The Lost Files of Sherlock Holmes (3 page)

‘The speed of your return and lightness of step upon the
stairs indicate that you have been as successful as I. All we need now is your army revolver and we are ready for him!’ Holmes’s eyes glistened like a bird of prey and his mouth twitched with suppressed excitement.

‘Oh, but surely you will explain your discovery before we leave.’

‘Patience, my dear fellow. Pray furnish me with the
information
that I still require,’ he asked.

I informed Holmes of the farm’s location and only once we had consulted our Bradshaw and confirmed that we had some two hours to spare before the departure of the next train to Borehamwood, did he consent to explain how matters really stood.

‘Before we review the sketch for one last time, I must explain to you, Watson, that the matter uppermost in my mind is the apprehension of John Tyler. Though I am sure some manner of reward will be forthcoming should we prove to be successful, neither the recovery of the proceeds of the robbery, nor, indeed, the recovery of the painting itself, are my priorities. With that in mind I have placed an advertisement in all the popular newspapers to the effect that a Mr Tyler wishes to dispose of a pleasing cottage at Bowen Bridge Farm. I have little doubt that, assuming he can manage at all, lacking my own keen faculties, it will take Tyler considerably longer than me to unlock the secret of his brother’s painting. By placing the advertisement in the morning’s notices, we will have time enough to locate and recover the money at our leisure, then to remain at the cottage and be at hand for when Tyler finally makes his appearance,’ Holmes concluded triumphantly.

‘Splendid logic, as usual, Holmes, your trap seems well
set, although you are assuming the cottage remains
unoccupied
.’

‘Yes, but I feel it is a reasonable enough assumption to make. James Tyler would have established its long-term vacancy before depositing there all that he had risked so much to obtain. Now to the sketch.

‘A subtle mind has James Tyler, and it is to the public good that such a mind, coupled with his own perverse
ruthlessness
, now lies incarcerated as opposed to being free to ply his vile and evil trade. As you can see, Watson, the number of potential hiding places is almost infinite, buried under the field, in or around the cottages, the trees, the list is endless. Yet there is one glaring anomaly, that really should have struck me immediately.’

‘I must confess, Holmes, that none presents itself to me. All is peace, beauty and tranquillity, with not a hint of that which lies hidden.’

Obviously enjoying himself, Holmes rubbed his hands together, laughing aloud.

‘I must give you a clue then, those great impressionist artists we were discussing the other morning, though differing greatly in style and technique, had one thing in common that distanced them from their somewhat ponderous predecessors. They all drew their inspiration from nature itself. That is what you must do now.’

‘From nature?’ I repeated under my breath. Holmes’s clue aided me not at all. I studied the field once more and the trees, but the only conclusion I could draw was that the scene depicted was high summer. Some cherry trees in the painting held no blossom, were in full leaf with no sign of the early autumnal growth of cherries taking place as yet. I related this discovery to Holmes.

‘Excellent, Watson, quite excellent, though you have failed to observe the occasional brown patchy stains in the grass which not only indicate high summer, but that it has been a hot dry summer also. Why then is the chimney stack, of the centre cottage, billowing out smoke so profusely?’

‘Tyler’s clue, of course! Really, Holmes you have quite surpassed yourself throughout this case. I shall get my revolver.’

‘If you would be so kind and I shall ask Mrs Hudson to call us a cab. We may just have time for a late lunch at the station before our train.’

Holmes was correct in his surmise, although our repast was somewhat hurried and our train’s departure was prompt. In a short while the grime of London was behind us and I sat back contentedly, contemplating the rebirth of nature that occurs each spring. Every tree was showing signs of budding, blossom or even tiny leaves and the grass had a lush freshness about it. I thought, momentarily, of sharing this observation with my friend, but preferred silence to his inevitable rebuff. On more than one occasion in the past, he had voiced not only his indifference to such natural beauty, but also his conviction that the isolation of country living provided a veritable breeding ground for crime and undoubtedly in this instance, he had been proved correct.

‘Watson,’ he suddenly began, ‘I take it you now share my view that the isolation of the Bowen Bridge cottage, and no other factor, rendered it a far easier location for the depositing of stolen goods than any urban area.’

He laughed at my startled expression and then explained.

‘Really there is no cause for wonderment. It was obvious
to me, from the contented expression on your face, and your reluctance in turning from it, that you were enjoying the scenic beauty we are passing through. When you did, however, it was only to glance quizzically in my direction and, no doubt remembering our recent conversation on the way to the “Copper Beaches”, you decided not to raise this topic of discussion. The fact that you did not, led me to my observation.’

