The Devil's Promise, page 11
With my chest heaving from my exertions – I was not used to such exercise after a long time in hospital – I slowed my pace down to a brisk walk. After about half an hour the trees began to thin out and I saw some distance ahead of me glimpses of a range of undulating fields. Just then I heard a sharp crack as though someone had stepped on a dry branch and had snapped it in two. I turned quickly and gazed behind me. As I did so, I glimpsed a shadow darting between the trees about a hundred yards away. My pulse began to race as I realised that the sound I heard was not a snapping branch but was in fact a gunshot. As if to confirm this realisation, there came another. I felt the bullet whiz close by me. I dropped to the ground and wriggled into the denser undergrowth. Raising my head slightly I peered into the arboreal gloom, in search of the sniper. I saw a quick flash of him as he moved forward with speed in a zigzag fashion, finally coming to rest behind a large oak tree some twenty feet away from me. Although I could not make out any distinctive features – my assailant was a mere shadowy blur – I had no doubt that this was my cursed limpet, Mr Grey Ulster, who had followed me from the train. What made my predicament all the more perilous was the fact that I could not return fire: my own revolver was stowed in the inner pocket of my overcoat which had been left behind on the train.
Raising myself into a crouching position, I picked up a small branch and hurled it to my left, while veering to my right. As the branch landed some distance away, another shot rang out. Keeping low to the ground and moving as silently as I could I retraced my route, so that I was able to circle behind the oak tree where my assailant was hiding. As I did this, he edged forward until he gained the protection of another tree. I could see him clearly now, his pale face taut and exultant in the dim light. He seemed to be enjoying the hunt. Retrieving a small log from a tangle of weeds, I moved closer to him, approaching from behind. As he continued to peer ahead, waiting to catch a glimpse of me, I managed to creep up from the rear. I was almost upon him when he sensed my presence and turned. As he did so I brought the log down upon his head with great force. He had moved too swiftly for it to be an accurate hit and it only caught him a glancing blow on the forehead. However, it had the power to knock him down and as he fell backwards his gun went off, the bullet firing harmlessly into the branches above. I stomped on his wrist with my foot and with a cry of pain he released his weapon, which skittered away into a pile of mouldy leaves. I raised the log to strike him again, but he kicked out violently with his feet, knocking me off balance. I stumbled backwards, only just managing to maintain my equilibrium.
With great alacrity, my opponent jumped to his feet and rushed towards me with a savage cry. However, I was ready for him and I swung the log with great force. This time my aim was very accurate. It smashed hard against his jaw and he fell to the ground with an agonised cry. Under normal circumstances I am not a violent man but in this situation I realised that unless I rendered my assailant unconscious, my life was in peril. With this in mind, I raised the log again with the intention of finishing the job.
With amazing spirit and energy, my enemy rolled away from my range and scrambled to his feet. He gazed at me, eyes ablaze with hatred, his features dripping with blood from the wound on his face and smeared with mud. With a sudden movement, he pulled a knife from the inside of his jacket and, uttering a feral cry which echoed through the wood, he leapt at me. For an instant I froze with shock and indecision but then, just in the nick of time, my self-preservative instincts took over and I swung the log once more. My aim was wild and I missed him completely. Within seconds, he had launched himself on me. The force of his attack knocked us both to the ground where we grappled like fairground wrestlers. I released my hold on the log and grasped the wrist of my assailant which held the knife in an attempt to keep it away from my face. He grunted and groaned as he fought hard against me and I feared that he was winning this particular battle. I pressed hard against him and with a twist of my body we rolled over so that I was on top of him. This weakened his hold and I was able to push his arm away. He flexed his muscles against this move but with my superior position, he failed. He made a dramatic stab at me with the knife. With great force, I deflected the blow, wrenching his arm backwards, the blade sinking into his own breast. He gave a gurgling sigh and his eyes widened with shock and then flickered wildly like the wings of an errant butterfly before closing. Closing forever. Almost immediately a damp crimson patch spread across his chest.
