The Stone of Destiny

by Richard T Ryan

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?” asked Santry.

  “No, James. I think this is one mission that is best carried out solo.”

  “I suppose you are right,” said Santry. “Suppose I follow you and get off the stop before? That way I’m not too far, and if you should need help, I can be there in a fairly short time.”

  “Excellent!” said Lyons. “I believe that we shall have the best of Mr. Sherlock Holmes yet.”

  A short time later, Lyons walked to the telegraph office and sent several wires. Then he proceeded to the schoolhouse where he picked up a few items. After that he went to the station, bought a train ticket to Killarney and sat down to wait.

  All alone, he began to play out the endgame in his head. “If Holmes should do this, we can counter with that.” And on and on he ruminated, trying to envision as many possible scenarios as he could.

  “It’s combat,” he thought, imagining himself sitting at a chessboard with Holmes on the other side. And then it hit him. In truth, he had absolutely no idea of what Sherlock Holmes really looked like. Telling the stationmaster that he had forgotten something and would catch the next train, he hurried to Kathleen’s house.

  Fortunately, she was home. After outlining his plan to her, he then explained his dilemma. “And that is why I need you to come to Killarney with me.”

  “Denis, can you not let it be? He doesn’t know where the stone is, and I rather doubt he’s going to go digging up graves on a hunch.”

  “Kathleen, he has bested us at every turn thus far. He came into our village. He entered into our houses – both yours and mine – under false pretenses. If Mr. Holmes were so disposed, and with just a little bit of luck on his part, he could be the reason that we spend the rest of our lives in that miserable Crumlin Road Prison. Can’t you just see him standing in the witness box, giving testimony against us?

  “No Kathleen,” he continued, “We have come too far to turn back now. And we have risked too much and sacrificed too much to let a busybody like Holmes prove our undoing.”

  “I’ll go with you on one condition,” said Kathleen.

  “What might that be?”

  “There is to be no violence. You can have your set-to with Mr. Holmes, but you must be prepared to walk away. England has not acceded to your demands because King Edward doesn’t feel that he must. If you should harm Holmes, I don’t know how the British might react, but I can promise you this. They will send another and another and another – they may not be as clever as Holmes – but eventually they will find the stone, and then all this will truly have been for naught. But if you just walk away, they can look for the stone for years – perhaps they will find it, perhaps they won’t. But they will have no reason to come looking for us.

  “Do I make myself clear?” she finished.

  “Yes. I don’t like it, but I do see your point,” Lyons admitted. “I give you my word that I will do no violence to either Mr. Holmes or Dr. Watson.”

  “Do you swear?”

  “On the souls of my sainted parents,” Lyons said.

  “I’m going to hold you to that Denis. Please don’t disappoint me.”

  All the while Lyons was thinking. “I will do no violence, but I can’t speak for the rest of the boys.”

  Before she could raise any further objections, he told her to pack a bag and gave her very specific instructions with regard to what she should bring.

  Thirty minutes later, they were back at the platform where Lyons purchased a second ticket for Kathleen. Also sitting on the platform waiting for the train was James Santry.

  They exchanged pleasantries, and Santry said he was going to visit a sick relative in Kenmare. When the train arrived, Lyons and Kathleen sat in one car while Santry took a seat in another.

  And so within the hour, they were on their way to Killarney where Lyons was determined to bring Sherlock Holmes to heel – or die trying if need be.

  Chapter 35 – Killarney, Feb. 24–26

  Holms had decided that it were best if we approached Killarney cautiously. So we kept our carriage and told the driver to take us to Millstreet, which was about midway between Cork and Killarney. Although the driver grumbled, Holmes told him that he would make it worth his while.

  Along the way, Holmes outlined his plan, using me as a sounding board. After he had finished, I said, “Well, it’s all well and good, but if you are wrong…”

  “I know, Watson. But I do think I have come to a greater understanding of Mr. Lyons, and having placed myself in his shoes, I think I know exactly how he would have proceeded.”

  “Have you heard from Mycroft?” I inquired.

  “Yes. He has proven incredibly useful, and I am certain that he has accomplished everything without leaving the comfort of the Diogenes Club or the confines of his office.”

  We continued talking and when we arrived in Millstreet, decided to have an early dinner. As we ate, Holmes said to me, “I am quite certain that they will be looking for two men traveling together. I want you to proceed to the Railway Hotel in Killarney. I am going to try to find accommodations in Kilcummin, a small village about three miles from Killarney.

  “The important thing to remember is that the only one who can identify us with certainty is Miss Donnelly. Lyons has only seen us in our disguises, so I rather think she will be accompanying him.

  “After you check in, feel free to stroll about the town. I would try to avoid deserted streets. After all, should she spot you without you knowing it – just as you did her – you never know if they may assign someone to follow you. I can assure you that the thought of you as a prisoner in the hands of the Irish Republican Brotherhood would give me pause and might persuade me to drop the case altogether. However, if you should encounter Miss Donnelly, which I am inclined to think is a possibility, I am counting on you to keep her occupied.”

