Read The Lost Files of Sherlock Holmes Online
Authors: Paul D. Gilbert
The Lost Files of Sherlock Holmes (9 page)
‘Not at all, not at all, I merely questioned the two witnesses you, unfortunately, decided to ignore and I was ably assisted by a pair of trousers, some cigarette ash and a beard.’
‘Ah yes the beard!’ I exclaimed. ‘However did you know which one was false?’
‘Until we reached the room, I must confess, I could not be sure that either would be. I merely regarded it as possible that the other bearded gentleman leaving Covent Garden was Analdo in his Giovanni guise. When I observed the two beards in close proximity, the truth of my supposition was clear. I have noticed, in my numerous studies of the human race, that very rarely does the facial hair grow to the exact pigment as that on the head. This you can see for
yourselves
on this individual.’ He pointed to the large Italian bodyguard, and there was indeed a subtle difference in shade. ‘Analdo’s, on the other hand,’ Holmes continued, ‘was matched too perfectly by Covent Garden’s costume department and gave him away immediately.
‘Ah, I see your constables are ready to remove our foreign guest. Take especially good care of this fellow.’ He said
pointing to the bodyguard. ‘I fancy he is a dangerous
individual
and may, even yet prove to be Tordelli’s murderer.’
Holmes glanced at his watch and announced. ‘Watson, I think we now deserve that supper that Mrs Hudson will have so kindly prepared for us, and I trust you will indulge me afterwards and accompany me to what promises to be a rather splendid violin recital at eight o clock.’
‘I should be delighted Holmes, provided there is no singing!’
D
uring the early months of my marriage to my dear Mary, I saw precious little of my old friend Sherlock Holmes. My medical practice had been unusually busy due to an outbreak of influenza brought on by an unseasonably mild and wet January. Therefore, though I am ashamed to admit it, I had barely given him a thought. However, when Mary decided to visit her family for a
fortnight
and a frosty cold snap stemmed my influx of patients, my thoughts turned once more to 221b Baker Street.
So it was, that on a particularly frosty February morning I found myself staring up, once more, at that familiar building. I hesitated for a moment, unsure of the reception I might receive from my unpredictable friend, however Mrs Hudson’s cheery greeting helped alleviate these fears and I bounded up the stairs to our old rooms.
I found Holmes seated on the window ledge with his back to the door. I had not expected a warm greeting from him, but Holmes reacted to my presence as if I had not been away. He merely waved me towards him, barely giving me a glance.
‘Come and watch the poor career of a redundant crime specialist disappear down a London thoroughfare,’ he said quietly. I noted at least three day’s hair growth on his
gaunt face and knew at once that he was bemoaning the lack of a stimulating case.
I joined him at the window and followed his forlorn gaze down Baker Street. While Holmes sat there shaking his head, I tried to observe the cause of his mood. Yet all I could see was the usual throng of hundreds of Londoners making their way to work. There was nothing noteworthy about any of them. I told Holmes as much.
‘Exactly Watson!’ Holmes exclaimed. ‘Ordinary people going about their ordinary lives, not one of them possessing that divine spark of genius or inspiration to challenge an extraordinary detective.’
Holmes’s immodesty had often annoyed me in the past, but in this context it seemed to be in very poor taste.
‘Well, I hope that not one of them would agree with you.’
‘Perhaps you are right, Watson; one unemployed
detective
is a small price to pay for a crime-free metropolis. Ah! Mrs Hudson has your breakfast.’ He opened the door before Mrs Hudson had a chance to knock and ushered her in bearing a large tray.
‘Doctor Watson, I have prepared something special for your visit and I do hope you can persuade Mr Holmes to join you. He barely eats enough to fill a sparrow.’ Mrs Hudson left the tray on the table and hurried out before Holmes could remonstrate with her.
‘Spare me your disapproval Watson,’ Holmes
anticipated
, ‘I had every intention of indulging in a slice or two of toast and a cup of coffee, prior to your impromptu visit.’
‘Well looking at you, I would say it was long overdue.’ I said while uncovering the dishes. I soon applied myself to some delicious bacon and eggs, while Holmes sat there, suppressing an amused smile.
‘I am glad to observe that married life has done nothing to suppress your appetite. So, Watson, will your sabbatical allow you time to sample some fresh Kentish sea air for a few days?’
‘I am sure it would,’ I replied between mouthfuls, ‘but in heaven’s name why?’