I pulled away, half in horror and half, I must confess, in relief. I stood for some moments staring down at the dead man and in particular at the growing red stain as the blood oozed from the wound. It wasn’t the first time I had been responsible for a man’s death, but never in such dramatic circumstances. It was not an outcome that I had desired. It was purely the result of an action of self-defence but that did not stop me from feeling guilty and somewhat depressed.
Of course the question that thundered in my brain was ‘Why?’ Why had this man been so determined to kill me – or at least prevent me from visiting Howden? What terrible intrigue had enmeshed me? And enmeshed I was. There certainly was no escape from this dangerous tangled skein. And there was no going back. I was reminded of the words of Macbeth: ‘It was as tedious to turn back as go o’er.’
I felt in my pocket and retrieved my cigarette case and, incongruous as it was, I sat on a fallen log and had a smoke. It helped to ease my jagged nerves and enabled me to bring my situation into focus. I knew that I had to press ahead and find my way to Totnes. After extinguishing my cigarette, I examined the dead man’s clothing to see if I could find any information or clues to help bring some light to the mystery. However, all I discovered was a wallet with some cash, a pocket watch, handkerchief and a packet of headache powders. Nothing of consequence.
I relieved the fellow of his ulster. That at least would help protect me from the growing cold. Then I covered the body with some dead leaves and continued on my way.
Seventeen
Created from Notes made by Sherlock Holmes
Enoch Blackwood came into the room, his brow puckered with concern. ‘I have news that Watson has left Baker Street,’ he said simply. ‘It is most likely that he will be heading for Howden.’
Sherlock Holmes, who was seated by the fire, glanced up at Blackwood, his eyes registering no emotion.
‘So,’ continued Blackwood, ‘despite all your efforts and our allowances, it looks as if there is no hope for your friend. He seems determined to bring about his own destruction. It is a shame, but this turn of events does not alter things from your point of view. I hope you realise that.’
Holmes did not reply, but returned his glance to the flickering flames.
Part Three
Eighteen
From Dr Watson’s Journal
Dusk was falling rapidly by the time I reached the road. After trudging for ages across sodden fields, at last I found myself on a manmade pathway. My problem now was to gauge which way to travel. I assumed that I turned to the west, but it was a guess only. Trying hard to dismiss the faint clouds of despair which began to form in my mind, I set forth with a will. As good luck would have it, after about twenty minutes of tramping, I heard the sound of horses’ hooves and the rattle of a carriage behind me. On turning, I saw a farm cart trundling down the road in my direction. I waved and called to the driver, a shadowy figure in rough workman’s clothing. He brought the vehicle to a halt some yards away from me.
‘By heaven, you gave us a fright, loomin’ out o’ the darkness like that,’ he said with some passion.
I apologised and asked if he could give me a ride to the nearest town or village. He treated my request with some reluctance. ‘Where you be headed?’
‘Well, I want to get to Totnes.’
He whistled and pushing his cloth cap back he scratched his head. ‘Why, that be miles away, sir.’ He thought for a moment, his craggy face twitching as his mind paraded through a range of mixed thoughts. ‘Tell you what, sir, I’m headed back to the farm now. I could give you a bed for the night and drive you to Tansy Halt station tomorrow morning. You should be able to catch a train to Totnes from there.’
‘That is wonderful,’ I said, my tired face breaking into a smile. ‘So very kind. I will pay for your hospitality, of course.’
‘As you see fit, sir, but there bain’t no need. It’s a poor old world if a fellow can’t do a favour for another fellow who’s got a problem. And you got a problem, bain’t you, sir?’
‘You’ve gone a long way to solve it,’ I said, my grin broadening.
He matched my smile, his lips parting to expose a row of uneven yellow teeth. He extended his hand to me. ‘Pull yourself up on the wagon, sir, and we’ll be off.’