  While I was touched by my friend’s rare show of emotion, I buckled up and responded simply, “That’s an awful lot to ask, old man,” I said. “And what will you be doing?”

  “I shall be looking for the stone, of course. I have a number of inquiries I must make, and I am hoping that one of them will bear fruit,” he replied. And he then proceeded to tell me in general terms exactly what he hoped to accomplish.

  After dinner, I hailed a carriage, and told the driver I wished to go to the Railway Hotel in Killarney. As we drove down the street, I turned to wave once more to Holmes, but when I did, I saw that he had already vanished.

  I didn’t know how long it would be before I would see my friend again, but I couldn’t escape the feeling that we were rushing headlong into a situation that was, to a large degree, totally beyond our control.

  After checking into the Railway Hotel, I enjoyed a wonderful night’s sleep, and the next morning I wandered down to the dining room. I was quite taken with a saying on the menu that advised: “Eat breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince and dinner like a pauper.”

  Deciding to take the advice to heart, I ordered smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. After several cups of tea and a generous helping of toast with fresh Irish butter, I set out to explore the cemeteries of Killarney – on a sort of busman’s holiday.

  My first stop was at the Aghadoe Cemetery, which I was told had acted as the main burial ground for Killarney and its environs for centuries. It was less than five miles away, and my carriage had me there in about 45 minutes.

  Although I had only the vaguest notion of what I was looking for and absolutely no idea of what I might find, it seemed as good a choice as any.

  Upon arriving at the graveyard, I was immediately struck by the differences in tombstone design between Ireland and England. There were all different types of Celtic crosses dotting the landscape. The workmanship on some of the stones was very intricate and quite beautiful.

 
However, many of the stones were so old and weathered that reading the inscriptions was next to impossible. I thought I might mention that to Holmes and see if he were willing to change his opinion about the Coronation Stone passing as a tombstone.

  At one point, I spotted a groundskeeper and asked if there had been any recent burials. He informed me that the cemetery was always busy and that funerals occurred just about every other day.

  Uncertain of exactly how to proceed, I finished strolling the grounds, enjoying the sun on an unseasonably warm day. I was quite taken with the intricate carvings on the stones as well as the various shapes of the crosses and I wondered what mysteries a trained eye might be able to unravel.

  The view with the lakes and Ross Castle in the distance made it seem ideal for a holiday destination. After a few hours of aimless wandering, I returned to my hotel, but there was no word from Holmes.

  The next day, I started out to see a section of Killarney National Park. Located south and west of the city, the park is a staggering expanse of rugged mountainous country. Among the many attractions are McGillycuddy’s Reeks, the highest mountain range in Ireland. Located at the foot of the mountains are the world famous Lakes of Killarney.

  The park offers a beautiful blend of mountains, lakes, woods and waterfalls, and the terrain seems to be ever- changing. As you might expect, there is a certain majesty to this unspoiled area. Throughout my excursions, I kept careful watch to see if I were being followed.

  Among the other attractions in the park are Ross Castle, Innisfallen Island and Muckross House and Gardens. I was informed by the hotel concierge, an elderly gent with a vast reservoir of local knowledge, that the latter had been preserved as a late 19th-century mansion featuring all the requisite furnishings and artifacts of the period. He had stressed that it was not to be missed.

  He had also told me that the land had been in the Herbert family for more than two centuries. However, in 1899, the family, beset by a series of financial problems, had been forced to end their stay at Muckross and had sold the land to Lord Ardilaun, a member of the Guinness family.

  After a short carriage ride, I found myself standing in front of Muckross House. To say it is an imposing structure would not begin to do it justice.

  The guidebook that I had purchased at the hotel informed me that the mansion had been designed by the architect William Burn for Henry Arthur Herbert and his wife Mary Balfour Herbert. Construction had begun in 1839 and the home was finished in 1843, shortly before the Great Famine.

  An amateur watercolourist, Mrs. Herbert had achieved no small degree of renown for her work, and I vaguely recalled that several of her paintings had been presented to Queen Victoria as gifts.

  In fact, if the concierge were to be believed, the Herberts had spent so much money refurbishing the estate for the Queen’s visit in 1861 that they never quite recovered financially, and that brief royal stay was what would ultimately cost them the estate years later.

  The guidebook also included the fact that Henry Herbert had requested that he be buried standing up as he thought the view of the Lakes of Killarney could not be matched by anything in heaven.

  After a brief walk to the Killegy cemetery, which is about a half mile from Muckross House, my real reason for visiting the park, I asked a gravedigger where I might find Henry Herbert’s tomb. He gave me directions and after a short trek, I found myself standing in front of an enormous Celtic cross that dominated that section of the cemetery.

  While the tomb is not very long, it is definitely elevated enough for him to have had his final wish granted. At the base of the cross was a plaque erected by his tenants that testified to his sense of virtue and their grief at his loss. I thought it a most touching sentiment.

  Outside of the spectacular panorama, I could discern little else in the graveyard that might prove of interest to either Holmes or myself.

