Fearing the worst, she turned to face Lyons, who then asked her very directly, “Do you think this Sherlock Holmes could disguise himself as a sweep or some other itinerant tradesman?”
Chapter 22 – Shannonvale, Feb. 16–17
Not knowing what to do, but deciding to take no chances, I said, “I’m leaving now, but before I do, I’m going to slip a note under the door.”
After I had pushed the paper through the crack, I turned and started walking across the field back toward the road. I thought I head the door open, but I wasn’t about to test his patience or my luck, so I refrained from turning around.
I had gone perhaps another 20 feet, when I heard a voice call out, “Mr. Ward! Mr. Ward! Please accept my apologies. As you might have guessed, I thought you were someone else entirely.”
I wondered whom he might have been expecting that he felt it necessary to greet them with a shotgun, but I decided to let my host tell me his tale in his own good time.
“There’s no harm done,” I said. “It’s just that I’m down this way looking for my people, and your brother – you are Andrew Crumblin?”
“Call me Andy,” he interrupted me.
“Well, Andy,” I said, “your brother Thomas suggested I look you up. I had been working for him, before I left Cork.”
“Yes, yes, I see that,” he said, “and Tommy says you’re a right fine fellow. How can I help you Mr. Ward?”
“I’m hoping to rent a small cottage, while I see if I can find my family on my mother’s side.”
“And your mother’s surname before she wed?”
“She was an O’Sullivan,” I lied.
“Well, we’ve no shortage of O’Sullivans in these parts, and there’s even more in Clonakilty. As for the cottage, I’d invite you to stay with me, but as you can see by looking at my home, there’s nowhere to put you.”
By now, we had reached the house, and he said, “Come in and have a cup of tea while I think where you might situate yourself.”
“Do you live alone?” I asked.
“No,” he said, “my wife and the children are visiting her sister over in Darrara. I expect them home shortly.
“You know,” he continued, “there’s a cousin of mine runs a boarding house in Shannonvale. It’s not even three miles from here, and it’s about the same to Clonakilty. I could write you a letter of introduction,” he looked at me and laughed, “Don’t worry, Mr. Ward. James doesn’t even own a shotgun, so there’s no danger there.”
After he had prepared our tea, he set pen to paper and when he had finished, he folded it up, placed it in an envelope and said, “Give this to Jimmy Morton. He’ll take good care of you.”
He gave me directions and insisted that I take one of his horses, “Jimmy will get it back to me. Good luck Mr. Ward, and let me know how you progress in your search.”
The horse moved at an easy trot and some 20 minutes later, I was standing in front of Morton’s Boarding House on Old Cratloe Road in Shannonvale.
I knocked on the door, and a loud voice said, “Come in.”
I entered and saw a tall, slender man, sitting in a chair, reading a book. He rose as I closed the door behind me. “My apologies,” he said, “I thought it was my brother. Who might you be, and what can I do for you?”
I recited my story, gave him my note, and said, “Can you help me?”
“Certainly, Mr. Ward. I’ve a lovely room at the top of the stairs. Let me show it to you and see if it meets with your approval.”
“You don’t know of any cottages I can rent? I am a terrible snorer.”
“Not at the moment,” he replied. “Why don’t you stay here for a day or two, and we’ll see if we can’t find you a place of your own.”
I agreed and soon we were ascending a flight of stairs, so that he could show me the room.
“How much is it?” I asked.
“Normally, I get 10 pence a night, but seeing as how you come so highly recommended. I’ll make it 8 pence a night, and if you pay a week in advance, it’s yours for 50 pence.”
“I’ll take it,” I said, handing him 50 pence.
“Wonderful,” he exclaimed, “My only rule is no drinking in the house.”
“That’s fine,” I said.
“I should also tell you that I have another lodger in that room.” He pointed toward a closed door. “So, you’ll have to share the bath.”
“What about your family?” I asked.
“We sleep out back in a separate house. This is a building I inherited, and I use it to entertain and to bring in a little extra.”
Reaching in his pocket, he produced two keys. “Here is the key to the front door and the key to your room. I’ll lock the front now, I don’t imagine my brother is coming this late.
“So, I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Ward. If you’re interested, you can breakfast with us for an additional tuppence.”
“Done,” I said. Reaching into my pocket, I counted out 14 more pence and handed them to him.
“You are a gentleman, sir,” he said, “And tomorrow, I’ll point you in the direction of the O’Sullivans in Shannonvale, Darrara and Clonakilty.”
“Thank you, Mr. Morton, and good night.”
I entered my room, thinking things couldn’t have gone better. I suddenly realized how tired I was. My head hit the pillow and I was soon fast asleep.
However, I woke shortly after and then sleep eluded me for quite some time as I wondered where Holmes might be and how he might be faring.
The next morning I dined with the Mortons and received a list of all the O’Sullivans they knew in Shannonvale, Darrara and Clonakilty. Since as you might expect there were more of them in the latter, it being the largest city, I told Mr. Morton, I would begin my searches there.
He told me that Eileen O’Sullivan lived on Wolfe Tone Street, and I would pass her house on my way into Clonakilty.
