“Holmes,” I cried out again, “where are you?”
When no response was immediately forthcoming, I decided to take action, firing two rounds where I believed the shooter had been. Spying an old work wagon that was positioned between the boundary wall and the Spanish Barn, I quickly made my way across the yard, ducking behind the old wagon’s sheltering sideboards. As soon as I had arrived, two more shots rang out. Carefully, I peeked over the sideboard, just in time to see a darkly-clad figure disappear behind the Spanish Barn. Somewhat relieved, I turned my attention to the back of the wagon.
Suddenly, I felt a chill ran up my spine, for there, right before my eyes, was the motionless body of my dear friend.
My thoughts were those of horror in finding Holmes in this condition. I quickly moved to his side, hoping there might be something I could do for him. Suddenly, his familiar voice shocked me back into reality and I issued a frightful gasp.
“We can relax, Watson,” my resurrected friend offered, “I’m sure that our shooter is well away from here by now!”
“Holmes,” I shuddered, “you scared the life out of me! Thank God you’re not injured!”
Rising from the floor of the wagon, he brushed off his outer garb, and I followed his lead as we made our way back toward the Cary home. Not surprisingly, we could see Malcolm Randolph running our way, shotgun in hand.
“Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson,” he shouted anxiously, looking all around, “are you all right?”
“I heard the shots and quickly gathered my shotgun and shells, just in case,” the butler offered, breathlessly.
“Now, now, my good man,” Holmes soothed, “we are both quite safe, for the time being, at least. Please calm yourself.”
Randolph seemed to be quite shaken by the recent events, and I couldn’t help notice him looking all about the property as we made our way back to the house and the rear entrance.
As we watched the butler put the gun away and lock the cabinet, Holmes moved toward the back window, parting the lace curtains to take a peek in the direction of the Spanish Barn.
“Mr. Randolph,” he questioned, “were you, by any chance, peering through this window when the shots were being fired?”
Randolph’s knees seemed to buckle at the question and he slowly made his way to one of the oaken chairs around the kitchen table.
Slowly, he offered, “Mr. Holmes, please excuse me, I need to sit. This recent event has truly had an effect upon me.”
Randolph continued, “But to answer your question, no sir, I was not looking through that window at that time. As a matter of fact, I don’t believe that I’ve gone anywhere near that particular window in weeks! What, may I ask, sir, are you suggesting?”
After a somewhat awkward pause, Holmes, laughed his annoying laugh and replied, “Oh, Mr. Randolph, please don’t be alarmed by my questions. I’m only trying to obtain facts wherever I may be fortunate enough to find them.”
Clearly, I sensed that Holmes had, indeed, found something at that window, but, for now, he had no intention of disclosing any of that information in Randolph’s presence. I noticed a considerable agitation had been manifest by the butler when my friend had posited his question, but it quickly subsided as Holmes and I headed back toward the rear door.
“Mr. Holmes,” the shaken butler inquired, “shouldn’t we contact the authorities about this attempt on your lives? Why, you both could have been killed!”
Holmes slowly waved his arm and shook his head, “No, Mr. Randolph. While I understand your concern I don’t believe it would be in the best interests of our investigation. I think it would be best if we kept this to ourselves, at least for the time being.”
“But, Mr. Holmes,” the nervous manservant began again, “I still think...”
Holmes interrupted the man, “Please Mr. Randolph, my associate and I have been through similar situations in the past. It has been our experience that, while they mean well, the constabulary often complicate matters and that might not be in the best interests of the Cary family.”
“Rest assured,” Holmes continued, “Dr. Watson and I will be prepared for any further intrusions and will take every available precaution. Now, if you would be so kind, we must once more continue our work. We will be sure to stop and see you before leaving.”
Immediately, Holmes and I started back to the barn area where we spent some time looking for any additional clues. Sadly, the footprints abruptly disappeared at the edge of the service road which consisted of crushed gravel. We were able to find several bullet fragments that had lodged in the side of the work wagon which Holmes carefully placed in one of his coat pockets. Prior to taking our leave we revisited the main house to report to the butler, who was still trembling from the recent events.
