The Stone of Destiny

by Richard T Ryan

  “Well, if they are looking for your gray eyes, they certainly won’t find them on me,” I laughed.

  I then proceeded to tell Holmes about the boy that I thought was following me.

  “I’m sure you are right, Watson, so you must be very careful.”

  “Now, what about those wires you received?” I asked.

  “One was from Mycroft, informing me that 24 Sholes and Glidden Type-Writers have been shipped to Cork in the last five years. As near as he can tell, only two have made their way to Clonakilty. Whether they remain here or whether others have arrived via a more circuitous route, he cannot say with any degree of certainty.”

  “And the others?”

  “I had asked Mycroft to look into any reports of missing tombstones.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because if you are going to smuggle the stone out of England in a coffin, as I believe they have done, the next logical step is to bury the coffin and then camouflage it with a grave marker.”

  “And what did Mycroft discover?”

  “Oddly enough, there have been several reports of stolen tombstones. None near here, unfortunately.”

  “That would have been too easy,” I observed.

  “Yes,” remarked Holmes. “All of the missing markers, four to be exact, occurred in various counties far to the north. Two went missing from Londonderry, one from Armagh and one from Donegal. Given the distance, I can only ascribe those thefts to the strained relations between Catholics and Protestants in that part of the country. Otherwise, they make no sense.”

  “There are times when I think this entire case makes no sense,” I sniffed.

  “I shouldn’t let the King hear that,” Holmes countered.

  As we laughed for what seemed the first time in weeks, Holmes announced that the potatoes had cooked, and we would be eating in three minutes.

  Had I known what we would encounter in the not-too-distant future, I think I might have eaten that humble fare with a much greater appreciation for ordinary creature comforts.

  Chapter 30 – Clonakilty, Feb. 21–22

  “Well, now that you have seen him, what do you think?” asked Lyons.

  “There are certain qualities about him that make me think he might be Holmes,” answered Kathleen.

  She continued, “His height is about the same, but given all the clothes he was wearing, I found it difficult to estimate his weight.”

  “Yes,” said Lyons, “but I saw no reaction on his part when I called for Mr. Holmes, did you?”

  “No.”

  “And you insisted that Holmes’ eyes were gray and his most distinctive feature, and to me the man’s eyes were quite clearly brown, were they not?”

  “Yes,” she replied, “they were definitely brown. I don’t see how you can counterfeit that.”

  “I trust your intuition, Kathleen, but I think in this instance, you may be so overwrought that your mind is playing tricks on you.”

  “I’m sure you are right,” she said, but inwardly she vowed to keep a close watch on Paul, the chimney sweep extraordinaire.

  “Now, I shall turn my attention to Sgt. Ward, who has been too long in the area for my taste, but first I’m going to take advantage of the sweep’s offer and have him clean the chimney at the school.”

  “Why would you do that?” she asked.

  “Because the chimney needs cleaning, and I think one more meeting will afford me an additional opportunity to see whether this fellow might be Holmes in disguise, although I rather doubt that it is.”

  “Shall I walk you home, Kathleen?” asked Lyons.

  “That won’t be necessary. Besides, I have a few errands to run before dinner.”

  “Fine,” said Lyons. “Be well, and I shall call upon you shortly and let you know how things turn out, both with the sweep and Sgt. Ward.”

  As she walked along the street, Kathleen replayed the encounter with the sweep over and over in her mind. There was something slightly off that had happened, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

  “Perhaps if I leave it alone for a bit and look at it with fresh eyes tomorrow, it will come to me,” she thought.

  But try as she might not to think of it, there was something nagging at the back of her mind.

  ***

  The next day Lyons met the sweep at the schoolhouse.

  As he showed him the building, he explained, “It’s a central chimney that draws from four fireplaces. Do you have to clean all of them?”

  “Don’t you want me to?” asked the sweep.

  “Of course, just be very careful in the headmaster’s office,” Lyons said, pointing to one of the doors, “and whatever you do, don’t touch anything. He’s a stickler, and a firm believer in a place for everything and everything in its place.”

  “I understand, sir,” said the sweep.

  “I’ll be back in an hour,” said Lyons.

  “I’ll start with the headmaster’s office,” said the sweep. “That way you can inspect it when you return.”

  “Very good,” said Lyons, and off he strode.

  After setting a ladder against the roof, the sweep entered the headmaster’s office and secured a heavy cloth in front of the fireplace. Going to the window, he could make out Lyons striding down the road in the distance. Looking about he was disappointed to discover that there was no typewriter in sight.

  Before continuing the search, he checked the other rooms just to be certain, and then he hung up cloths in front of each fireplace.

  Returning to the headmaster’s office, he went to the roll-top desk in the corner. “This looks promising,” he thought. Although it was locked, he produced a leather case from his pocket and from it extracted a slender pick.

  The lock was no challenge and as Holmes rolled up the cover, he found a relatively new Sholes and Glidden Type-Writer sitting there. Inserting a piece of paper into the cylindrical platen, he then hit all the keys twice. He couldn’t see what he was typing because the keys were hidden inside the machine.

