Still trembling and confused, I decided to call out in the hope of getting someone’s attention.
“Hello, hello, I say, hello... Is anyone there?” I bellowed.
Seconds later, I heard a vaguely familiar voice replying, “Hello, hello, I say, hello... Is anyone there?”
I quickly tensed up, cocking my pistol, ready for action. Again, there was only silence. After a few more seconds had passed, my terror turned to quiet laughter, as I realized that the response I had heard was nothing more than my own voice echoing off the walls of the enormous cavern!
Once more I continued moving toward the light, hoping to find someone to help me escape from the riders who had been pursuing me. I still sensed that they were nearby, waiting for me to emerge from this cave. One question continued to bother me. Why hadn’t they followed me into the cavern? Surely, they had seen me ride my horse into the opening! This made no sense, no sense at all. Unless...
Unless, they were afraid of something that must be within the cave! Suddenly, my blood ran cold. What could be lurking all about me that would prevent a band of brigands from following?
At this stage, I decided that my best course of action would be to explore the rest of the cavern. I couldn’t remain quaking in fear. I had to find out what might be lurking further within. Slowly, I approached the fire pit. It must have been my eyes playing tricks on me, for as I peered into the flames, I was certain that I saw an image of a beautiful young woman holding what appeared to have been Spanish doubloons!
As I continued to stare, she seemed to be raising her hands toward me, still holding the coins. It was as if she wanted me to have them. I began to feel a bit tipsy, deciding to put my pistol away. Slowly, very slowly, I reached into the flames to take the coins from her glowing hands.
Imagine my horror when I found that I was being pulled into the fiery pit, screaming uncontrollably as the flames engulfed my falling body. Then, there was nothing but darkness.
When I opened my eyes, I was in a dimly-lit, dirt-covered room. There were silvery Spanish doubloons all around me. Springing to my feet, I quickly searched for my revolver. Fortunately, it was still in the pocket of my coat.
Where was I? What had happened to me? Where were the flames? Where was the young woman? She was gone, and yet, here were the coins! Questions, I had many, many questions.
Then, I remembered. While reaching for the coins, I must have somehow been whisked through these magical flames, unscathed. But why? Where? How?
I had no answers to these questions and I just sat there, wondering, wondering, wondering...
That was how my dream had ended, I believe, yet when I had finally awoken, there was a sense that I had shouted something. Something? Yes, yes, but try as I might I simply couldn’t remember what it was?
Shortly afterward, I tried to calm down by splashing some water on my face. I was still trembling, but at least I had survived my nightmare!
After brushing my hair, I checked my timepiece. It was ten minutes before 7:00 P.M. I had just enough time to finish dressing and make my way down to the hotel dining room to meet Holmes, but I was still shaking from that eerie dream.
Cheery sounds of the season greeted me as I passed through the ornate hotel lobby on the way to dinner. Everywhere Christmas decorations sparkled along the brightly lit hallway. The soothing voices of a local choir couldn’t help but lighten one’s spirit at this most festive time of year. Strains of “Silent Night” drifted peacefully into the background as I turned into the large room.
I quickly spied Holmes, already seated and paging through the establishment’s dinner menu. He had located one of the best tables available; directly looking out upon the Channel, whose whitecaps were still visible from the reflection of the hotel’s outdoor gas lamps. Another winter storm was brewing.
As I neared the table, he rose anxiously, smiled and whispered, “Watson, I want you to know that we will have company joining us for dinner this evening...”
Before I could speak, he continued. “My good fellow, please don’t ask me to explain at this time, for if I am correct, he has just entered the room. Your question will soon be addressed.”
Turning toward the doorway, I found a rather stout older gentleman conversing with the maitre d’, who was pointing in our direction. Quickly, the man was ushered through the busy dining room over to our table. As he handed over his gray tweed cloak to one of the waitstaff, Holmes and I stood politely, waiting to greet our guest, extending and shaking the man’s hand.
“Chief Inspector Miles Davis,” Holmes opened most courteously, “thank you so much for agreeing to meet with us this evening on such short notice. May I introduce my good friend and... .”
“Not at all, Mr. Holmes,” replied the lawman, interrupting. “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, as well as the famous Doctor Watson.”
After taking his seat, Davis continued, “Gentlemen, I’m very honored to meet you. Your sterling reputations precede you. I am agreeable to answer any questions you may have regarding this murderous rampage our fair community is experiencing.”
“That is most welcomed news, Chief Inspector. Were you able to secure access to tomorrow’s autopsy for us?” Holmes queried.
“Yes, gentlemen. It’s scheduled to begin at 9 o’clock tomorrow,” Davis informed us. He added, “You were most fortunate to have contacted me this afternoon, Mr. Holmes, before Judge Manson left town. It was necessary to obtain his permission to attend the examination, and with Mr. Fenwick’s funeral scheduled in two days, it would have been too late if we had to wait until the judge returned!”
“Ah, Watson,” Holmes sighed, “haven’t I remarked how timing is everything? Chief Inspector Davis, we owe you a great deal for interceding on our behalf.”
