Treachery in Torquay
A Sherlock Holmes Adventure
W. P. Lawler
First published in 2018 by
MX Publishing
335 Princess Park Manor, Royal Drive
London, N11 3GX
www.mxpublishing.co.uk
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
© Copyright 2018 W. P. Lawler
Cover design by Brian Belanger
The right of W. P. Lawler to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage. Every effort has been made to ensure the accuracy of the information contained in this book. The opinions expressed herein are those of the author and not of MX Publishing.
Some of the characters appearing in this work were historical figures. Most, however, are creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Mr. Lawler. Therefore, there may be resemblances to real persons, living or dead, but most are purely coincidental.
Dedicated to My Friends, Family
&
Sherlockians Everywhere
Preface
For those of you who have not been able to find a copy of my first Conan Doyle pastiche, Mystery at St Andrews, you may be in luck. There are still a few copies available from MX Publishing. It’s a golf mystery which takes place in the “Auld Grey Toon”, St Andrews, and on the world famous Old Course.
Now to be fair, while I had a great time creating the story line and many original characters to interact with some of Conan Doyle’s most famous heroes and villains, there is a lot of golf involved. Strange matches are described along with some very interesting rule interpretations that will have golfers and non-golfers alike very entertained. Still, if you don’t like golf, well, this one might not be for you.
While I will acknowledge that the target audience for my first pastiche was fairly limited, I can proudly state that my latest effort, Treachery in Torquay, should prove to be an enjoyable read for one and all. I’m certain that it will appeal to the true Sherlockian.
As my friends and family know, I’m the type of person who likes to challenge myself. Whether it’s on the golf course trying to shoot a score, composing or learning a new piece of music, or even undertaking the task of writing the history of my golf club, Fox Hill CC in Exeter, Pennsylvania, I find I enjoy projects that require major commitments of time and energy.
Well, not really. I mean if I could just turn out a pastiche just like that, it would be nice, but that’s not the mark of a committed author. There are so many aspects to successful writing that need to be considered, that is, if you want to do it correctly.
Great stories require great plots and interesting characters. Locations for the tales need to be accurately portrayed so that the reader can paint scenes in his/her mind’s eye. If the author is attempting to write a mystery, it’s important to create clues, some necessary to help answer questions and others placed to deliberately mislead. All of these choices are there as the story comes together.
Next, the work must be checked for correct spelling, use of proper grammar, punctuation, and many, many re-writes until the author is satisfied. If you’re willing to put the time and effort into your writing, you may find that you really enjoy what you’ve created!
Those are just some of the steps that most writers take when putting their ideas to paper.
Having read all of Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson tales several times over, I thought I might, once again, attempt to emulate his superb writing style in this, my latest pastiche, Treachery in Torquay. Of course, we get to follow Holmes and Watson on another interesting case. Like most of their mysteries, this tale includes plot twists, character development, historical detail, and clever “Holmesian” deductions to capture and hold the reader’s attention.
While our favorite protagonists are busy finding clues and solving puzzles, an effort was consciously made to include real, live, historic figures in this story. We meet residents of Torquay, a resort town on the southeast coast of Britain who become involved in helping Holmes and Watson as they strive to bring criminals to justice. Action takes place in 1905, when a call for help reaches our duo as they languish through another damp winter in their 221B Baker Street dwelling.
It’s a typical Holmes and Watson mystery that begins with an incident that triggers future events. The two will be required to leave London to help a famous lawyer who has received threats that could put his family in great peril. While attempting to track the culprits, Watson and Holmes find themselves helping to solve other crimes that have the citizens of Torquay terrorized. There is a touch of the macabre in the novel as well, that should add some special interest.
I invite all Sherlockians and other mystery fans who have enjoyed reading about the most famous characters in the history of fiction to give this one a try.
W. P. Lawler
A - - Ashfield
B - - Torre Abbey
C - - Spanish Barn
D - - Kents Cavern
E - - Daddyhole Plain
F - - Imperial Hotel
Main locations for the story:
- Arrow shows the route from Torre Abbey to (A)Ashfield - Gray paths show location of tunnels
And So It Begins...
Wednesday, October 18th, 1905
The sounds of waves breaking over the stony shoreline shattered the evening’s silence along an isolated byway on the outskirts of the peaceful seaside village of Torquay. Peeking through the racing clouds, a gibbous moon shone overhead, helping to light the way for a solitary pedestrian, lantern in hand, who was making his way home along Meadfoot Road. His day’s work done, this man began to smile as he realized that he would soon be sitting by a cozy fireside. There, by his side, would be his doting wife, Emma, seeing to his every need.
“Ah,” he whispered aloud for his own amusement. “Soon I’ll be resting in my comfortable chair. Won’t that be nice? Perhaps, I’ll even have some of Emma’s plum pudding.”
