missing manuscript. It would be worth a lot of money for the estate.”

“What about these other two?” she asked Green.

“For them, I cannot vouch. It appears that Mr. Joyce here is under the mistaken belief that I tried to push him down a flight of stairs. I assure you, that is ridiculous and simply not true.”

Outraged, Tom burst out, “That’s a pack of lies! I am Tom Joyce, owner of Joyce and Company Rare Books. I was hired to appraise all the Grange Estate literary materials. This charlatan was trying to loot the estate and tried to kill me. I followed this fraud up here. He admits he came up here to ‘recover’ an uncataloged manuscript. He was going to keep it for himself. He’s nothing but a murderous thief.”

“Why didn’t you contact the estate for permission to search? Why did you break in?” she asked, turning back to Green.

“I agree that was perhaps unwise,” Philip Green admitted, staring at Tom and me.

“I’m not going to try to sort this out. I’m calling the local Rangers. You’ll all be spending the night in jail.”

“What’s going to happen to us?” Tom asked.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. For now, you’re all going into the storage room at the far end of that hall.”

Philip Green struggled to his feet. He and Tom hobbled along with Wolfie and me following. Grace Dunbar and her gun brought up the rear. Tonight hadn’t turned out at all like I planned. I’d gotten caught breaking and entering - again - plus leaving the jurisdiction. I might as well forget about the rest of my life. I was about to get scooped up into the criminal justice system and never come out again. I felt like a deflated balloon with no energy to fight.

When we reached the storage room, Grace Dunbar stopped us. “Open that door,” she ordered. I did so, and she reached inside with her long polished fingernails and switched on an overhead light. Electricity, at least in this room, was working in the lodge.

The storage room was larger than I’d anticipated. There were some folding chairs and tables along one wall. Tom and Philip Green limped toward the chairs and sat down. Wolfie shadowed Tom. He was quiet now that there was no imminent threat, but he was intently watching Green and Grace Dunbar. His head went from one to the other and occasionally his tongue licked Green’s red blood from his whiskers.

“Why won’t you let us leave?” I asked.

Once again her green eyes flashed, and the door slammed and locked.