A delightful repast added to the enjoyment of a busy, yet productive day. While we enjoyed a modest dessert offering, Holmes put forth his day’s findings, detailing his examination of the Cary journal and its grounds.
I was not surprised that he chose not to disclose his actual activities at Torre Abbey. We were still in the early stages of our investigation and, clearly, there was no need to provide all of what we had uncovered to Aggie and her mother.
When it was time for us to leave, Mrs. Miller thanked us once again for allowing her daughter to help with our work. Aggie, for her part, was still bursting with excitement. In fact, as we were starting for the door, Aggie slipped ahead of us, with her back to the door.
“Mr. Holmes... Doctor Watson,” she spoke slowly, “if you wouldn’t think it too presumptuous, might I inquire what else you might have in store for me? I’m ready to do even more!”
Clara Miller quickly spoke up before we could reply, “Now just a moment, young lady. These gentlemen were kind enough to allow you to become involved in their very important investigation. I’m sure that you are no longer needed, at least for now. Am I correct, gentlemen?”
I noticed her winking behind her daughter’s back and Holmes quickly picked up on her intentions, offering, “Aggie, what you’ve been able to do for us will help enormously. Your mother is correct. If we have need of your services, we will most assuredly be in touch. Thank you, again.”
We were barely out of the house when Holmes looked at me and said, “I know what you’re thinking, Watson. I know that I chose not to tell the Millers all that I had discovered, but I hope you will agree that it would only have served to complicate matters.”
“Certainly, my dear fellow,” I concurred. “I knew what you were doing and I am in complete agreement.”
On the trip back to our lodgings, Holmes suddenly posed, “Watson, what would you say to a slight detour to Torre Abbey at this very moment?”
“Holmes,” I quickly responded, “what do you have in mind? What do you hope to find at this time of night?”
“Watson, if you have no objections, I thought we might make our way back to the Abbey to see if Mr. Cary has returned home,” my friend suggested.
He further remarked, “Watson, I am beginning to think that Mr. James Cary has been deliberately avoiding us for some reason. Perhaps, we can find out why that seems to be the case.”
We directed our carriage toward Barton Road and headed once more for Torre Abbey. The evening’s weather, remarkably, remained most cooperative, indeed, almost mild. It is well-known that winters along English coastal areas are normally damp and bone-chilling. That evening, there was little wind, if any, on our drive to the grand estate and we soon found ourselves along the sea cliffs that border the property.
We thought we might have some trouble finding a suitable place to hide our horse and carriage, but fortune was with us. Quickly spying an excellent location behind some scrub brush, we drove our conveyance to that locale. From there, it was only a short walk to the Spanish Barn and Torre Abbey.
As we neared the buildings, there rose above the breaking of the nearby waves what sounded like high-pitched shouting.
“Watson,” Holmes warned, “it would appear that someone is being read the riot act within. Quickly now, let’s move to the front window.”
I followed my friend as he hopped over some low-lying hedges, and we both crouched low under the window sill outside of Cary’s library.
“I’m warning you, Cary, you’ll do what we say or your family will suffer,” an ominous voice threatened.
“Did you hear that, Holmes?” I whispered.
“Yes, Watson,” my friend went on, “it is as I suspected. It appears that poor Cary may indeed be at the mercy of some very dangerous characters.”
“And,” Holmes continued, “while he was wise to seek our aid and support, I’m fearful that these criminals must have learned of our involvement. I believe that Cary and his family are now in even greater danger.”
I was about to answer when another voice rang out through the night. I recognized it to be the voice of the housemaid, Lucretia Bedlam.
“Cary, we don’t want to see anymore of those meddlers, Holmes and Watson,” she commanded. “Do you hear me? You will tell them that all is well and that you no longer require their services. Do you understand?”