‘I cannot deny that you are correct in every detail, though my agreement with you applies to this case alone. I still contend that the everyday strife and squalor of London life is a far more profuse breeding ground for crime than the tranquillity of a country location.’

‘Such as the “Copper Beaches”?’ He sarcastically asked.

Before I could protest, however, we began pulling into the station at Borehamwood and wasted no time in alighting and locating an available trap.

We were fortunate, indeed, in acquiring transport so readily outside a station as quiet and remote as Borehamwood and the driver, a large thickset man of middle years, with dark brooding eyes, was willing to assist us, knowing well the direction to our desired location.

We started off at a brisk pace, the large bay seeming fresh and healthy and the scenery seemed more stunning since leaving the speed of the train.

‘Tell me, fellow,’ Holmes broke the tranquil silence by addressing our driver and tapping him on the shoulder, ‘have there been other recent visitors to the farm, perhaps expressing an interest in the vacant cottage?’

The driver seemed reluctant to answer, but when he did, it was with a strong East End accent. ‘Nah, not as far as I know, suh, fings are pretty quiet ’ere abouts.’

Holmes grunted, content that we were still one step ahead of our adversary, though we were certain the
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would bring him to us soon enough. We concluded our journey in silence. Despite the changes brought about by the seasonal differences, the green of the grass and the blossoms on the many trees, Graves’s landscape came to life as we approached and could see the farmhouse was indeed located two hundred yards, or so, from the cottages. Holmes asked the driver to wait for us and despatched me to the farmhouse to explain our intentions to the owner, while he began his inspection of the middle cottage.

I felt quite jaunty as I started up the long driveway. The air was invigorating and we were nearing the satisfactory conclusion of our problem. I struck out at a brisk pace and only turned back briefly when I heard the impatient
whinnying
of the bay mare. To my great astonishment, standing directly behind me was the very man who had driven our trap from the station. His friendly demeanour of before was now contorted by an evil, malicious, grimace etched into his soot-soiled face. In his right hand he wielded a ferocious cudgel, which he then raised above his head, in readiness to bring down upon my own. My solitary, futile act of resistance was to raise my arms to protect my crown from the impending impact.

Then, to my immense relief, I heard my army revolver being fired from a distance. For an agonizing moment, I feared that Holmes had missed his mark, for the man stood there still, his weapon poised above his head. However, I became aware of a deep red hole in the centre of his forehead, the cudgel fell from his lifeless grasp, and he slowly collapsed into the mud just yards away from the prize he had come so far to claim. To assure myself of the
man’s lack of threat, I grabbed hold of the cudgel before bending down to examine him for signs of life. There were none.

As I straightened up again I cast my gaze about me and saw Holmes running full pelt towards me from the
direction
of the centre cottage.

Breathlessly he exclaimed, ‘Watson, my dear fellow! I trust you are unharmed?’

I nodded with a smile of affirmation, still unsure of the true meaning of these recent dramatic events. Then, to my surprise, Holmes prised the cudgel from my hand and crashed it, repeatedly to the ground until it shattered into fragments.

‘I curse my natural conceit for allowing this creature and his abominable weapon to threaten your life. The
consequences
had my timing and aim been less sure, are unthinkable. I owe you my humblest of apologies and yet I could not have been assured of Tyler betraying himself, had I not drawn him out by our separating.’

‘You mean that you were aware of Tyler masquerading as our driver from the outset?’ I asked in disbelief, at Holmes’s flagrant abuse of me as his bait, once again.

‘In truth, Watson, I had not anticipated Tyler arriving at Borehamwood prior to us. I am as guilty of underestimating his abilities, as I am of overestimating my own. However, upon boarding the cart, I was made immediately aware of my error and decided to allow him to play his hand, not realizing that he would be bold enough to play it so soon. Of course, I could not warn you of his rapid approach without warning him off and then our bird would have flown. Again, old friend, my apologies.’ We began walking slowly towards the farmhouse, where we hoped to procure a lad to send to
the village to summon the police and perhaps, a means of transport back to the station.

‘At least now I understand why you allowed Tyler off the leash, but how did you realize he was anything other than a humble cart-driver?’