About 40 minutes later, I knocked on Eileen
O’Sullivan’s front door, and over a second cup of tea told her my tale. She did not have a sister named Bridget – the name I had given my fictitious mother – but she seemed to think there might have been a Bridget in the O’Sullivan clan that lived on Old Chapel Lane.
About an hour later, I found myself sitting with Rita O’Sullivan, who had a cousin named Bridget, but she had married an Ulsterman, she told me.
It was midday, and I decided to check at the Post Office for a wire from Mycroft. I found a telegram waiting for George Ward. Upon opening it, I saw the words. “Order received. Stop. Unable to fulfill it. Stop. Machine broken. Stop. Regrets, Banks.”
I had no idea what any of it meant, but I put it in my pocket to keep it safe for Holmes.
I decided that I was hungry and opted to try my luck at Scannell’s Public House.
The place was virtually empty and I found myself sitting alone. I ordered bangers and mash and a pint of Guinness, and was wondering how I might meet up with Holmes, when a boy walked over to me and asked, “Are you Mr. George Ward?”
I told him I was, and he said, “Mr. O’Sullivan asked me to give you this.” He handed me an envelope, and I handed him a shilling.
I wondered which of the many O’Sullivans in that area was looking for me. I had met several women but had yet to encounter a male O’Sullivan. After he had left, I opened the note and read, “Start home to Shannonvale at 4 p.m. and I will find you on Old Timoleague Road.”
My heart was racing. The note could have come only from Holmes, and I was excited at the prospect of seeing him again.
After my meal, I visited three more families of O’Sullivans in an effort to dispel suspicion and maintain my new-found identity. Looking at my watch, I saw that it was a few minutes before four, so I set out for Shannonvale on the route I had been told to foll
ow.
About a mile outside of town, I saw a man struggling with a wagon. I wanted to be alone to meet Holmes, but my human nature got the better of me, so I said, “Do you need any assistance?”
Without turning around, he said in a thick brogue, “If you could just hold this axle for a minute, I’d be most grateful.”
As I held the axle with both hands, he stepped back, looked at the wheel and then turned to me and said, “How were those sausages? They looked delicious.”
Chapter 23 – Clonakilty, Feb. 17
“I don’t know what’s to be done,” said Lyons. He was sitting with the men who had helped him steal the stone. The only one missing was Michael Collins, who had not been asked to attend.
“I think we have a stalemate,” said Santry. “They won’t give us our freedom, and we will most definitely not return the stone. However, I do see a glimmer of hope.”
“And what might that be?” asked O’Brien.
“There has been no news about the coronation,” replied Santry. “Surely, that bodes well for us. If they had the stone, I should think they would be announcing a date for King Edward to assume the throne. Without the stone, they find themselves waiting just as we are. And we have everything to gain.”
“And everything to lose,” interjected Lyons.
“How’s that?” asked O’Brien.
Lyons replied, “We have done all that we can do. From now on, we must be passive. At the same time, the British have hired Sherlock Holmes and possibly other agents in an effort to recover the stone.”
“We know that it’s well-hidden,” said Nesbitt, “and that’s a fact. The only way they can possibly find the stone is if one of us talks.”
“And that won’t happen,” said Santry. “We swore an oath when we joined the Brotherhood. Let us right now reaffirm that pledge that we will never betray our cause or reveal the hiding place of the stone.”
They all agreed and pledged their sacred honor to the cause and the secret.
“And that is why I stressed that we must be ever vigilant,” said Lyons. “Are there any strangers in town besides the sweep that Barnewell mentioned?”
“Yes,” said Santry. “There’s a fellow calls himself George Ward. He says he’s here looking for his people. He claims his mother was an O’Sullivan.”
“Do you believe his story?” asked Lyons.
“Well, I know he visited four O’Sullivan families today, so for the moment, I would say that he appears to be what he says he is.”
“And how about the sweep? What do we make of him?” asked Lyons.
“He cleaned my neighbor’s chimney,” said Nesbitt, “and they were quite satisfied with the work. I was thinking of hiring him myself.”
“Why don’t you do that,” said Lyons. “Be discreet, but see what you can find out about him. I don’t like it when there’s one outsider in Clonakilty, and the notion of two truly vexes me.”
“We’ll watch them,” said Santry, “but they may be exactly what they say they are. After all Denis, there was a time when you were a newcomer to our village.”
“True enough,” said Lyons, “but I didn’t show up in the weeks after one of the greatest robberies in the history of England – a robbery about which no one is talking – at least not publicly.”
“Well, we know what to do with such men,” said O’Brien. “Now, I’ve got to get on my way. I’ve a nice ride back to Cork and the comfort of my bed.”
“Best to the family,” said Lyons.
“I’ll be on my way as well,” said Nesbitt.
When they had left, Lyons looked at Santry and said, “They did good work in London, and they can talk of knowing what to do with such men, but I wonder if they would have the stomach for it, if it had to be done.”
“I think Nesbitt would,” said Santry, “O’Brien – I have my doubts. But it doesn’t matter. If there’s a bit of hard work to be done, you know you can count on me.”