“It was nothing, gentlemen,” Davis replied. “After all, it’s the two of you who will be helping us in our work, as well!”
Holmes raised his hand to summon our waiter, who hastened to describe the day’s special menu items. While we awaited the arrival of our evening repast, we enjoyed a carafe of Clermont’s finest Merlot. The night was proving to be most relaxing, and for a brief moment I found that I was totally unconcerned with the tragic events that had brought us here to Torquay.
That comfortable mood quickly changed when my dear friend turned to Davis and posed the following: “Chief Inspector,” Holmes inquired, “are you aware of any active followers of Druidism in this region of England?”
“Hmm... that’s a most interesting question, Mr. Holmes,” remarked the Chief Inspector, squinting his eyes and moving closer to us. “There does exist an ever-growing colony of those who espouse the Druid religion 32 kilometers away, near Wildecombe. However, there have been occasional visits by one of their leaders, a man who goes by the name Terra.
“Terra, you say?” I volunteered. “Why that word translates to earth if my old Latin studies are correct.”
“Elementary, Watson!” Holmes exclaimed, teasingly. “It’s one of the first Latin words that we were taught many years ago in our early schooling, along with mater et pater, and amo, amas, amat...”
Davis chuckled at that remark, while I must admit that I was not as amused by my friend’s innocent, yet caustic barb.
Sensing my discomfort, Holmes soothed, “Come now, Watson, I couldn’t help it... You know that I hold you in the highest esteem!”
The best I could offer was a polite smile to that remark, but Holmes knew that I never enjoyed being the brunt of his clever comments.
“Terra, is it, hmmm,” Holmes started up again, crossing his arms. “Might I assume that this fellow has recently made his presence known at the town council meetings?”
Chief Inspector Davis at first seemed stunned at that remark, but quickly replied, “Why, yes, Mr. Holmes. As a matter of fact he has been a regular attendee since the passage of
Article 7, banning any religious ceremonies on public grounds.”
Davis moved his chair closer to Holmes and whispered, “Tell me, Mr. Holmes, what made you ask about the Druids, if you don’t mind? There has been nothing about this group in our newspapers for several weeks. Have you discovered anything that might throw some light upon our ongoing investigations?”
“In truth, Chief Inspector, I believe that I have,” Holmes replied smiling as he reached into his pocket.
“Earlier this afternoon, I visited the site of Mr. Fenwick’s tragic death, examined the area and discovered this.”
Reaching in his pocket, Holmes slowly unwrapped a cloth, exposing a strangely shaped, dull grayish object.
He carefully placed it before us.
“Well, now,” Davis exclaimed, “that looks like some kind of coin or token... although I don’t recognize the strange symbols etched upon it.”
The Chief Inspector held it up before his squinting eyes, and turned it over and over.
“Most interesting,” he remarked.
Holmes suggested, “Watson, see what you can make of it? Perhaps you’ve come across something like this in your travels...”
Taking it in my left hand, I carefully rubbed my thumb across the surface of the object, pinching it to determine its weight and composition. Much like a half-pence, I reasoned, while continuing to examine the symbol thereon.
“Holmes,” I ventured, “I believe that I’ve seen this symbol someplace before, but I can’t exactly remember where. Perhaps, it was near the monoliths at Dartmoor when we were called to investigate the Baskerville case...”
“Very good, Watson,” Holmes affirmed, adding, “if I’m not mistaken, the symbol on the token is of Druid origin. I believe this particular image engraved upon the object is called a sigil. Notice it appears to be a leafed, willow wreath with twin branches or staves passing through it.”
“Mr. Holmes,” Davis suggested, “it would appear that your visit to our little community will prove to be most helpful in our efforts to solve these murders. In fact, you are absolutely correct about Druid involvement in these heinous crimes. I have been very busy gathering information about the weapons used in the murders that have taken place. My findings have indicated that all of the weapons used, a special dagger, a trench-cleave and a laqueus, are all Druid ceremonial devices.”
“Bravo, Chief Inspector,” Holmes praised. “It appears that you are well on your way to solving these crimes.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” Davis blushed. “Coming from you, it is high praise, indeed.”
“While I’m on the subject,” the lawman continued, “I almost forgot to thank you for sending your advance team. They have been most helpful.”
“Advance team?” I questioned, “Holmes, what advance team?”
“Watson,” Holmes replied, casually dismissing my inquiry, “all in good time, my good fellow.”
Davis immediately inquired, “Tell me, sir, if you would, what would you suggest we do next?”
“Chief Inspector,” Holmes addressed the law official with much candor, “the autopsy tomorrow may prove to be most beneficial in helping us formulate what our next steps might be.”
With that having been stated, our meals arrived, and the three of us spent the next thirty minutes enjoying our food and the festive music of the season.
After dinner and a few more glasses of wine, Davis arose from the table, thanked us for a most interesting evening and, bowing slightly, took his leave as we continued finishing our pudding.