‘Despite my appearance and my disparaging remarks about our humdrum fellow Londoners, the wheels are turning once again.’ Holmes reached into his dressing gown pocket and produced three pages of a crumpled letter, which he tossed onto the table by my plate. ‘Ha! Now chew on that, friend Watson!’
Dear Mr Holmes,
Before I begin, please accept my apologies for troubling you on something which I am sure you will think is trivial. I would not have done so, even now, but Inspector Hopkins of the Kent Police insisted this was not a police matter, as no crime had been committed, and he suggested I wrote to you.
‘Inspector Hopkins again!’ I exclaimed, putting aside the letter for a moment. ‘His commission has introduced us to five or six of your most successful cases, even that affair of the Abbey Grange, which began so disappointingly, was something special.’
‘Ah yes the three glasses and the remarkable Captain Crocker!’ Holmes agreed and then waved towards the letter. ‘Please continue.’
I will try to be as brief as possible. My situation is this:
My ailing mother and I run a small boarding house, “Cliff Court Lodge”, perched on the steepest of the harbour cliffs
,
looking down on Broadsea Bay. Apart from Nellie, our
live-in
housemaid and two elderly permanent lodgers, we are the only occupants of this large, draughty house.
As you can imagine, our livelihood depends on our having a successful summer season, and therefore I can offer you nothing more than your rail fare to Broadsea Bay and the best hospitality Cliff Court Lodge can offer.
Now, to blind old Captain Dyson. Sixteen years ago, a period in my life still vivid, because it was at this time that my dear father passed away, there was a tragic fire on board the “Sea Lizard”. This was the largest and finest vessel in our trawler fleet, and was owned by Captain Dyson. An
accident
occurred in the engine-room whilst the vessel was still in harbour and the fire consumed the entire ship’s company save the captain.
Despite the gravity of the captain’s injuries, he lost the use of his left arm and had hideous facial burns which left him blinded and horribly deformed, the people of our village despised him for having survived whilst his crew perished. He was shunned, made an outcast and from then until now, Captain Dyson has shut himself away in his small shack on the cliff, adjacent to our property. Whenever he leaves his place, his entire head is shrouded in a large black hood.
Apart from the Widow McCumber, who cleans for him once a week out of pity, no-one visits the shack. He only comes out of it once a day when he shuffles slowly down the narrow path to the harbour, using a long staff to guide his way. People avoid the path when they hear the echo of his stick upon the cobble and he meets no-one on his route.
Out of respect for who he once was, Linus Rawlings, the Landlord of “The Admiral’s Mast” tavern, provides him wit
h
ham, cheese and a small cask of ale in exchange for a few coins. The patrons all turn from him when he enters and the transaction takes place in an eerie silence. Dyson slowly returns to his shack, clasping his precious supplies and tapping his staff, there to remain until the following day.
My room faces towards the harbour, so it is not uncommon for me to see Captain Dyson on his return trip, always at five o’clock in the afternoon, when I take to my room to read.
You can imagine my surprise, Mr Holmes, when last Tuesday, as I was leaving my room at six o’clock to serve supper, I glanced out of my window and saw Captain Dyson coming up the path towards our house, I was suddenly struck by how menacing the hood made him appear, I must confess this feeling was compounded by the thought of what lay beneath. As I stood watching him, Dyson altered his schedule further by continuing straight up the path, rather than branching to the right towards his shack as he normally would do. Just in front of our house the path branches again, left to our entrance and right towards the original path and Dyson’s shack.
I was relieved and thankful to see him bear to the right and I left my window to organise supper. Before leaving my room, however, I was stopped in my tracks by a sound; or rather a lack of one, Dyson had stopped tapping the path with his staff.
Hesitantly I returned to my window and Captain Dyson had halted directly beneath me. Now, I understand that you might think these are the ramblings of a mad woman and burn this letter when you continue to read, but Dyson seemed to be standing there gazing up at me! Impossible for a blind man, and you would think just my imagination, ye
t
,
Mr Holmes, despite his large black shroud the Captain was standing there staring up at me. Finally, when I moved from the window I heard the tapping resume and he finally returned to his shack.
Mr Holmes, he has repeated this pattern every day since, each time lingering a while longer beneath my window and I have not had a night’s sleep since. Captain Dyson’s eyes were seared from their sockets in the fire so why does he seem to be watching me? What does it mean?