“Please don’t bother to see us out, Mr. Randolph,” Holmes issued, as we made our way past the imposing staircase in the ornate hallway. Holmes, paused briefly, at the base of the steps and peered up to the first landing. As he did so, we could easily hear footsteps rapidly scurrying across the hardwood floor above. Holmes looked at me, raising his eyebrows at the sound. I knew what he was thinking. Someone had been hiding, listening to our conversation with Mr. Randolph.
Holmes quickly turned back to the butler and clearly stated, “Randolph, when you do talk to Mr. Cary, please inform him that we are ever so close to resolving his problem. I also wish to inform you that we will be returning tomorrow to continue our investigation. Good-Day.”
Together, we walked down the main hallway when the servant called out to us.
“Mr. Holmes, I just remembered. Here are my answers to the questions you had for me. If you require greater detail with any of my responses, I will do what I can to elaborate when next we meet.”
The butler bowed, bid us farewell and slowly closed the main door behind us.
And with that, we were back on our way to prepare for what would prove to be a most interesting evening.
Dinner for Four
Evening of December 19th
After returning to our lodgings, Holmes and I had barely enough time to prepare for the evening dinner. As I removed my winter coat, I suddenly felt weary, for we had had a very busy and demanding day. Moving toward the closet I took a brief glance across my room and I suddenly longed for a brief respite in the warm, welcoming bed which lay before me. But there really wasn’t time.
Holmes, still in our suite parlor, had taken a seat in a large armchair, humming one of his favorite arias as he removed his footwear. I must admit that I was still miffed at his offer to young Aggie Miller. For me, the better course of action would simply have been to chastise the youngster and report her actions to her mother. But, again, he must have decided that the proper thing to do would be to keep her away from our investigation by enlisting her services in a much less threatening environment.
My mind seemed to be caught up in this situation but once again I realized that Holmes had charged the young lady to secure her mother’s consent. I relaxed a bit, for surely, Clara Miller would refuse her daughter’s request, seeing the obvious danger that any involvement in a criminal investigation might bring. That realization proved to have a most calming effect. I was relieved, believing that Aggie and her mother would not be joining us, and I posed the point to my friend.
“Holmes,” I ventured, “think, man. Why, we’re perfect strangers! Can you imagine any mother worthy of being called a mother allowing her daughter to become involved in such a dangerous situation? Do you really believe that they will join us?”
Holmes ignored my question. Instead, he continued to shine his boots as dinner time came ever closer.
When I approached him, issuing, “Well? Say something!”
He slowly put down the polishing cloth, looked up and merely repeated his all-too-familiar droll remark, “We shall soon see, Watson... We shall soon see.”
/>
While I waited for him to finish his dressing ritual, for that is what it had recently become, I allowed my mind to rehash what had transpired after the shots had been fired at Torre Abbey.
To the best of my recollection, Randolph, the butler, appeared soon after the attack. He came running from the building, shotgun in hand, ready for action.
After ascertaining that Holmes and I had not been injured, he shook his head, resting the gun over his left arm, hunting style. Holmes then thanked him for his concern as we all headed back to the Cary home. Then came the uncomfortable exchange between Holmes and the butler. Next, we left the house, with Holmes intimating that we were moving closer to solving the mystery.
Holmes further informed the servant that we would most certainly be returning to complete our examination of the estate, and warmly thanked him for his concern over the gun-play.
We had left Torre Abbey discussing our plans for the morrow. One of our talking points, as we rode in our carriage back to the Imperial Hotel, had to do with Lucretia Bedlam, the Cary family’s maid-servant. Our conversation went along the following lines:
“Watson,” Holmes began, “did you happen to notice that every time Mr. Randolph talked with us, Mrs. Bedlam was present?”