Cary responded, “Listen, Miss Bedlam, these men aren’t fools. They’ll know I’m trying to hide something if I suggest they return to London. As far as they know, I’m back and forth working out of town, visiting my family in our country estate. Let’s keep it that way until you’ve finished this unholy business of yours.”
“Did you hear that, Holmes?” I offered again.
“Watson,” Holmes softly spoke, “Cary is a very brave man. His only hope for the safety of his family depends upon his total compliance with this evil band’s wishes.”
With that, my friend and I quietly moved away from the house and headed back to our carriage. In no time at all, we were on the way to the hotel. While we whisked through the narrow streets, Holmes observed, “Watson, we are at a most critical moment in our investigation. All of our moves, from this point on, must be done with the utmost care. I fear that we will be followed wherever we go. Eyes will be upon us reporting everything we do.”
He said no more until we had reached the Imperial and had entered our rooms. After putting away our outerwear, Holmes pulled the drapes across both windows and sat down by the fireplace. Pulling out his pipe, he struck a match sending sparks and tobacco all about him.
“Watson,” he began, “before we plan our next moves, I need to relate my afternoon’s work for your wise analysis. I had a most interesting time earlier today below ground, and I don’t mean the cellar of Torre Abbey.”
“Yes, Watson, when I passed through the secret bookcase, I followed a dark stairway below. There were two pathways leading away from a small storage area. The first one was easily spotted and it led to the Spanish Barn. I remembered that other day, when we first explored that edifice, I felt certain that there must have been a passageway to the main house, but hadn’t enough time to complete that part of our investigation. The locked doors, the bullets flying, Miss Miller’s appearance, Randolph with the shotgun... all distractions from what I had planned to do.”
“At any rate,” he continued, “after following that underground tunnel, there was a hidden opening that I was able to uncover which connected the tunnel to the barn. There, I spent a short time checking all of the walls and floor areas, searching for additional hidden passages. Finding none, I returned to the tunnel area which lead back to Cary’s library. The second tunnel, was not immediately discernible, but after discovering it, I decided to see where it might lead.”
While Holmes continued his tale, I decided to stretch my legs, still listening, and headed to the window. Peering out, I thought I saw a figure staring up at our window. I was about to relate that fact when Holmes called me back to my seat.
“Watson,” he cajoled, “my good fellow, are you bored with my afternoon’s work?”
“Sorry, Holmes, “I muttered, “please continue...”
“Well,” he began again, “I moved through the gap, and continued along the dark passageway, using a piece of chalk to mark my trail. And it proved to have been the proper thing to do, as I would soon find that I had wandered many, many kilometers from Torre Abbey.
Moving ever deeper along the way, I noticed that there were several smaller tunnels that branched off the main passage, but I continued along the main underground trail. I passed many areas where running water could be heard, indicating that perhaps there was some kind of underground river nearby. Farther along, a strong odor of gunpowder led me to investigate one of these smaller rooms, an offshoot from the main tunnel.”
“What?” I voiced, “Gu
npowder, you say?”
“Yes,” my friend replied, with some mild annoyance present in his tone. “May I continue now?”
“Watson, there I found several large empty kegs, which, at one time had held the gunpowder my olfactory senses had recognized. I left that room, returning to the main tunnel, again marking my way. Several minutes later, I had reached the end of that main branch. When I raised my torch, I found that I was in a large domed room, stalactites and stalagmites all about me. The only sound I could immediately hear was the noise made by running water, echoing off the far wall of the huge room.
The area appeared empty, at first. It was then that I noticed a small chair and table set behind a rocky outcropping that protruded from the left. It was protected from view by the cave shadows created by the torch. I moved closer and was about to examine that area when I heard voices on the other side of the cave wall.
Moving my ear directly against the rocky facade, I endeavored to hear what was being said. At that moment, I realized that there had to be a way to get to the other side. I fully intended to try to find some kind of opening to the other side, but it was getting late. I knew that it would take me at least forty to fifty minutes to get back to Cary’s library, so I started back on my return trip.”
