“Aggie,” he called out, observing her apparent discomfort. “My dear, you look somewhat anxious! How may I be of service?”
“Mr. Malcolm,” she asked in very sincere, caring manner, “is the Cary family moving away?”
“What? Why no, certainly not,” spoke the family butler.
“Oh, dear,” she responded, showing some relief, “I simply couldn’t bear such a thing.”
Malcolm had surmised what her next question would be and offered, “Don’t worry, Aggie, your friend and her family are only going to visit some relatives outside of Liverpool. I believe that it will only be for a few days.”
Aggie’s head drooped slightly at the information and Malcolm reacted quickly, “Miss Miller, would you like to see Miss Margaret before she leaves?”
The young girl smiled broadly and nodded in the affirmative, saying, “That would be splendid, Malcolm. Thank you!”
He quickly made his way back inside the house. Seconds later, Margaret appeared at the top of the front steps, calling, “Aggie, please come in. It’s much too cold for us to stand out in the air and converse. Please join me. We’ll go to the kitchen and have some cocoa!”
As they made their way down the long hallway, Aggie started to speak, “Margaret, wait until you hear what happened to me today.”
Margaret answered excitedly, “Oh, please tell me. I’ve been so nervous the last several days that I need some cheering up!”
“Well, I started down to school this morning...” Aggie began to relate the day’s memorable events to her good friend. As each part of her story unfolded, Margaret grew more and more animated, issuing, “No...Is it so? Did you really? Oh, my goodness, gracious!”
When Aggie had triumphantly finished, Margaret stood up and applauded, as if it was the end of a good picture show.
“I’m both proud and very happy for you, Aggie,” Margaret spoke with true joy upon hearing that Aggie would no longer have to deal with Miss Guyer’s Girls School.
“Good for you, my friend,” she continued, smiling, “I really don’t know how you could have endured that woman and those snobs for so long.”
Before Aggie could reply, Margaret continued, “Well, I suppose you are curious about the commotion you are now witnessing?”
Aggie, nodding in the affirmative, was about to respond, but her good friend gave her no opportunity.
“If you must know, I’m a bit miffed,” she stated, adding, “we are going to visit our relatives in Liverpool, but the trip simply came out of nowhere!”
Rolling her eyes, Margaret elaborated, “Last evening, upon returning from dinner, father informed us that we would be going to see Aunt Ellen and her family for a few days. I was stunned, for we had only recently spent time with them!”
“I tried to find out why this decision had been made so quickly, but father sternly reminded me that it was not necessary for a father to ask permission from his children,” Margaret explained, frowning. “After hearing that response, I knew better than to ask father any more questions.”
Aggie didn’t know what to say to Margaret. It wasn’t her place to interfere in other people’s business, but her friend looked so confused. Gazing across one of the serving tables as she nibbled on a cake, Aggie was trying to find some kind words.
Finally, she spoke, “Tell me, Margaret, do you know how long you might be gone? Did your father mention when you would be returning?”
Margaret began to nervously wrap her fingers in the pretty bow at the top of her blue dress, twisting the tie, this way and that, while her other hand reached for her cocoa, “No, Aggie,” she replied, “and I sensed that there was something that he didn’t want to tell us. Don’t ask me why I felt that way, I simply did.”
“But let’s not let my feelings ruin our afternoon,” Margaret insisted. “Let’s enjoy our time together, for I’m sure we’ll be away over Christmas, and I know that I’m going to miss you very much.”
After that conversation, the two friends spent the rest of the daylight hours playing games, drawing stick-figures and making up story-lines for their creations. Time always flew when the two young girls were together.
As the afternoon wore on, Aggie realized that it was getting late. She decided to start back home and said her “good-byes” to her best friend at the door, stating, “Now make sure that you write, Margaret. Come see me at Ashfield the moment you return.”
“You can be sure that I’ll do just that, Aggie,” Margaret replied as the door creaked shut.
Aggie quickly made her way home trying to enjoy the salty sea air, but she was still concerned about Margaret’s recent disclosure. She felt it a bit strange at how quickly the Cary family had decided to leave their home to visit the same relatives they had only just recently seen.
Clearly, there was nothing Aggie could do. Instead, she decided to revisit her happy thoughts on the success of the morning. Tonight, she and her mother would once again celebrate her final hours at the famous Guyer School.
Your Services Are Requested
Sunday, December 17th
“Holmes, Holmes,” I queried after entering our humble residence at 221B Baker Street that wintery December evening. After whisking the snowflakes from my hat and removing my scarf, I carefully positioned my seasonal garb on the coat rack, once more trying to capture his attention, “I say old boy, where are you? Holmes, are you there? Hello... Hello...”
Still, my calls went unanswered. That seemed very strange to me, for I had only recently left our apartment for a brief walk and to enjoy the brisk, refreshing winter night air. Making my way around the corner leading into our modest living room, I wondered why he hadn’t responded to my greeting. Much to my surprise and, might I say, aggravation, I found Holmes quietly reading The Times, his pipe smoke wafting gently to the ceiling, while comfortably resting in his favorite armchair.