  After he had gone through the alphabet a third time, he removed the paper.

  “This may warrant a special section in my monograph,” thought Holmes, who immediately folded the paper up and concealed it in his shoe.

  He then locked the desk and proceeded to sweep the chimney and clean up the mess his efforts had produced in each of the four fireplaces.

  He was just about finished in the larger of the two classrooms, when he heard a voice call out, “Paul, where have you gotten to?”

  “I’m not sure what he’s up to,” thought Holmes, “but I can only suspect that it is some kind of trap.”

  Steeling himself, Holmes called out, “I’m in the classroom, Mr. Lyons. I’m on the last fireplace. Almost done.”

  “Well, when you’ve finished, step into the headmaster’s office, I’ve something that I would like very much to show you.”

  “I’ll be along presently, sir. Just let me tidy up here.”

  “Don’t dally.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Not knowing what to expect, Holmes walked to the headmaster’s door and knocked.

  “Come in, Paul. There’s no need to stand on formality. You’re among friends,” said Lyons.

  As he entered, Holmes knew immediately that something was terribly amiss.

  “I’m going to ask you some questions,” said Lyons, “and I want you to think very carefully before you answer them. Do you understand?”

  “Yes sir,” said Holmes, trying to sound intimidated.

  “Did you touch anything in this office?”

  “I’m afraid that I did, sir,” said Holmes. “I was curious, ‘cause I never went to school, so I was looking at everything.”

  �
�Are you a thief, Paul?”

  “Sir?”

  “Did you break into that roll-top desk?”

  Knowing he had been caught in the act, Holmes decided that the truth might be his best defense. “I did, sir.”

  “How did you do it? And, more important, why did you do it?”

  “I’m afraid me curiosity got the better of me, sir. I picked the lock and examined that fancy writing machine.”

  Taking stock of his surroundings, Holmes focused on a tall cupboard in the corner. “Surely, there was someone concealed in there,” he thought, berating himself for not searching the room more carefully. And as he examined it further, he concluded that only a very slight adult or a child could fit in such a small place.

  “Did you type anything?” asked Lyons.

  “Just some letters. I can’t really read,” he said.

  “Where is the paper?” asked Lyons.

  “I put it in me shoe. The sole is wearing thin in one spot and I thought it might provide a bit of padding.”

  “Let me see it,” said Lyons.

  “Taking off his shoe, Holmes extracted the paper and tried to hand it to Lyons.

  Looking at it rather distastefully, Lyons said, “Just unfold it, please, and show it to me.”

  After he had examined the keystrokes and saw that they made no sense, Lyons said, “You are a good worker, but I find now that I can neither trust you, nor can I recommend you. Let me suggest that you pack your things and ply your trade in another village. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes sir,” said Holmes, “and thank you sir. I am truly sorry for what I’ve done.” He then folded the paper up again and tucked it back into his shoe.

  “If I may though, sir, just one question?”

  “What is it?” asked Lyons.

  “How did you catch me, sir?

  Lyons laughed and said “Michael, come out and say goodbye to Paul.”

  With that, a young lad, about nine or ten, stepped out of the locker.

  “Oh, very good, sir. Very clever.”

  “Now,” said Lyons, “it is time for you to go, and if I ever see you in these parts again, I’ll make you wish I hadn’t.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’ll just gather me things and be on me way.”

  As he exited the headmaster’s office, Holmes left the door slightly ajar. It wasn’t much, but it allowed him to hear Lyons say to the boy, “Now Michael, go tell Mr. Santry to come to my house at five, and we can figure out how we are going to deal with Sgt. Ward.”

  Chapter 31 – Clonakilty, Feb. 22

  I spent the day visiting with the last two O’Sullivan families in Clonakilty. Given that fact, I wasn’t quite certain how much longer I was going to be able to maintain the charade.

  I was just about to head to the public house when I was knocked to the ground by the cart Holmes was pulling.

  He reached down to pull me up and as he brushed me off, he said, loudly enough for anyone in the immediate vicinity to hear, “I’m so dreadfully sorry, sir. It’s my fault entirely for not looking where I was going. Are you hurt, sir?”

  “No,” I said sternly, “but you really need to be more careful.”

  “I will, sir. I promise.”

  And with that he trudged out of town on the Old Timoleague Road, looking for all the world like a beaten dog.

  I knew the encounter had been intentional, but Holmes had said nothing of substance. Discreetly, I began to check my pockets. In my coat, I could feel a small piece of paper that I knew had not been there earlier in the day.

  Knowing better than to take it out in public, I proceeded to the public house. In the water closet, I examined the note, which said, “Leave now.”

  Not knowing what was amiss, I lit a cigarette and then with the match burned the paper.

  I had no idea why Holmes had gotten the wind up, but I knew better than to doubt my friend.