As he continued on his way, a small gust of wind, swirling up from the coast below, served to answer his quiet reflection. The mild zephyr hissed as it rattled among the bare branches, stirring up many of the leaves that had recently fallen beneath a small stand of maple trees. Nature’s response seemed to please him, and he smiled once more resuming his walk up the winding slope and around a large hillock.
Over the last several weeks, this fellow had noticed that many of the sections of this roadway had fallen into terrible disrepair. He soon became acutely aware of that fact when, in the blink of an eye, his left foot caught a half-buried stump, sending him stumbling into a hedge by the side of the road. Somewhat stunned, he rested for a few moments until he had regained his composure. When he stood, with the help of a burly oak branch lying nearby, he laughed softly at his clumsiness. It was then that he noticed one of his boots was missing.
“Well, it appears that my boot has gone ahead without me...” he joked, jovially. “Now that’s not good... not good at all! I’m lucky that nobody was present to witness my silly fall!”
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sp; It was now getting more difficult to see, and he surely didn’t wish to go the rest of the way with only one boot. He did have his lantern though, and he gently pulled a small box from his pocket, struck a match and lit the wick. With the help of the illumination, he began his search for the missing boot, waving the lamp this way and that. Fortunately, he was soon able to locate the missing item, spying it a few yards ahead, sitting atop a small bush. After slipping it on, he secured the laces and continued his trek.
As he walked, he noticed that every step seemed to be accompanied by a dull echo. He decided to use the sound to help him maintain a consistent cadence as he moved through the brisk fall air. It reminded him of the way he used to march in his younger days when he had answered his country’s call to military service. Oh, that seemed like only yesterday...
Looking back over his shoulder, our traveler could see the lights from the streetlamps reflecting off the cobblestone roads. He loved this peaceful little town, hard by the southern edge of the English Channel. Having lived his entire life in Torquay, he knew everything about the area. Such happy thoughts made his daily walk to and from the bank a most pleasant task, though not so enjoyable when the chilly, winter winds began to blow.
Turning his thoughts back to this night’s trip, he found he was slowly being enveloped by the arrival of a foggy mist that frequented this quaint little coastal community, particularly at this time of year. The man paused to gaze at the sky, watching the twinkling stars as they slowly disappeared behind a swiftly moving band of clouds, surely a sign of worsening weather.
“Better get a move on,” he coaxed, moving forward.
As he rounded another sharp bend on this isolated byway, he was pleased that he had remembered to bring along his plaid mackinaw. Residents of this region of Devon were well used to this kind of nuisance precipitation and were usually prepared for it.
The moon’s light was now completely obscured by the fog, making the roadway barely navigable, though not much of a problem for one so well-acquainted with the winding trail. After all, he had his faithful walking stick and lantern to help him make his way around the many curves that lay before him.
Ordinarily, he never minded the journey, but, for some reason, there was something disquieting about this night’s trip. Not withstanding the whimsical “boot” incident, something was amiss. He knew not why, but an uncomfortable feeling of dread chilled him as he plodded along. Sensing danger, the man decided to quicken his pace. A short time later, he realized that he couldn’t keep going at this rate. “After all,” he posited mentally, “I’m no longer a young man.”
Upon reaching the top of a steep rise, he paused for a moment to catch his breath. While resting, he imagined sounds in the distance. He stood there, motionless, wondering if he had really heard anything at all. Lifting the lantern, he looked around as best he could, folding his cane under one arm and holding his hand to his ear. He tried to concentrate in an effort to discover the direction from which the noise was coming! Listen as he might, the only sounds to reach him were the mild, seasonal gusts accompanying the fog, the distant waves, and faint echoes of some late-arriving gulls as they fished the shallows along the Channel.
Somewhat relieved, he took a few more paces, then stopped once more. The peaceful, familiar sounds of the evening were once more broken!
“What’s that noise?” he wondered. “Could those be footsteps I’m hearing?”
As he strained to identify the cause of the disturbance, the approaching sounds grew louder and louder. Now, he was certain that they were indeed footsteps!
“Someone else on Meadfoot Road at this time of night? Who could it be?” he pondered nervously. “Am I anxious for no reason? Torquay, after all, is a peaceful town with very little crime. Why, it’s probably someone I know anyway!”
Those thoughts seemed to calm his fears for a short period of time and he continued along his route. After making his way around another sharp twist in the road, he stopped again, once more to listen. He began to twist his head this way and that, trying to better pick up the direction and distance of the approaching steps.
“Yes, those footsteps are getting nearer,” he whispered, almost inaudibly.
“What should I do?” he deliberated, trying to better assess his predicament. It bothered him when he finally realized that it was highly unusual for people to be taking a walk in this remote part of the village, particularly at this time of night.