Stopping abruptly, I crossed my arms upon my chest, and after issuing a loud sigh, angrily offered, “Holmes, didn’t you hear me? Why haven’t you bothered to acknowledge my calls?”
He never bothered to look up, but after resting his pipe on its holder, calmly responded, “Oh, there you are Watson... Ah, did you say something?”
Looking to the ceiling, I merely cocked my head to one side and began impatiently tapping my left foot in a most agitated manner. This had become my all-too-familiar signal of displeasure to my frequently preoccupied roommate. I continued my routine for another thirty seconds until he finally capitulated to my obvious annoyance.
“All right, old chap,” Holmes offered, “I’m sorry for my poor manners. Please accept my most sincere apology for not immediately responding to your greeting!”
What, I thought? There, he’s done it again! I wondered if I should once more accept his sarcastic apology with my accustomed good manners. No, not this time. I’m not going to graciously acquiesce to such a casual reply.
“Holmes, I’ll not accept your token apology,” I flared. “This happens all too often. What am I, merely a piece of furniture that you treat me with such disdain?”
He immediately got up from his chair, walked over to me and grabbing me by the shoulders implored, “My good man, what in the world has come over you? I certainly meant nothing other than the genuine apology that I have now extended to you! Please, tell me what is vexing you to such a serious degree?”
Pulling myself out of his grasp, I walked toward the window, and gazed out at the swirling white flakes that were fluttering beyond the gaslights along Baker Street. Perhaps I had overreacted to my friend’s somewhat measured reply. He was simply being Sherlock, after all. Holmes was not doing anything new in ignoring me. I knew that it wasn’t done out of malice, but due to his makeup. That’s who he was. When something had captured his interest he became so immersed in the topic, he could easily block out everything else!
“Holmes, forgive my reaction,” I softened my intensity while moving to the sofa. “There was no reason for me to have gotten so upset with you, especially when I know how wrapped up you can get with your investigations.”
“That’s my Watson,” Holmes smiled, continuing, “I thought for a moment that perhaps your stuffy nose and head cold had gotten the better of you after your walk with Quincy through Helmsford Park. I, too, can sometimes fly off the handle when I’m suffering from a sinus infection. I hope you’ll be feeling better soon, for we may have a new case on our hands!”
“Really, a new case?” I stammered excitedly, for we had not seen a client in well over a week.
Suddenly, I thought about what he had just remarked.
“Just a moment, Holmes,” I piped up, “what do you mean fly off the handle? And how do you know that I’m suffering from a sinus infection?”
Sherlock Holmes had returned to his chair, and after sliding his pipe to the left side of his mouth, replied, “Really, Watson? You want me to explain how I knew the condition of your health?”
After a brief pause, he proceeded to explain, “Watson, you come into our living room huffing and puffing, unable to have noticed the dog excrement with which you have been staining our carpet these past several moments, and you want to know how I knew you were suffering from some form of nasal congestion?”
Hmm, I quickly glanced at my boots, finding evidence of my travels with Quincy, Mrs. Hudson’s Irish Setter, still sticking to my right heel.
“Holmes, confound it,” I inquired further, “yes, I see the proof of the dog, but how did you know my sinuses were acting up?”
“My dear man,” Sherlock continued, holding and pinching his fingers over his long nose, “surely your olfactory senses, had they been working correctly, would have warned you of the hideously egregious odor that is now polluting our cozy quarters.”
“Well, that was easy enough,” I answered, “but how did you know that I had been to Helmsford Park?”
“Watson,” he said shaking his head, “I noticed some of Quincy’s reddish fur adhering to your trouser leg. I also know that Mrs. Hudson’s canine prefers to mark his territory, if you catch my drift, at that very locale! When you add to that the fact that you left our rooms at 5:30 PM and have now just returned at 6:15 PM, you have the final piece of this rather simple explanation. Helmsford Park is a mere 20 minute walk from here, and the average time for a 3-year-old dog to ‘take care of its business’ is approximately 5 minutes! It most certainly was not a difficult deduction to make.”
Once again, trumped by the master. I, too, would have been able to come to the same conclusion, had the situation been reversed, I reasoned. But Holmes had once more made it seem so obvious! On occasions like this I would sometimes find that I both hated and admired him at the same time. My, what a very rara avis...
He laughed at the expression I must have had on my face, but then added, “Well, Watson?”
“Well, what, Holmes?” I sternly responded.
“Are you interested in the contents of a letter that arrived yesterday? I opened it while you were keeping Quincy company,” he offered. “By the way, would you mind cleaning that dog detritus from your boot and our carpet? There’s a good lad.”
While I used some old rags to clean my footwear and scrub the newly stained carpet, Holmes began to read the communique:
December 12, 1905
Torquay, Devon
Mr. Holmes,
I am inquiring as to the availability of your services in the not too distant future. My family and I have recently been subjected to a rather bizarre series of events, ranging from property damage to actual threats. While I have been somewhat successful in allaying many of their concerns, I fear that there are certain aspects to what our family has encountered that are well beyond my ability to remedy. I must report that I am truly at my wit’s end, so to speak.