“Mrs. Bedlam?” I questioned. “Holmes, I only remember seeing her briefly inside Torre Abbey proper. Are you certain?”
“My dear Watson,” he continued with a wry smile, “I am as certain of her presence at our discussions as I am that your revolver is currently missing two rounds!”
At that comment, my frown did nothing to disturb his trend of thought and he continued to disclose his findings.
“Oh, I readily admit that she was not always visible, but the curtains overlooking the Spanish Barn had been pinched as if someone had been peering from the darkness. I saw her crouching down along the outer stairs when Mr. Randolph came running with his shotgun. You do catch my meaning, Watson.”
“Well, it’s certainly possible, Holmes,” I responded. “You have proven that you are much more observant than I, time and time again.”
“That is rather obvious, Doctor,” he crowed, “but I also sensed that Malcolm is most uncomfortable when the maid is in the vicinity. I’m not yet sure why that should be the case, but we shall soon reason it out.”
Scratching my head I queried, “I say, Holmes, what gave you that impression?”
“Well, first off, he seemed markedly more nervous whenever he suspected that she might overhear our discussions with him,” Holmes stated. “Did you not notice how his voice fell to mere whispers whenever we questioned him?”
“Now that you mention it...” I pondered, commenting, “perhaps it is so, but could it simply be his way or a peculiar manner of speech?”
“Possibly,” he replied, “but what about the way he reacted to my question about looking out the window?”
“Hmmm,” I moaned, “I see. That’s why he was so tense when you inquired about the window. He might have been covering up for Mrs. Bedlam.”
Our conversation quickly came to an end with a brisk knock on the door to our suite.
“Watson, would you please get the door,” Holmes called, “I’m not quite ready for Mr. Wiggins.”
“What? Did you say Wiggins? Not ‘our’ Wiggins?” I began to stammer as I headed for the entrance.
“Just get the door, Watson!” my impatient roommate scolded.
Slowly, I released the door handle, and I have to admit that I hardly recognized the distinguished young man standing before me.
“Hello, Doctor Watson,” a mustachioed, well-dressed gentleman offered, as we stared at each other through the open doorway.
Pausing briefly, I cautiously studied the two visitors standing before me. In what must have seemed an eternity to them, there I was, apparently stunned and somewhat confused. The speaker was a tall, slender fellow in a stylish gray winter coat. Accompanying him was a rather short, diminutive man, peeking out from behind his Macintosh.
Suddenly, I snapped out of my stupor, recognizing the familiar smile of the tall one. I extended my hand to him, issuing, “Why it is you, Wiggins! What a wonderful surprise. It’s been years since we’ve seen each other. How are you, young man?”
I was barely able to contain my emotions, so delighted I was to see one of our old Baker Street Irregulars!
“Step in here and tell me all about yourself,” I happily offered.
As Wiggins and I began to converse, we were rather rudely interrupted by what I can only describe as a loud cough coming from the other gentleman who had stepped between us.
“Excuse me, Doctor Watson,” Wiggins offered, “I wish to introduce you to my good friend and associate, Robert Roberts.”
“Pleased to meet you Mr. Roberts,” I replied, curiously peering down at the shortish fellow. “I hope you can forgive my lack of manners.”
“Doctor,” he smiled, laughing, “please think nothing of it. At my height, I’m not that easy to spot!”
“And, please, call me, Bobo... everyone does.”
After leading the men into our suite, I spied Holmes slowly appearing around the corner, calling, “Ah, Wiggins...Bobo...so glad you could join us. Quickly, gentlemen, please take a seat and tell us what you have discovered.”
Before Wiggins had a chance to respond, Holmes, noticing the strange look on my face, explained, “Watson, I may have forgotten to mention, but Wiggins has been making quite a name for himself as a private investigator.”
“What? What’s that you say?” I sputtered.
“Furthermore,” Holmes continued, “Wiggins and his apprentice, Bobo, have been behind the scenes helping us in this most unusual case.”