  After quickly finishing my pint, I set out on Boyle Street and then doubled back on myself by taking Convent Way and walking the circle that was Convent Court. After I was absolutely certain that I was not being followed, I made my way to Old Timoleague Road and headed for the cottage, stopping occasionally to smoke a cigarette – and to make certain that no one was trailing behind me.

  When I finally arrived at the cottage, I knocked and was instructed to enter.

  I found that Holmes had shed his disguise and was looking a great deal like his old self, gray eyes and all.

  He was standing by the fire, examining a sheet of paper with his lens.

  “So good to see you, Watson. I trust you took precautions to make certain that no one followed you.”

  “I did indeed.”

  “Splendid,” he said. After taking a brief glance out the window, he continued, “What do you make of these letters?”

  He then handed me a page on which the entire alphabet had been typed three times.

  After looking at the words for several seconds, I asked, “What does this mean?”

  Holmes said, “When I was cleaning the school chimneys, I discovered a Sholes and Glidden Type-Writer in the headmaster’s office. I really needed to see only the ‘R’ but I decided to hide it amidst the other letters just in case something unexpected should occur.”

  “And?”

  “I was careless, Watson, and I almost paid dearly for my oversight. Lyons had concealed a young lad in a cupboard who told him everything I had done.”

  “How did you manage to escape?”

  “By admitting my transgressions, cowering a bit, and promising to leave Clonakilty at once. As I was packing up, I was fortunate enough to overhear that they next intended to deal with Sgt. Ward.

  “Deciding there was little else to be learned in the village, I deemed it best that we both make a speedy departure. Now, if you would like to shed your disguise, I’ve soap, a razor and some clean clothes waiting for you.”

  “But Holmes,” I interjected.

  “There will be plenty of time for conversation and explanations later. Right now, I suggest we make our way to Cork by a fairly circuitous route, and once we are underway, I will be more than happy to answer all of your questions.”

  After I had shaved and washed, taken the lift out of my shoe and changed my clothes, Holmes and I set out for Cork, using the back roads.

  As we walked, Holmes would occasionally cast a surreptitious glance over his shoulder.

  “We are not being followed, are we?” I asked. “I took several precautions.”

  “I am sure you did, old friend, but there are many of them, and only one of you. Besides, I was the one who was followed.”

  “You?” I exclaimed. “You mean you knew you were being followed?”

  “I’m afraid I do,” said Holmes.

  “But aren’t you concerned? Needn’t we be worried?”

  “Not at all,” said Holmes. “Actually, now that I know he is the only one tailing us, everything is falling into place quite nicely.”

  “Who is following us?” I asked.

  “The same boy who was hiding in the schoolroom closet. I don’t think he will be with us much longer. Oh, how I would like to hear his report to Mr. Lyons,” Holmes said.

  Abruptly changing the subject, he looked at me and said, “I am certain that had we the note here that Mycroft received, we would have indisputable proof that Lyons is our man.”

  He continued, “I know you didn’t have much time to examine the letters I typed, but the ‘R’ has a slight bend to it. You can see that the stem of the letter is hitting the paper much more forcefully than the tail – as though it had been bent or mispositioned ever so slightly.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We watch Mr. Lyons very carefully,” replied Holmes.
“He is obviously traveling to Killarney for a reason. If I had to guess, I’d say that he is trying to bait anyone who might be suspicious of him into following him. My guess is that he has a confederate on the train, watching for just such a thing.”

  “Holmes, there must be a hundred cemeteries in and around Killarney. With no idea what to look for, how will we ever find the right one?”

  “Well, to begin with, the cemetery where the stone is hidden cannot be too far from the station. If Lyons can make it from Clonakilty to Killarney and back in several hours, then he must not have too far to travel once he arrives in the city. I should think that would limit our searches to perhaps ten or 20 graveyards rather than a hundred.”

  “Yes,” I replied, “You have certainly eliminated any number of choices, but that still leaves us with the task of hoping that we have chosen the right cemeteries. And if we have, there are still hundreds of acres to be covered and thousands of tombstones to be examined.”

  “I certainly cannot fault your logic, Watson, but I think we may further refine our search.”

  “How so?”

  Holmes then proceeded to elucidate all the factors that he believed had played into Lyons’ decision in selecting a hiding place for the stone. “I realize that I am theorizing without all the necessary facts, and as you know such is anathema to me. However, in this case, I find myself forced to violate my own rules,” he admitted.

  After some reflection, Holmes remarked. “I’ll say it again, Mr. Lyons has proven to be a worthy foe indeed. I should almost hate to hand him over to the authorities.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I exclaimed.

  “He has harmed no one. He has taken something, which may rightfully belong in this country anyway, and he has yet to show himself a blackguard. No, Watson, I’m rather enjoying the challenge he has presented, and I think you know me well enough to understand that I will always do the right thing – or at least make an effort in that direction.”

  After a rather considerable trek, we found ourselves passing a meadow where a farmer was tending his cows.

  “Have you a cart?” asked Holmes.