“Hmm... Let us see,” he mused silently, “I’ve been working late, yet again. It’s very dark and lonesome out here. Perhaps, just perhaps, I might be imagining things!”
Two steps later, he felt the need to state audibly his very real concern, “Still, I have rarely, if ever, found others traveling along this roadway at this hour.”
“What should be done?” he continued muttering.
Once more he began to walk, still deliberating and weighing his options while trying to remain calm. “Do I simply ignore what I’ve heard, or should I...” He suddenly stopped dead in his tracks!
The footsteps were now getting much nearer, much louder! There was no longer any question as to the nature of the sounds. They were footsteps. There was no doubt about it.
Exercising reasonable discretion, Henry Dinsmore quickly ducked behind some tall bushes lying near a large rocky outcropping on the far side of the road. After extinguishing his lantern, he squatted down, hiding as best he could. He waited quietly, peering through the swaying branches. A short time later, there came into view three shadowy figures slowly trotting by, narrowly missing his hiding spot. They appeared to be searching for some thing or some one as they ambled by, whispering among themselves.
Dinsmore tried to hear their conversation as they passed his position, but the freshening wind gusts prevented any opportunity of that happening. Fortunately for him, he surmised, the runners seemed to be unaware that they were being observed. Henry watched and waited until they had disappeared well down the road, grateful that he had not been discovered. As he continued to wait, he realized that his body had begun to tremble. He could feel a cold sweat trickling from his forehead. Yes, he was now genuinely frightened, wondering if, indeed, he could have possibly been the object of their search!
“What about my footprints?” the thought nervously crossed his mind. “They’ll realize that my prints have disappeared and they’ll surely head back to see where I may have turned off the road!”
“Oh, what shall I do now?” he wondered in yet another nervous audible whisper.
He was genuinely troubled over this matter until he remembered that this part of the trail was composed of crushed rock. It would be virtually impossible for anyone to be “tracked” along this stretch of the road, especially in the darkness.
Though somewhat relieved, he remained extremely uncomfortable. A million thoughts ran through his mind. He began to consider the options available to him. Should he continue home or make a quick return to his office at the bank? Even though he was most anxious to act, he decided to wait a few minutes more before making up his mind. While he squatted behind the boulders, he felt another shiver shoot up his spine.
Again he questioned, “Is my body trying to tell me something? Could this be some kind of sign? Perhaps, it would be best for me to turn back tonight. Yes, I can spend the evening safely in my office. I’ll simply ‘ring-up’ my wife.”
His mouth continued to ramble, “Explain? Explain what? Explain that I was scared of the dark? No... that simply wouldn’t do. I’m no coward. What might she think of me? No, dash it all, I’ll stay where I am for a few more minutes and then proceed home.”
When he was satisfied that all was in order, he stepped back onto the roadway and renewed his homeward journey.
After several more kilometers, he relaxed his pace, content in knowing that he was closing in on his destination, for his own neighborhood was just a
round the last hill. Soon he would be sipping that favorite glass of wine before retiring for the evening, this frightening experience merely an unpleasant memory to be laughed at and forgotten.
“Ah, that would be the thing to do,” he happily concluded, and almost immediately he began to feel more at ease.
He found his earlier anxieties slowly diminishing with each new step. Now, a much calmer, more relaxed Henry Dinsmore walked on. Thinking back on the evening’s events, he regretted his frightful behavior, and tried to make excuses for what he now believed to have been cowardly emotions.
“Why, anyone might have felt the same?” he posed. “I simply overreacted to an ordinary occurrence. Other people were out getting some air. That was all that it was.”
Laughing quietly, he felt genuine embarrassment, happy that no one had been around to witness the way he had behaved.
At that moment, his comfortable self-reassurance was suddenly fractured by the sound of a snapping twig.
“Hallo? Who’s there?” Henry Dinsmore moaned nervously, once more returning to his previous condition.
Silence. There was no response to his request. Again, Dinsmore’s body tensed up and he felt the urge to run! The impulse was overwhelming, but as he prepared for the dash, a darkly-clad figure stepped out from behind a large oak tree and stood directly in front of him, blocking his way.
Dinsmore stopped dead in his tracks, and timidly muttered, “W-w-who are you? W-w-what do you want?”
There came no response from the stranger in the darkness, at least initially.
After a seemingly interminable delay, Henry’s frightened inquiries were answered by a horribly sinister laugh.
The tall, dark shadow’s husky voice began to taunt Dinsmore, “So, Mister Dinsmore, you wish to know who I am. And, you want to know what I want.”
Henry now realized that he was in grave danger and his body began to tremble violently. He stood there, shaking, much the same as any cornered prey might react when threatened!
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