‘I was alerted to the possibility as soon as we boarded the cart. I observed the cudgel lying on the floor at the front by his feet; a ferocious weapon, indeed, for a driver in so remote and quiet a village as Borehamwood. Then I became aware of how soiled by soot his face was. You would rarely find such soiling on any face other than one from an intensely built-up, urban area, such as East London, for example, from where Tyler surely hails, as confirmed by his accent. It was his hands, however, that decided me to borrow your revolver. On the hands of every driver that I have observed there are always obvious red welts caused by the strain of controlling the horse with the reins. On Tyler’s there were none,’ Holmes concluded.

‘I understand, but how could you be so sure he would come after me and not yourself? Surely you were in the same danger as I was?’ I asked.

‘Perhaps, but it seemed more likely that he would try to prevent you from making contact with the farmer and thereby raising the alarm, and attending to me once you had been secured.’

By now we had reached the farmhouse where we found the owner, James Bowen and his wife, to be most affable and co-operative. A lad was dispatched to the village at once and Mrs Bowen afforded us a substantial tea which we had barely consumed by the time the local constabulary had arrived.

I was still harbouring certain misgivings over the manner
in which Holmes had misused me in entrapping Tyler, although, his reaction upon finding me safe and well, had diluted these somewhat. However, his behaviour upon revealing the whereabouts of the stolen money to the local police was what surprised and gratified me the most. As he had calculated it was hidden in the fireplace of the middle cottage. Normally a situation such as this would provide him with a moment of supreme and dramatic triumph. As
gratifying
as this moment undoubtedly was, he accepted it with total nonchalance as he was clearly still distracted by the thought of the potential danger he had subjected me to.

The train journey back to London was both quiet and uneventful, but as I sat there in the carriage, observing how oblivious my friend was to the view from the window he was staring so intently through, I could not help surmising that the total dedication he afforded to his profession would not prevent him from using me in such a way once again, should the situation command it.

T
HE
M
YSTERY
OF
A
VALON

D
uring the months immediately following my marriage, I was totally immersed in setting up a home with my beloved Mary and establishing the small medical practice which had been neglected
somewhat
by my elderly predecessor, Dr Farquar.

The common indulgences of the Yuletide festivities, followed by a particularly cold early January, had led to a sharp, albeit temporary increase in the demands upon my services, the results of which had rendered me decidedly weary. Therefore, when a lull at last descended, around the tenth of the month, I confess to welcoming the opportunity to rest. The more so on this particular morning, for an overnight snowfall had continued into the morning, unabated, and I had spent much of the night tending at a patient’s bedside.

Relaxing with my wife before a roaring fire after a hearty breakfast was the perfect remedy, so one could beg sympathy for my dismay at receiving an immediate summons from my old friend and colleague, Sherlock Holmes.

I examined the note with annoyance before hurling it into the fire. It read…

‘Our client indeed!’ I protested. This use of the plural was strange for I had seen very little of Holmes over the past several months, and I had certainly missed the
stimulation
I had always gleaned from my humble involvement in his career.

The fault for this, however, was not mine alone, for while I had been preoccupied to the exclusion of my friend, it was equally true that he had not requested my assistance either. Apart, that is, from my brief involvement in the singular affair of the Blue Carbuncle. Nonetheless, there was no doubting the urgency of this problem, and I was intrigued to discover what should bring a client up from Cornwall during the depths of so harsh a winter.

‘Your expression tells me that you feel you have to go.’ My dear Mary astutely observed. ‘Besides which, Doctor Jackson is able to take care of your patients, as well as his own, now that things have slackened off somewhat.’

I squeezed her hand appreciatively, and hastily prepared a bag for myself, while Mary arranged for a cab.

Despite my best intentions, my arrival at Baker Street was by no means an immediate one. The severe weather had rendered the task of procuring a cab a most difficult one, and once safely aboard I found the depth of the snow made our progress, even through the thoroughfares of central London, slow and sluggish.

Although it felt strange to see my old rooms again, Mrs
Hudson’s cheery greeting, and the sight of Holmes seated in his favourite chair, made me feel as if I had never been away.

Catching sight of my overnight bag, Holmes exclaimed, ‘Dear friend Watson, prepared and reliable as ever, I see. Most good of you to attend so promptly, particularly since you were working through the night.’