Having read of your many successes in resolving conundrums and various other mysterious goings-on, I am now actively seeking your assistance in this matter. Should you wish to examine my troubling situation, you may contact me at our family home on Belgrave Road, Torquay, Devonshire.
I realize that this request comes on short notice, and that you must travel three hundred kilometers, but I promise that you shall receive just compensation if you succeed in bringing my case to its proper disposition.
Respectfully,
Mr. James Cary, Esq.
After quickly folding the missive, Holmes slowly rose from the chair, rekindled his pipe, and stared solemnly in my direction. He took a few steps toward his desk, then turned back to me and issued, “Well, Watson, what are your thoughts? Do you feel that Mr. Cary’s request merits our attention? Are you up for this one?”
I was still engaged in cleaning up my mess when Holmes had finished reading the letter, but I had been paying attention. Rising from the floor, I removed the waste basket and quickly disposed of the dirty rags.
Upon returning to the living quarters I ventured, “Holmes, I’m really not sure if this case merits anyone’s consideration. After all, what information about his problem has this attorney, Cary, really given us?”
“You do raise an excellent point, Watson,” he continued, “but the letter, if you examine it closely, has much to tell us. Come here and see what you can find.”
Quickly moving under the reading lamp, I took the letter from his hand and tried to glean some of the information that Holmes had apparently been able to decipher. I read and re-read Cary’s letter with very little to offer Holmes in the way of any detailed analysis.
“Hmmm,” I suggested, “Holmes, this letter seems rather direct in asking for your help in solving a mysterious problem of some kind... I’m afraid that’s all I can determine. I’m sure that you, of course, have already found much, much more...”
Holmes smiled at my comments as I returned the letter to his outstretched hand. His eyes began to twinkle as he reached for his magnifying lens. He slowly moved the paper up against a lamp as he began to explain his findings.
“Clearly, Watson,” he continued, “Mr. Cary’s practice is doing well. That much we know from both his street address and the quality of his writing paper. Belgrave Road in Torquay is among that quaint town’s most affluent areas. The writing paper is of the finest Brighton weave, usually reserved for the nobility, and coming at a very dear cost, I might add.”
As was his custom, Holmes, moistened his index finger and smudged the man’s signature, adding, “I further believe, Watson, that the ink with which he composed this message is Charman #5, a new brand that also comes at a premium.” The consulting detective continued, “Cary’s bold handwriting shows that this man is very stern, yet at the same time, very compassionate. Can you see the way he curls his end letters? A most telling attribute in his penmanship.”
My friend was not finished with his extrapolations. One could sense the excitement slowly building as Holmes quickened his pacing back-and-forth along the bookcase. Striking a dramatic pose, head tilted back with his left hand over his eyes, he briefly paused before disclosing his final remarks.
“Mr. Cary demonstrates his educational pedigree in the way that he communicates, Watson,” he concluded, adding, “the man is also extremely frugal when financial transactions are concerned.
When he had finished making his last point, I noticed a remarkable change of expression on his face and he quickly disappeared into his room. Almost immediately, he re-entered the front room loudly exclaiming, “Oh, my, Watson, what a fool I am!”
“What, what’s that?” I continued, rising from my chair. “What are you talking about, Holmes?”
He quickly sat at his desk and opened a copy of our local train schedule. His eyes followed his index finger down the departure column until he found the information he needed.
Ignoring m
y comment, he began, “Ah, yes, Watson, the next train to Exeter leaves in one hour and if we plan to be on it we need spare no effort! Once there, we can hire a landau to take us the rest of the way!”
“What’s going on here, Holmes?” I once more inquired. “Exeter? Why? Please explain what’s going on!”
“Watson, old man,” he hurriedly exclaimed, “it may be a fool’s errand, but if my suspicions are correct, we will need to reach Torquay in the next several hours if there is any hope of saving his life!”
“Whose life? What’s going on?” I voiced with a great deal of incredulity.
He didn’t reply immediately, but after bringing his packed suitcase from his bedroom, issued, “Doctor, see if this article helps you see our need for immediate departure. And it’s Mr. Cary and his family that I’m concerned about!”
With that having been said, Holmes picked up the day’s Daily Telegraph, another of London’s finest newspapers, and tossed it in my direction, issuing, “Watson, page 5, third column. I refer you to the article entitled ‘Another Body Discovered in Torquay’. Please be so kind as to read it carefully and you shall have your answer.”
Sensing his urgent behavior, I scanned the article with some alacrity, looking for any information that could have led Holmes to his latest determination. Hmmm...the article described the town as a friendly seaside community that owed much of its survival to tourism. It further indicated that the residents were outraged and horrified over the terrible murders that had been perpetrated. The newspaper disclosed that over the last few months two of that community’s most established citizenry, both members of the town council, had met with horrible deaths. According to the coroner, the first victim had been found bludgeoned; the second man died from a deep head-wound; while now, a third councilman, Tom Dennison, had been strangled.
“Oh, my word, Holmes,” I spoke softly, “really, now, these people were all murdered and all of them from this one small community!”
He paid no attention to my comment, but continued nervously going about his business.
Treachery in Torquay Page 5