I was still feasting on my dessert when Holmes decided to light his pipe. In several minutes, I knew that he was well-into one of his cranial comas. These events, though seldom rare, were usually reserved for much more secluded locales: living quarters, hotel rooms, libraries, cemeteries, etc. Such was the consulting detective’s established methodology. Indeed, the game was once more afoot, and I believed that like a trained bloodhound, Holmes must certainly have discovered some valuable evidence.
While I was always curious when I found him so disposed, I knew better than to interrupt. He would reveal his findings in his own good time. For now, I would be content to listen to the carols that the children of the village so sweetly sang.
The Plot Thickens...
Tuesday, December 19th
I was awakened the following morning by the familiar sounds of jingling bells which adorned all of the carriages this time of year. Outside of our windows, vehicles were everywhere busily carrying their fares to and from the magnificent grounds of the Imperial Hotel. People loved to visit the quaint little shops and their seasonal displays along the hotel promenade.
While the happy sounds echoed off the exterior walls of our historic establishment, I continued dressing, all the while imagining the morning’s work. Soon, Holmes and I would be meeting Chief Inspector Davis for the Fenwick autopsy. That, however, would have to wait until we had finished our breakfast.
Although lesser mortals would argue that perhaps an empty stomach might prove the wiser choice when viewing a thorough examination by the county coroner, I had long ago become hardened to such uncomfortable procedures. The battlefield had steeled my resolve and I had some experience performing them when it was required. Still, I knew that I needed sustenance to face the day.
“What say we try the French croissants, Holmes?” I offered, happily rubbing my hands in anticipation.
“Watson,” he replied as our waiter approached the table, “you continue to amaze me. After all of these years, you still try to tempt me in the direction of sweets. You know my ways. I’ve told you that too much sucrose in the system can stifle the brain’s activity, thus dulling its creative and problem-solving potentialities!”
“Forgive me, Holmes,” I cautioned. “It being the holiday season, I actually believed that you might enjoy some temporary deviation from your normal eating habits. I, for one, must have a taste!”
“Young man,” I called to our server, “I would very much like to try the strawberry croissants with some Imperial Hotel Grey tea. I have no idea what my companion may decide this morning.”
Looking sternly at the attentive lad who was waiting table, Holmes offered, “I believe I’ll have the butterscotch croissant, thank you very much.”
When the young man had scurried off with our order, Holmes turned away from me, lit his pipe, and dourly teased, “There, Watson, are you happy now?”
I immediately laughed at this smug remark. Smiling, I had to admit that I found some of his quips well-delivered, and this had been one of them. That was a side of the man rarely seen.
Soon after, we relaxed and enjoyed a most delectable breakfast. The pastries were every bit as tasty as they appeared, I hasten to add.
We were still finishing up our meal, when I suddenly recalled a mental note that I had made during last night’s dinner meeting with Davis. There was a question that needed answering.
“Holmes,” I spoke in a very serious tone, “I have something I need to ask.”
“By all means, old man,” he replied. “What is it that you simply need to know?”
“Holmes,” I offered gingerly, “would I be correct in assuming that you had previously corresponded with Inspector Davis, prior to our arrival in Torquay?”
The great detective gave me a most curious look. He seemed genuinely confused by my inquiry.
“Why, Watson,” he spoke with some mild agitation, setting his croissant on his plate, “are you suggesting that I’ve been keeping something from you?”
Pausing slightly, I remarked sternly, “Actually, yes, I believe that is exactly what you’ve done, especially since it’s not the first time that this has happened!”
“Well, I’m quite flabbergasted by such an accusation,” he answered, stirring his tea while adjusting his napkin.
Sudde
nly, his face brightened, “Bravo, Watson. You are correct. However, let me assure you that I had every intention of disclosing all of the facts at the proper time.”
“When might that be?” I replied, scowling with no little apparent concern.
“Perhaps, now might be a good time,” he chuckled, sipping his morning tea, sensing my mood.
What followed next was a detailed explanation in which Holmes described a letter he had received from Chief Inspector Davis asking for assistance in solving the murders of the first two town councilmen. Holmes continued to elaborate how Davis, his constables, and town officials had been receiving tremendous pressure from the residents. These people were terrified, and their communal fears had to be addressed. His people, the authorities, had, thus far, found very few clues.
Holmes had replied that he would be most happy to look into the case and informed Davis that he would be arriving on the 18th of December.
“What?” I interrupted, contemplating the informational time-line. “Holmes, do you mean to say that you had already decided to head here, to Torquay, even before the Cary letter had arrived?”
“And, your point is?” my friend asked calmly.
“Well, why didn’t you inform me of this, this, Davis letter when you received it?” I probed, nervously. “Perhaps, you weren’t going to tell me about it at all... “
Holmes didn’t respond right away. He let me stew a little longer, finishing his butterscotch croissant.
“Watson, old boy,” he dryly offered, “consider the second letter mere serendipity. Of course, I would have wished you to share in this adventure. Where would I be without my Boswell?”
“Now, think about it, Doctor,” he pointed out to me, “when was the last time we were involved in solving two mysteries at one time? Or, might the two be connected? Hmm, we’ll have to see.”
Treachery in Torquay Page 9