The Rediscovered Annals of Sherlock Holmes, page 26
For once I saw Sherlock Holmes caught off balance. His dark eyebrows shot up and his mouth dropped open while I nearly fell from my chair in amazement. I was rendered speechless, but before I could order my whirling brain Holmes had recovered and resumed his habitual expression of austere attention.
“This matter becomes more interesting by the minute,” he murmured. “I think I am ahead of you, Mr. Miles Carmody. You are here in pursuit of this despicable renegade whom you know as Samuel Harper. I am right, am I not?”
“Indeed you are, sir, but you have not heard what put me on his trail.”
“Then I beg of you, tell me more.”
Carmody continued, his voice hard and bitter as he took up his story again. “Once I had done all that could be done, I returned to Durban, having lost all enthusiasm for my original project. Knowles, fully recovered, willingly entered my service and it was our unhappy duty to tell Sir Frederick the details of events leading up to the sad fate of his only child. He took it hard and aged ten years in as many weeks. I gave him what comfort I could, but from then on he was a broken man.”
“He lived in Natal, then?” Holmes interjected.
“Not exactly. He had divided his time equally between his estate in England and his business interests in South Africa, but fallowing the death of Alistair, he had no inclination to return to the old country. In the ensuing months he and I became very close, so much so that I believed he came to look on me as a substitute for his dead son, and I learned a lot about his family circumstances. With Alistair’s death, the heir to the baronetcy was Sir Frederick’s younger brother Charles. They had been estranged for upwards of thirty years, having quarrelled bitterly over the woman who became Alistair’s mother. They had both paid her court, but Frederick had won her, and from then on they had neither met nor communicated in any way. All Alistair’s adult life had been spent in Natal, and I am not even sure that he knew that his uncle existed.
“I hinted to Sir Frederick that in the circumstances it seemed absurd that this feud should continue, and one day he confided to me that he would instruct his solicitors to attempt a reconciliation.” He paused dramatically. “Mr. Holmes, that was never to be, for within days of this news, he was foully done to death in an alley-way in Durban.”
“Good God!” I cried. “What a terrible coincidence. Father and son both murdered within months of each other!”
Miles Carmody’s mouth was set in a grim line. “Coincidence, Doctor? So I believed then, but I no longer think so, and neither will you when you hear of the subsequent events.”
Holmes rubbed his hands. “This is interesting indeed,” he said. “I pray you, sir, do not keep us in suspense.”
“As I related,” our visitor went on, “I had retained Knowles in my service, and a week after Sir Frederick’s murder he came to me in a state of extreme agitation. He had been shopping in town and stopping for a drink in a bar. He had seen a man with a hunting rifle that Knowles swore was Alistair’s. The man had vanished before Knowles could accost him, and he had hurried to me with the story. I questioned him closely but he was adamant, saying he had handled the weapon often enough to know its every line and contour. There was no trace of the man in town, but we did find out from the bar owner that his name was Hartley and he came in from time to time. I used every means at my disposal and a lot of money besides to get a line on him, but to no avail.”
“How long ago was this?” Holmes asked.
“A year or more, and as time passed my hopes diminished. Then last February I was in Pietermaritzburg on business when Hartley’s name cropped up. It seemed he had been disposing of an inordinate amount of gold and diamonds, to an extent that forced the close circle of dealers to buy them for fear of the market collapsing. I need not tell you, gentlemen, that when my inquiries indicated he had headed back to Durban, I dropped everything and set off in hot pursuit. Alas, once more I lost him, and although he was known to have been in the town, to all intents and purposes he had dropped out of sight.”
“So you have never actually set eyes on him?” said Holmes. “You could have passed him by in the street without recognizing him?”
“That is so, although I have had some very good descriptions of him, and Knowles certainly knows him.”
“Then what brought you to England and to me?”
“That came about by a flash of inspiration on the part of Knowles. He had scraped an acquaintance with a clerk in the Union Steamship office, and by a little judicious bribery, Knowles had been able to get a sight of the passages booked over the last month.”
“And Hartley’s name was there!” I cried, but Carmody shook his head.
“No, Dr. Watson, it was not, but another name was. There was a cabin booked on the Trojan in the name of Sir Alistair Listel!”
Our visitor paused to see the effect of his announcement on us. On my part, for the second time in the space of half-an-hour I was dumbfounded.
I looked desperately at Holmes, but he had his head laid back and his eyes closed, a faint smile playing around the corners of his mouth.
“Do you not see?” said Carmody eagerly. “An impostor on his way to England to claim the Listel estates and title!”
“Possibly,” murmured my colleague. “On the other hand, could it be that Alistair Listel had not perished as you believed?”
“Balderdash, and you know it!” exploded the South African, “Why would he conceal himself from both his father and me if he were still alive? Even had he escaped his captors after his father’s murder, why not proclaim himself?”
“I could advance several reasons,” Holmes said. “However, your theory of an impostor is the most tenable, so we will proceed on those lines. I assume you set off hot-foot after this putative Sir Alistair?”