  After a stroll around the small cemetery, during which I kept looking for anything that seemed as though it might not belong, I headed north for Muckross Abbey, about a mile away, one of the oldest cemeteries in Killarney. It was a pleasant day and there was little wind and a warm sun. About 15 minutes later, I found myself in the courtyard of Muckross Abbey. Dominating everything around it was an enormous yew tree that must have been centuries old.

  I started by inspecting the remains of what had once been a Franciscan monastery that was founded in the 15th century. Although the roof was completely gone, the walls appeared to be in a very good state of preservation. According to my guidebook, the monks of Muckross had been driven out in the 1650s by the forces of Oliver Cromwell.

  Right next to the abbey is a graveyard which seemed to me to be in a very poor state of repair, but I could see from some of the newer stones that it was still being used as an active burial ground.

  In the distance, I saw another gravedigger. Since I had several questions, I called out to him, but he either didn’t hear me or didn’t feel like talking because he ran away as I approached. I thought to myself what an impudent fellow, and then resumed my inspection of the tombstones.

  Again, there were Celtic crosses everywhere – some were quite tall, and those I believed were called high crosses. The carvings on them were a marvel to behold, featuring bands of sinuous crisscrossing lines which I knew were a major characteristic of Gaelic art. Many of them were adorned with symbols. I recognized a few of them such as a ship that I suppose was intended to indicate the deceased had been a mariner. Unfortunately, there were whole hosts of icons – anchors, harps, lambs and many others, including an ankh, and an American dollar sign, which I thought odd and whose meaning eluded me altogether.

  Once again, nothing struck me as being particularly unusual or out of place, and since it was nearing dinnertime, I decided to hike back to the hotel and enjoy a glass of claret and a cigar before deciding what to eat for supper.

  I had just made my way back to the yew tree, when I saw the gravedigger that I had spotted earlier, sitting on a rock nearby and smoking a cigarette.

  “I should like a word with you, my good fellow,” I said.

  “How many I be of assistance to such a fine gentleman as yourself?” he asked.

  He sat there rather insolently, holding his shovel in one hand and his cigarette in the other. He appeared to be quite tall and with that flaming red hair that is a characteristic of so many of the Irish.

  “Have there been any new burials here recently?”

  “There’s always someone going in the ground. People die, they come here, and me and my mates we bury ‘em.”

  “Have you buried anyone in the last two weeks?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I am asking on behalf of a friend of mine,” I replied.

  “Well, tell your friend to ask me himself,” he said, and with that he ground out his cigarette and started to walk away.

  “I am not done with you, my good man,” I replied. “And there may be something in it for you, if you will help me.”

  “Let me see,” he said rubbing his chin thoughtfully, we buried three women this week and a man and a woman last week. The stones aren’t in place yet. Are you happy now, m’lord?” he asked holding out his hand.

  “Indeed, I am,” I said slipping him a few shillings.

  “Well then, I’m glad I could be of service,” he said with a bow and a rather obvious smirk.

  As I walked back to the hotel, I wondered how Holmes was possibly going to locate the grave in which the stone had been hidden. Despite my best efforts in three different graveyards, I had seen nothing even remotely suggesting a clue.

  After I had reached the hotel, I went up to my room, washed up and changed my clothes before heading downstairs to the dining room.

  As I sat there perusing the menu, I was torn between several different entrees. I was leaning toward the stew when sudden
ly Holmes appeared at my table.

  Sitting opposite me, he suggested, “I should try the stew if I were you. I think you’ll find it a bit more satisfying, and certainly more filling, than either the fish or the lamb.”

  I was so glad to see my friend that I almost exclaimed “Holmes, how are you?”

  Restraining myself, I simply said, “It’s good to see you, and you are right. I will try the stew,”

  “Excellent choice,” he remarked, and then looking at me, he asked, “And did you learn anything on your visits to Killegy and Muckross Abbey?”

  Chapter 36 – Killarney, Feb. 26

  They rode in silence for the first half of the trip and then Kathleen suddenly broke the stillness, asking, “Denis, are you sure that you want to do this?”

  “Not at all,” he replied, “but I am tired of doing nothing. I think it imperative that we force the issue.”

  “You understand that we are not negotiating from a position of strength,” she said. “We are hoping to leverage our possession of the stone into a promise from King Edward – something we haven’t able to do thus far.”

  “What else are we to do?”

  “Go back to Clonakilty and live our lives,” she replied. “Trying to bluff them into surrendering our freedom isn’t going to work. We stole the stone. We have it. Let’s just be content with a small victory over the British. After all, if they try to crown their King with a counterfeit Coronation Stone, we can embarrass them in front of the world. And that might garner us more sympathy than any misguided attempt on your part to pretend that we are strong when we are not.”

  “So I’m misguided now?” Lyons asked. “That wasn’t what you said when I first broached the plan.”

  “No, you’re right,” she said. “I thought it brilliant then and I still do, but I think you’re letting your ego blind you to the reality of the situation.”

  Stung by her words, he could only say, “All I can ask is that you trust me, Kathleen. We have come this far – to quit now – I don’t know if I could live with myself.”