I did as I was bidden, and before long we were rattling down the lane towards a distant farmstead whose lights twinkled in the darkness.
My host was Jacob Weatherall, and his wife, who was as obliging and gracious as her husband, made me feel very welcome and provided me with hot food and a warm bed for the night. Neither asked me how I had landed up in a lonely spot in Devon without luggage or why I needed to get to Totnes. They were a simple couple and said little, but their Christian goodness was wonderfully reassuring and I felt humbled in their company.
As I made my way up to my sleeping quarters, Jacob touched me on the arm. ‘I reckon you are right keen to get to Totnes, sir, so I’ll get you up ’fore cock crow so’s we can be on the road before it gets light. Then you can catch an early train at Tansy Halt.’
I nodded. ‘Thank you.’
And so it was that by nine o’clock the following morning I was boarding a little stopping train at Tansy Halt and waving goodbye to Jacob Weatherall. He had refused any financial compensation for his kindness and hospitality, but I managed to slip several sovereigns into his ragged jacket pocket without his knowledge. I had been informed that the journey would take about ninety minutes, so once more I was on course.
* * *
I saw him as soon as I stepped out of the station at Totnes. A stocky fellow in a shabby overcoat with a walrus moustache dominating his piggy features. On catching sight of me as I emerged into the sharp autumn sunlight, he seemed to jump to attention. Positioned by the tea stall, he did look a little out of the ordinary, contrasting with the throng of other passengers. But what also drew my attention to him was the fact that I remembered his face. I had seen it before. I recalled exactly when I had seen it before. He had been one of the men lounging outside The Dark Man in Howden, the day Holmes and I had met Enoch Blackwood. He had cheered on one of the fighters who had been involved in the impromptu brawl. The one with the missing buckle from his shoe. In other words: he was another of them, the devils who were determined that I should not reach Howden. He had no doubt been placed on sentry duty to keep an eye out for me in case I managed to give Mr Grey Ulster the slip.
I was undecided what to do in this situation. I was very tempted to step up to the blackguard and challenge him, but no doubt he would be armed and I decided that this was not a wise move. It was too early in the day, I mused, for a gunfight in a public place. I had to be more cunning than that.
My original intention on reaching Totnes was to visit the farrier who had supplied Holmes and me with a horse and trap when we came down in the summer and to arrange for the hire of a similar conveyance to take me to Howden. Now I realised that before I could make this arrangement, I had to deal with my moustachioed friend in some way first.
Strangely, this thought actually amused me. Glancing over at his porcine features I reckoned that my shadow was not a fellow of the greatest intellectual prowess. Brute force maybe, but brains, no. The eyes, small and dim, did not radiate any sense of cunning or intelligence. I reckoned that it should not tax my ingenuity too much to get the better of this fellow.
Whether it was because I’d had no breakfast and was a little light-headed or that the events of the last few days had made me more reckless than usual, I do not know, but I felt like playing with this particular pawn in the dark game in which I was now involved. I wandered around the streets of Totnes aimlessly, sometimes slowing down to an almost lethargic pace and then suddenly speeding up for no reason at all. I doubled back on myself several times, but I always made sure that I was in full view of other people. I knew it would be dangerous to move into a side street where he and I would be alone.
Finally, I stepped inside a tea room. My shadow remained outside. After ordering tea and crumpets, I left my seat and passed through a door which I assumed led through into the kitchen.
‘I’m afraid customers are not allowed in here,’ said a pert young girl, busy preparing some sandwiches.
‘I’m here to see Mrs Laidlaw,’ I said, with some gravitas. I had noted her name as the proprietress over the door as I entered.
‘She is in the office but…’ the girl tried to inform me, but I brushed past her to the end of the kitchen where I had spotted an outer door.
‘Sir…!’ the girl cried, but I had already opened the door and was out into a lane at the rear of the premises before she could say more.