“Not immediately,” Carmody admitted. “I was obliged to settle my affairs and could obtain no passage to England until the Natal liner Limpopo sailed twelve days later. In the meantime Knowles – bright fellow that he is – had continued his perusal of the sailing lists and by mistake had picked up one for 1881, and whose name do you think he came across?”
“Samuel Harper’s,” Holmes replied instantly.
“You are right, sir.” Carmody sounded disappointed that his bombshell had proved a damp squib. “August ‘81 – an open berth for Samuel Harper, seven guineas. I was convinced that there was a connection between Harper and the man calling himself Alistair Listel whom I believed to be Hartley, and by Jove, I was right!” Holmes remained silent and presently our visitor continued.
“Knowles and I left Durban on the Limpopo, but we were nearly two weeks behind our quarry when we landed, and I at once despatched Knowles to this Bickstone Place to get the lie of the land. Remember, it was he who could identify Hartley positively, and I deemed it wiser to ascertain that he in fact meant to go ahead with the imposture. I took rooms in the Brecon Hotel, just off Chancery Lane, receiving daily reports from Knowles proving that both Harper and Hartley were in the vicinity of Bickstone, Harper in fact being employed as a gamekeeper by Sir Charles.”
Holmes gave a puzzled frown. “Why have you come to me if you know this much?” he said. “Surely you are in a position to refute any claim by Hartley to be Sir Frederick’s son and heir? Knowles was Listel’s personal servant and can identify Harper as the renegade who attacked him and Listel, so what do you want of me?”
“The situation has changed,” Carmody replied. “Knowles has been sending me daily intelligence of his observations, and even when there was nothing to report he would still telegraph. Now I am worried, for I have had no word from him since Tuesday and I fear for his safety. I hesitate to reveal my presence for obvious reasons. Therefore I seek your aid and advice. Help me, Mr. Holmes, I beg of you. You may set your fee and I will gladly meet it twice over. See?” He took from his pocket a leather purse and poured a shower of bright new sovereigns on to the low table beside him. Despite my friend’s austere nature he had a healthy respect for money, having in the past known the want of it. At the same time, it would not influence him to engage in a case that held no interest for him, although he had no reservations about accepting what he regarded as his just dues.
“My charges, Mr. Carmody, are determined by the intricacies and dangers of any matter to which I apply myself,” he said. “Put your money away and we will come to an equitable arrangement on the successful resolution of your problem.” He spoke to me over his shoulder. “Be a good chap, Watson, and see if our watchdog has returned.” I went to the window and squinted through the crack in the curtains to scan the street below.
“All clear, Holmes,” I reported, resuming my seat. “He must have given up for the time being.”
“Good.” Holmes turned back to the South African. “Your case, sir, is a complex one, not least because it impinges on another matter that has been brought to my attention. I must ask you one or two questions and I expect straight answers.”
“I have nothing to hide, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I have been open with you thus far and shall continue to be so. Ask away and I will answer frankly.”
“Then tell me, Mr. Carmody,” said my companion, fixing his sharp eyes on the other’s face, “do you know or have you heard of a Miss Celia Winsett?”
Miles Carmody shook his head blankly. “No. The name means nothing to me whatsoever. Should it? Who is she?”
“She is a very attractive young person in her middle-twenties with brown hair, grey eyes, and a forceful personality.”
“She sounds most delightful, Mr. Holmes, but no, I have no acquaintances at all in England. I am sure I would recall such a charming young lady had I the good fortune to meet her.”
Holmes got to his feet and went over to the dining table where, from under the tea-cosy, he produced the ivory box left by Kiss Winsett. He whipped round with it in the palm of his hand and thrust it under the eyes of the startled Carmody.
“And this, sir: Does this mean anything to you?”
Chapter IV – Bickstone Lodge
Miles Carmody’s features took on an ashen hue and his eyes bulged from his head. He stared at the object lying in Holmes’s palm as though mesmerised. After some seconds he looked up at the thin face looming over him and his expression changed to one of furious anger. He would have stood up, but Holmes restrained him with a sinewy hand planted firmly in the middle of the chest. Carmody struggled vainly for a few seconds, then he spoke in a harsh grating voice.
“How came you by that?” he almost snarled. “What is it doing in your possession? I demand to know what game you’re playing!”
“Then you do recognize it?” said Holmes quietly. “Fear not, I shall conceal nothing from you if you will but tell me what it is and from whence it came. Trust me, sir, I beg you.”
For a time Carmody’s eyes alternated between the ivory box and my friend’s face. Then his anger died away to be replaced by an expression of sadness.
“It seems that for the moment I must trust you, Mr. Holmes,” he said in a jerky voice. “I believe you to be an honourable man – but I warn you, I am a bad man to cross.”
“I do not take kindly to threats,” replied Holmes, a hint of steel in his voice. “However, I will make allowances for the shock I have sprung on you and assure you of my continued good will. Come now, tell me about this curious artefact and why it gives you so much concern.”
Still retaining the box in his hand, he sat down and waited for the other man to speak, watching him closely the while.
“That box,” said Carmody in a low strained voice, “I last saw two years ago in the possession of Alistair Listel. It was given to him by an old Zulu whom Listel had saved from slavers. It still goes on, you know,” he added, and Holmes nodded for him to continue.