Having observed my look of astonishment, he explained. ‘Your shoes Watson, your shoes! Knowing too well the habits of a military man, the damp stains on your uppers indicate that they have been subjected to deep snow. Seeing that last night’s fall did not commence until after midnight, and the paving on this side of Baker Street has been all but cleared, what other explanation can there be?’ He spread out his hands as if he had just performed a conjuror’s trick, and fell back into his chair.

‘Now help yourself to the Persian slipper,’ Holmes invited. ‘While I introduce you to our esteemed visitor from Cornwall, Colonel Geraint Masterson. Colonel, my trusted friend and associate, Doctor Watson.’

Such was my pleasure, and relief, at finding things so delightfully unchanged in my old lodgings, that it was only now, as I stood by the fire replenishing my pipe, that I became aware of a third individual in the room. He was seated pensively, on the edge of the settee, directly across from Holmes.

For me to say that the Colonel’s appearance and
presence
was startlingly impressive would be to understate in the extreme. Yet to define the cause of this effect was no easy task. His size, certainly contributed to this. He stood at no less than six feet and two inches, but his military experience had given him an impressive build and bearing.
I was equally taken aback by the manner in which he grew his hair and beard. Although, undoubtedly clean, and neatly cut, he had allowed the hair at the back of his head to grow to a level well below his shirt collar, indeed, it
actually
reached down to just above his shoulders. His beard, again, was neatly trimmed, yet was shaped to an unusual point, which reminded me of those paintings of medieval kings. His face was open and alert, while his smile was one that immediately inspired trust. A most singular
individual
indeed.

‘Ah, Dr Watson!’ He boomed. ‘I, and the public at large, have you and your most excellent journals, to thank for bringing to our attention the unique skills and talents of your colleague, Mr Holmes. For it is only he, I am sure, who is capable of lifting the dark cloud that at present hangs ominously over my household.’

Sherlock Holmes bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘It would render my task considerably easier if you could now furnish me with some facts.’ He said sharply while lighting up his old clay pipe.

‘Quite so, quite so, but where does one begin?’ The Colonel pondered.

‘I would strongly suggest at the beginning.’ Holmes tersely observed, an attitude I found somewhat surprising considering the affable nature of the Colonel. Nevertheless, the Colonel mumbled apologetically, and I took out my notebook and pencil as he began his
remarkable
tale.

‘Remember Colonel, omit nothing.’ Holmes added. ‘That which you may consider trivial and inconsequential, may be the one missing piece of the puzzle whose absence might prohibit my success.’

The Colonel paused to reconsider his oration, and began his story.

‘My family seat is a large, sprawling estate, near the village of Slaughter Bridge in the heart of Cornwall. No doubt because of the connection between the village, and the legendary last battle of King Arthur at Camlaan, my ancestors saw fit to name the house and the wild, rugged terrain that comprises our land-holding, after the last resting place of Arthur, namely Avalon. As you might have gathered from my own first name, some of my ancestors took the idea of our Arthurian connection rather too
seriously
at times. Indeed my own name is not the first to appear in the family tree, that has been derived from the knights of the round-table. My father was named Percival, whilst my brother bore the name of Gareth.’ Laughing nervously, the Colonel added, ‘Our estate even contains a large mysterious lake, and we dine from a circular table.’

I could see from Holmes’s vacant expression, that the significance of these Arthurian references had meant absolutely nothing to him and in confirmation of this he impatiently cajoled the Colonel to get to the point. He duly responded.

‘Well, the plain and simple truth of the matter, Mr Holmes, is that someone is attempting to kill my dear wife, Alice. We have been married these past ten years, since I resigned my commission, in fact, and we have lived out these years, at Avalon, in absolute peace and harmony. Her love of Avalon is surely as deep as my own, and her kindly, and friendly manner, towards all of human kind, be he a rich, local landowner, or our lowliest servant, is universally reciprocated. Therefore, her current predicament is totally beyond all reason.’

‘I assume,’ Holmes began, leaning forward, his eyelids heavy in concentration, ‘that this attempt on your wife’s life was made recently?’

‘Two,’ the Colonel corrected. ‘There have been two murderous attacks upon her. This is why I could no longer tolerate the inadequacies of the local constabulary, and why I have made the long journey to London to seek your advice.’

Holmes waved aside this further compliment. ‘The first attack occurred when precisely?’