If your schedule allows, I would be so grateful if you would come to Broadsea and put my mind at rest. You will be made very welcome at our Lodge and I hope to see you at your earliest convenience.
Lucy Hardcastle,
Cliff Court Lodge.
Holmes was now leaning eagerly across the table like a pointer dog held on its leash, awaiting my reaction to this most singular letter.
‘Has there ever been a more heartfelt cry for your help?’ I asked.
‘It is most gratifying, I admit, but what is your theory friend Watson? I am sure this Captain Dyson has not found himself a new pair of eyes.’ Holmes quipped, lighting yet another cigarette.
‘I must confess I am at a complete loss,’ was my bland reply.
‘You are intrigued though, admit it.’
‘Of course!’ I confirmed.
‘Intrigued enough to accompany me to the Kent coast?’
‘I would not dream of letting you go alone.’
‘Capital Watson! Our train leaves Victoria in fifty-five minutes!’
I nearly choked on my tea. ‘Our train! Really Holmes, this time you have presumed too much!’
‘Calm yourself, Watson, you know I cannot resist a touch of melodrama. However the truth is I visited your home last week and, though disappointed to find you engaged at your surgery, I enjoyed a delightful tea with Mrs Watson. She informed me of her planned fortnight away with her family. So, you can see that your visit this morning was not entirely unexpected.’
‘Even so …’ Yet I was so amused by his
presumptuousness
that I could not persist with my objections.
‘Do you still keep your overnight bag packed and in readiness?’ Holmes asked.
‘Of course.’
‘Excellent! We shall collect them on our way to Victoria.’ Holmes disappeared into his room and in an instant emerged clothed in his heavy ulster and deerstalker.
‘Cab, Mrs Hudson!’ He called as he bundled me out of the room. Still bemused as to how a surprise visit to my old lodgings had turned around so, I now found myself on my way to a new adventure in Kent.
As we alighted from our train, I was immediately struck by the effect of a North Sea breeze on an already intensely cold February day. Clearly Holmes was similarly affected for we turned our coat collars up to our cheeks
simultaneously
.
We followed the directions furnished by the station master and ten minutes later found ourselves outside Cliff Court Lodge.
As we stood waiting for a response to our knock on the
door, I quickly surveyed our surroundings. The picturesque harbour nestling in a secluded bay, the small row of shops which comprised the high street and a small dilapidated building perched on an adjacent cliff. Even from this distance I could see the wood was rotten and its roof was covered with moss.
‘Holmes, look! Dyson’s shack.’ I pointed. Holmes, however, was more intent on escaping the freezing wind to which he was more susceptible than I, and ignoring my observation, banged his way into the Lodge in search of a relieving fire.
To compensate for Holmes’s brusqueness, I tipped my hat to the round-faced young woman, whom, I rightly assumed was the maid Nellie, who had just opened the door to us. ‘Mrs Hardcastle and Miss Lucy are waiting for you in the drawing-room at the end of the passage; I shall be along presently with some tea, gentlemen.’ Holmes was already half way down the passage, so I thanked the girl and followed him at a more sedate pace.
The drawing-room proved to be a small, yet comfortably furnished room with a large roaring fire by which Holmes had settled himself in a comfortable chair and was holding his hands by the warming coals. Unfortunately Mrs Hardcastle had taken to her bed suffering with a mild headache, her daughter’s welcome, however, more than compensated for her mother’s absence. Lucy Hardcastle was a small slim young woman with light brown curly hair, loosely tied with a ribbon. She leapt from her chair the moment we entered the room.
‘Oh, Mr Holmes, I cannot believe someone so celebrated would come to my aid so promptly. Thank you so much, and you to, Dr Watson!’
Clearly embarrassed, Holmes waved her aside as she attempted to grasp his hands. He was saved further awkwardness by Nellie’s timely arrival with a tea-trolley.
The tea was sweet, strong and piping hot, and after two cups, Holmes finally felt able to remove his outer garments.
‘Miss Hardcastle, your letter was both informative and coherent. Is there anything you have omitted which you feel might aid my investigation?’ Holmes asked, leaning forward towards her.
She hesitated for a moment. ‘No, I do not think so. I should warn you, however, that my mother was most averse to my sending the letter, if there are any questions you wish to ask of her, might I suggest you wait until the morning.’