“I believe the native used it to carry a magic charm,” went on the South African. “Of course, it was only the box he gave to Listel, not the charm. There is quite a trick in getting it open.”
“So I discovered,” said Holmes with a smile.
“Was there anything inside it?”
Without comment Holmes passed him the scrap of stained paper.
“Well, Mr. Carmody?” he said after a few seconds.
“I think this may have been written by Knowles,” said Carmody, his face set in grim lines. “How the box came into his hands I can only surmise, for I am certain he did not have it before.” His voice grew animated. “Then my friend and partner may still be alive!”
“Do not pin your hopes on it,” said Holmes bleakly. “It could have been taken from him at the time of his kidnapping and Knowles recovered it from – ” He stopped and raised an eyebrow.
“Harper!” cried the other. “Knowles has found Harper! By God, I have him at last!” He sprang to his feet to stride wildly around the room, his eyes blazing. “He must be at Bickstone, so there is no time to be lost if we are to apprehend him.” He came to a halt in front of Holmes, frowning darkly. “You have still not explained how the box came into your possession, Mr. Holmes. Has Knowles been in touch with you?”
“No. I had not heard the name until it came from your lips. If you will but calm yourself and sit down, I’ll redeem my promise to tell you as much as I’m able. Ah, that’s better,” Holmes took three cigars from the coal scuttle and handed one each to Carmody and me before settling back in his chair with a contemplative expression.
“I find that your business runs parallel to that of another client,” he began. “Averse as I am to discussing the confidential matters of another, I feel that in this case I’m justified in doing so in the interests of you both.” He blew a smoke ring from his cigar and watched it dissolve above his head. Then, choosing his words carefully, he outlined the story told earlier by Miss Celia Winsett and the steps we had taken to ensure her continued safety. Carmody looked grim when he heard Samuel Harper’s name and his involvement, but he remained silent until Holmes had completed his story.
“Where is this courageous lady now?” he asked, but Holmes shook his head.
“Only the good Doctor and myself know that, and for the present it must remain so. As for Knowles, I believe he may by now be beyond human aid.”
“You mean – ?”
“I fear such to be the case. By your account, we’re dealing with desperate and ruthless men, and with at least two murders to their credit, they wouldn’t stop at one more to achieve their ends. All the same, Watson and I will proceed immediately to Bickstone, for that is where it all pivots.”
“I shall come with you,” said Carmody. “I can identify Harper, and most probably Hartley also.”
“No, that will not be wise.” Holmes shook his head. “As you can recognize them, so can they you. Both Watson and I know Harper, but it remains to be established if he and John Hartley are actually in league. My advice to you, Mr. Miles Carmody, is that you go back to your hotel and await the outcome of our investigations at Bickstone.”
“You want me to sit around in idleness, not knowing what’s going on?”
“For the moment, yes,” Holmes replied firmly. You have sought my help, and I must be allowed to follow my own methods. Should your presence be necessary, I need to know where I may find without undue delay.”
Our client’s mouth was set in rebellious lines. Then, with a deep sigh, he spread his hands in resignation. “As you say, Mr. Holmes, I have come to you for aid and I would be foolish not to abide by your advice, When may I expect to hear from you?”
“I shall telegraph you twice daily,” said Holmes. “At ten o’clock in the morning and at three in the afternoon. Any instructions from me must be obeyed to the letter, and should you not hear from Watson or myself on two successive occasions, you will then contact Scotland Yard and tell them the whole story. My name will ensure the attention of one of the leading inspectors – Gregson, Lestrade, or Peter Jones. Now, Dr. Watson and I will set off for Bickstone, but you, Mr. Carmody, will wait here until darkness falls before leaving as unobtrusively as possible. With luck your visit here isn’t known, and we will hope to keep it so. Come, Watson – the game’s afoot!”
Within twenty minutes we were on our way to catch our train to Bromley, the nearest station to Bickstone. From my association with Holmes, I had become used to these sudden journeys and always kept a Gladstone bag ready-packed for any such eventuality. The evening was mild, but I wore my ulster and was comforted by the drag of my old service revolver tugging against my right-hand pocket. I knew that Holmes had his small pocket pistol, and we both had the weighted sticks that had served us so well on more than one occasion.
“Do you believe Knowles to be dead?” I asked as we rattled down the City road.
“I fear so,” replied my companion, rousing himself from his reverie. “If he had come on the trail of Hartley and had been recognized, I would not give a pinch of snuff for his chances. I would like to be proved wrong, but it would be against all reason.”
“But what is Miss Winsett’s part in it? I see no connection between her and the deaths of the Listels. And why was the box left with her?”
“That was purely fortuitous,” said Holmes. “My present theory is that Harper stole it from the younger Listel at the time of his capture and presumed murder. By some means Knowles obtained possession of it but, being unable to get away undetected and being at his last gasp, he thrust it through the letter-box of the cottage.”
“What would that achieve?” I objected. “The lady could know nothing of its significance and may well have retained it as an amusing ornament.”