‘It was three days before Christmas and we had just completed our breakfast, when Alice decided to stroll down to the stables. As you may recall it was particularly cold at that time and she wished to ensure that our horses were being supplied with sufficient winter provisions. As she passed out of sight of the house and entered a small copse that lies between the house and the stables, she felt a huge hand reach out and grab her by the throat. She struggled for a moment, before a thick piece of cord replaced the hand and threatened to choke the life from her. She was fortunate in that she was carrying her heavy walking stick, which she used to lash out in all directions. The rope suddenly
slackened
and she heard her assailant run away into the trees. She saw no-one, Mr Holmes,’ said a very solemn Colonel.

‘Why, exactly, was your wife in need of a stick in the first place?’ Holmes asked.

‘Alice was still nursing an injury to her right leg that she sustained while out riding, some weeks previously.’

‘I take it the police were called immediately after the attack and a thorough search made of the copse for traces of the assailant?’ I asked, whilst noticing Holmes’s look of surprised approval at my interjection.

‘Indeed yes, but to no avail,’ the colonel replied. ‘Not even a single footprint was visible. Unfortunately the heavy frosts had rendered the ground solid and hard.’

‘Unfortunate indeed.’ Holmes replied in a tone heavy with sarcasm, obviously already convinced of the
ineptitude
of the Cornish police. ‘What, pray, were the exact circumstances of the second attack upon your wife?’

‘As you might imagine, it was this further attempt upon my wife that prompted my journey to London. It took place yesterday morning and came considerably closer to succeeding than the first. In fact, my wife sustained some small injury to her right arm as a consequence. On this occasion the scoundrel used a crossbow, and fired while Alice was tending to her plants in our conservatory. The arrow came crashing through the glass and embedded itself in a wooden post attached to the far wall. Its
trajectory
caused it to skim Alice’s arm and her profuse bleeding caused her to pass out for a few moments. I delayed my journey to London until I was certain of her recovery and that the police had taken all necessary steps.’

‘I take it the enquiries of the police bore as little fruit as those on the previous occasion?’ Holmes asked.

‘Alas, that is true and yet, the unusual behaviour of our shepherd, of late, and his subsequent disappearance, seems to have drawn their attention and interest.’

‘Ah … excellent!’ Holmes exclaimed, suddenly sitting bolt upright, alert, and attentive. ‘There are certain elements in your story that lift it above the mundane and routine. Indeed, Watson, I should not be surprised to see this tale take its place amongst your other, most vivid chronicles, one day. Initially, though, we must hear about
this extraordinary shepherd.’ Holmes said this while
positively
beaming with expectation.

Colonel Masterson swallowed hard before continuing,
obviously
taken aback by Holmes’s outburst. Understandably, of course, as he did not know of Holmes’s penchant for the more bizarre, and outlandish aspects of his investigations as well as I did.

‘As you may know, gentlemen, the main body of Arthurian legend, though romantically embellished by twelfth century troubadours, is firmly rooted in the Dark Ages, the period immediately following the Roman
withdrawal
. In the minds of simple folk, and more especially during times of national crises, the hope remained that Arthur would rise again and wield Excalibur once more in the British cause. A further legend, perhaps of medieval origin, tells of a shepherd searching for a lost sheep on an isolated hilltop. During his search he stumbled across a hidden cave, finding within a huge treasure and King Arthur and his knights laid out in full armour. The
awestruck
shepherd decided to help himself to as much of the treasure as he could carry, and was on the point of departing, when Arthur suddenly awoke from his extended slumber. The king threatened to dismember the shepherd’s head should he not replace the treasure, depart from the cave and swear an oath never to return. The terrified shepherd obviously complied immediately and the location of the cave has remained a mystery from that day to this.

‘Colonel, please!’ Holmes impatiently interrupted. ‘I will be more than willing to help identify your wife’s would-be assailant, but please do not prevaricate with these tales of antique legends. They are of no use at all to a trained
logician 
and I have no more interest in them than you have in the numerous varieties of cigar ash that I have studied over the years. Now please, stick to the facts!’

‘To the minds of the simple local folk, I include our wayward shepherd amongst these, these whimsical tales are as real as cigar ash!’ The irony of these last words reflected the resentment Masterson felt to Holmes’s
attitude
. ‘However, the facts are these, Mr Holmes. On the very day of the crossbow attack, our shepherd was seen emerging from a concealed hole in a local hillside. He was then seen scurrying down its slippery, muddy slope. Mr Holmes, he has not been seen nor heard of since.’ He concluded with a gruff finality and rose to his feet,
obviously
assuming that Holmes’s interest, and involvement in the matter was surely at an end.