“And you on me,” said Lyons. “Now, I’m going to see if I can find that sweep. It’s not that I don’t trust Nesbitt, but I think I should like to meet this fellow face to face. If I send for you, you’ll come immediately?”
“Of course,” said Santry.
“Now, let us figure out what we can do to trip this man up on the chance that he isn’t what he claims to be.”
They discussed the possibilities for close to 30 minutes, and when they had finished, they were both quite pleased with the scheme that they had devised.
“As the great playwright once said, ‘The play’s the thing. Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.’ I like this plan, Santry. I think it will bear fruit if we but nurture it carefully.”
Chapter 24 – Shannonvale, Feb. 17
While I was excited to see Holmes, I also knew that it was imperative that we maintain our disguises. Holmes indicated as much by cautiously raising his finger to his lips.
After fixing the wagon, we continued walking toward both Shannonvale and Darrara. When we reached Ring Road, Holmes turned right and I followed. After about a half mile, he bade me wait in front of what appeared to be a deserted cottage while he ventured back down the road whence we had come.
After about 20 minutes, he returned and said in his broad brogue, “Hurry inside, and I’ll see what I can do for you.”
Once we had entered, he stretched and then he turned to me and said, “It is so good to see you, old friend. I notice that your limp is as obvious as ever. Well done, Watson! And how goes your quest for your long-lost mother? Fruitless, I hope.”
As he spoke, he lit a fire and put on water for tea. “I’m afraid it won’t be like Mrs. Hudson’s, but it’s the best I can do under the circumstances.”
I could see that he was flushed with excitement, and I wondered if he would ever pause and allow me to speak.
Finally, I said, “Holmes, I’ve something for you.”
He finally paused, “Oh, what might that be?”
I handed him the telegram, which he read several times.
Finally, I said, “It makes no sense to me.”
“It’s code, Watson. So if it had made sense, I should be extremely worried.”
“Code?” I asked.
“Just a little something that Mycroft and I worked on before I left. Not at all like the one that you and I devised. The wire reads: ‘Order received. Stop. Unable to fulfill it. Stop. Machine broken. Stop. Regrets Banks.’
“The phrase ‘Order received’ means another demand has been made. ‘Unable to fulfill it’ tells me that the crown will not comply. It’s the last two phrases that are puzzling. Mycroft has sent me a message, but concealed it in the broadest possible terms.”
I could see him turning the words over and over in his mind, searching for a combination that made sense.
As we sipped our tea, I knew there would no rest on his part until he had sorted it out.
After about 30 minutes of absolute silence and two pipes, he exclaimed, “I have been a blind beetle, Watson. ‘Machine broken’ is so obvious that I missed it looking for something far more subtle. It simply means that the demand was typed rather than handwritten and that something in the typewriter is amiss or ‘broken.’ The last word Banks, which can also be a synonym for shoals, tells me that the demand was composed on a Sholes and Glidden Type-Writer. I can only conclude that the word ‘Regrets’ is intended to point us to the letter ‘R’ on that particular machine.”
“Bravo, Holmes,” I exclaimed.
“Not at all, Watson. As you know I have devoted more than a little time to the study of typewriters and their individual characteristics. I might have finished my monograph several years ago, but new machines are constantly being introduced. Chief among them is the Remington No. 2, which allows typists to shift from lowercase letters t
o upper and back. Can you believe it? Researching it and all the other new developments has required a considerable amount of time on my part, and I still haven’t completed my analysis. At any rate, I should like my work to be as comprehensive as possible.”
And then he caught himself and started to laugh, “But I digress. We have some catching up to do, and I am certain that you are as interested in my progress as I am in yours.
“But first, however, I think we must eat. I am famished. I believe that I have told you that this sweeping does give a man an appetite.”
He opened his bag and produced cured ham, cheese, a loaf of brown bread and a bottle of ale. “It isn’t much,” he said, “but if one were to look at us, it certainly befits men of our station.”
I laughed, and said, “Indeed, it does. Now Holmes, tell me what you have been up to?”
As he set about preparing our simple meal, Holmes began recounting his adventures.
“I worked my way down here as I said I would, and my reputation did indeed precede me. There’s not a housewife living that can refuse a bargain and the chance of getting her chimney cleaned for free. As a result, I have been working constantly. More important, I have been listening and observing. I think I can say with absolute certainty that the men who took the stone are all from Clonakilty – with O’Brien, the carpenter from Cork, being the obvious exception.
“I can also tell you that this small village is a hotbed of republicanism with its own chapter of the Irish Republican Brotherhood. So we must be on our guard because I am equally certain that they are expecting British agents.”
“How can you be sure of that?”
“Because the men of the village have been meeting more frequently than usual in the past few days, and they have been instructed not to discuss the nature of their meetings with anyone – not even their wives – a fact that has Mrs. Nesbitt more than a little put out with her husband. By the way, would you believe that Mr. Nesbitt invited me for a nip after I had finished my work and then spent 20 minutes inquiring about my past and my family.”
The Stone of Destiny Page 9