I found myself chuckling as I sped down the lane, strangely amused at my subterfuge. It made me smile to think of my piggy-faced friend waiting patiently for me outside the front of the premises. As I passed on to one of the main streets, I checked that the villain was nowhere in sight and then by a circuitous route, I made my way to the farrier’s to hire a pony and trap. On the way there I called in at a grocer’s to buy a few provisions.
Within half an hour I was trotting along narrow country roads towards my destination. The lightness of my mood had evaporated as I now realised that I was approaching the most difficult and perilous part of my mission – a mission that was, I had to admit, rather vague. I was not sure exactly what I was going to do once I had reached the village. Going to Howden, visiting the inn and the home of the Blackwoods in search of Holmes could well be the most foolhardy and dangerous thing I could do. Perhaps it would be as well to wait until nightfall when at least the cover of darkness would give me some protection. I was sure the answer to the conundrum lay in the village but the problem was how I was going to unlock it.
I decided that the best thing would be to make my way to Samphire Cottage first of all and see if I could make it my base. It would be unlikely to be occupied so late in the season. With this simple plan in mind, I urged the pony onwards. As I travelled, the weather changed as though to suit my mood and apprehensions. The bright sunlight of the morning had faded, to be replaced by grey scudding clouds and a cool autumn wind, which penetrated the folds of my coat.
It had begun to drizzle by the time the sea came into view, the darkening sky reaching down to its rippling sable breakers to create a uniform dun-coloured vista.
The cottage stood as I remembered it, crouching on the cliff top, a splash of white against the grey background. I tethered the horse some distance away and approached it on foot. I was pleased to see that there was no spiral of smoke emerging from the chimney and no lights at the windows.
Moving stealthily I crept forward and peered through the windows of the tiny sitting room. All looked deserted. There was no sign of habitation. I tried the door: it was locked but offered no strong resistance to my shoulder. As I applied my weight to it with some force, it sprang open. Within seconds I was inside.
As I stood in the sitting room, gazing around me, strong memories invaded my consciousness. There were still the strange symbols chalked on the door which seemed, suddenly, to dance before my eyes, and then I saw Holmes curled up in the armchair, a pipe clamped in his teeth as he studied some large tome. I remembered the fire crackling in the grate throwing strange shadows up the rough whitewashed walls. The last time I’d seen this room there had been a corpse…
I shut my eyes tightly and shook my head to dislodge these disturbing images. I must not let visions of the past interfere with my task. That way madness lay. I went into the kitchen and unpacked my small parcel of provisions, and with a mug of water I devoured a slice of cheese, an apple and a chunk of bread. The vittles not only revived my energy but in some strange way also my spirits. As I ate, I stared out of the tiny kitchen window. It had stopped raining now and the clouds lifted to provide an eerie brightness, a final rally of daylight before dusk invaded the sky. The tide was on the turn, racing away from the land in a fusillade of angry rollers. Then I saw it. Down on the beach. Almost like a mirage, as if out of nowhere it came: a shimmering shape wandering slowly across the landscape, mirrored in the wet sheen of the sand. My heart skipped a beat as I realised that it was a human figure: small and slim, vulnerable against the backdrop of bay and sea. I watched, mesmerised, as it made its way in an erratic fashion along the beach and then it began to falter. For a brief moment it became static before crumpling down as in a faint onto the sand.
I raced from the house and made my way down the sandy path to the beach. The figure was still there, a slender silhouette on the shiny wet sand. As I approached, I could see that it was in fact a woman. I knelt down and felt her pulse. It was weak but regular. I brushed back the wet tangled hair from her face. I felt a sharp constriction of the heart as I recognised this creature. It was Arabella Blackwood.
Nineteen
From Dr Watson’s Journal
As I scooped up the young woman in my arms, her eyes flickered open and she gazed up at me in a feverish fashion, not quite focusing on my face.