Somewhat taken aback by this revelation, I recovered quickly, commenting, “Oh, I see... Of course. That is fine. Fine, indeed.”
“Gentlemen, pray tell us what you have found,” Holmes offered, eagerly rubbing his hands together.
Wiggins quickly undid a folder and handed the contents to Holmes while Bobo nodded approvingly in my direction.
“It’s all right to stare, Doctor Watson,” the little person spoke reassuringly. “I’m used to it. We tiny folk are not so common in these parts.”
I was dumbstruck and confounded at the same time. It was true! I had been staring at Mr. Roberts and hadn’t realized it.
“Please, forgive me again, Mr. Bob-O,” I offered. “I’m truly sorry if I have offended you by my actions. I didn’t mean to stare! Honestly!”
“Forgive my companion, Bobo,” Holmes interceded as he issued a most threatening scowl in my direction.
“He tends to nod off now and again. It’s his age you know,” joked Holmes, pointing to his head. The mild laughter that followed his remark did much to soften the moment and for that I was truly grateful.
Then, turning to me, “And, Watson, it’s Bo-Bo, not Bob-O,” he lectured.
After briefly scanning the report, Holmes smiled, commenting, “Wiggins, Bobo, this is fine work...fine work, indeed!”
“I had a hunch about Mr. Cary and this validates my theory. I see you also had time to visit that Druid community as well. Very good. You may proceed with the next phase of your investigation. I’ll be anxiously awaiting your next communique,” Holmes voiced as he led our visitors to the door.
“Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson, until we see you again,” spoke Wiggins, bowing as he and Bobo left our quarters.
The door had barely closed when I angrily posed, “Holmes, what is this all about? A theory about Mr. Cary? What are Wiggins and his associate doing? Why was I not informed on these matters?”
Holmes easily understood my questioning look and tried to relieve my concerns with a casual, “Watson, my good Watson, all will be explained later this evening. For now, we have a dinner appointment with a very curious young gi
rl and her Mum.”
As we moved through the doorway into the hallway, I offered, “Do you really believe they’re coming? We’ll see about that.”
When we arrived at our table, our precocious little lady and her mother were quietly enjoying the seasonal music provided by the Imperial house orchestra. A local choir in their Christmas robes accompanied the fine musicians, providing those in attendance with a beautiful selection of noels. The dining room was sparkling and resplendent with Christmas wreaths, candles and other beautiful decorations.
Aggie was quick to her feet in greeting us, and proudly offered, “Doctor Watson, Mr. Holmes, this is my wonderful mother, Mrs. Clara Miller!”
“Ah, very delighted that you’ve decided to join us for dinner, Mrs. Miller,” Holmes politely bowed, continuing, “I’m very pleased that your Aggie successfully conveyed our invitation and that you were kind enough to accept!”
As she took my friend’s hand, Clara Miller seemed a little uneasy, quipping, “Mr. Holmes, you will excuse me if I seem slightly ill at ease, for Agatha only told me of this dinner engagement a few hours ago. Let me further state, that if it weren’t for the sterling reputations of you and Doctor Watson, I would never have consented to such a spur-of-the-moment surprise invitation!”
Holmes seemed shocked at her remarks. He raised his left hand and slowly stroked his chin, a sure sign of discomfort that I had learned to recognize in my friend’s demeanor. While the pause seemed interminable, it probably lasted only a second or two. I knew that I had to say something, for the atmosphere had suddenly become very frigid, and I’m not referring to the seasonal weather.
I began, “Ah, Mrs. Miller, please be assured that there was very little planning on our part, as well. Please give us a chance to explain.”
After we had all taken our seats, I poured a glass of water to slake my thirst, trying desperately to think of just the right words to sooth the situation.
“Mrs. Miller,” I began, “Mr. Sherlock Holmes and I only met your dear daughter the other day. We were so taken by her engaging persona and curious nature, that we simply had to meet her lovely mother.”
Treachery in Torquay Page 12