“Oh, and Watson,” Holmes blurted out, “I almost forgot to tell you. I narrowly missed running into Lucretia Bedlam as I neared the stairway leading back to Cary’s office. She was on her way along the tunnel to the Spanish Barn and fortunately, she missed seeing me.”
“Egad,” I said, “I can’t imagine what kind of repercussions such a meeting might have brought upon our investigation!”
“I agree,” spoke Holmes, and he completed his tale, “Watson, I carefully emerged into the Cary library, luckily finding no one there. Quickly, I slipped out of the house, apparently unseen. After a few minutes, I knocked on the door from the outside.”
“What,” I inquired incredulously, “why would you do such a thing?”
“Elementary, my dear fellow,” he boasted. “Did you forget that we had to follow the story line we prevaricated earlier in the day? Certainly, Randolph and Bedlam needed to believe that I had left the house earlier and was, only now, returning to the Cary home.”
“Of course,” I concurred. “Cleverly done, Holmes!”
“Watson,” he returned to his previous revelations, “getting back to the voices in the tunnel, as I mentioned, I couldn’t make them out, and the words spoken seemed mere gibberish. Now, after hearing Aggie’s story, I believe that it could have been her voice speaking with Mr. Powe. Do you understand what I’m saying, Watson?”
Stunned by his commentary, I offered, “Holmes, if you are correct, then there may indeed be a tunnel connecting the Spanish Barn to Torre Abbey and Kents Cavern!”
“Precisely, Watson,” my friend remarked, drawing deeply from his pipe.
“What to do, now,” he continued, as he thought aloud. He circled the hotel room around and around, again and again, puffing away much like a locomotive climbing a steep grade.
“Whoa, there,” he suddenly remarked. “I almost forgot about those notes you made from Cary’s council journal. What’s the matter with me? I must be losing my touch, Watson.”
Before I could issue my response to his rhetorical comment, he opened my notes and began to read aloud.
“According to these journal entries, my friend,” Holmes stated, “It seems that at each of the Torquay council meetings, this Druid leader, this Terra person, made an appearance and indicated a strong desire to obtain permission to use or perhaps purchase the clifftop land known as Daddyhole from the community land trust.”
“That is correct, Holmes,” I replied, “that is, if Cary’s notes are to be believed. But they can easily be checked...”
“And,” Holmes continued in the manner of a lawyer leading the jury to follow his reasoning, “each time Terra indicated his interest in purchasing this property, it was unanimously refused. Furthermore, every time he heard his request being denied, Terra issued the same somber remarks, ‘Gentlemen, these continued refusals may not be what is best for this community as you are bound to discover.’”
Holmes bristled at that last remark, issuing, “Watson, that sounds very much like a threat to the town council. What say you?”
“I thought the very same thing, Holmes,” I responded. “And, especially when you consider that soon after each town council meeting, a member of that very same council was murdered! Coincidence, I think not!”
Holmes quickly placed my notes on the desk corner, atop the other papers he had amassed for this investigation.
“Well, Watson,” he smiled, “this case is becoming more and more interesting. I only hope we can stop these villains before another innocent life is lost. Now, if we are to be any good, we need to get our rest, for tomorrow will be a most demanding day. We are going to pay a visit to Mr. Powe’s caves and see if we can get him to show us what he shared with young Aggie.”
Daddyhole
December 21st
Cliffs of Daddyhole Plain
Early the next morning, long before the onset of daybreak, the detective team of Wiggins and Roberts decided to charter a small Channel boat for a trip on the famous waterway. Captain Kirk, skipper of the Toast of Torquay, was quite surprised by the offer. It was not the kind of day most tourists would have chosen for a scenic cruise. But he hadn’t seen much business for quite a time, and it was to be a short trip along the coastline and back.
That anyone would wish to go out on the water in December, especially in such windy conditions, was a mystery to him. Nevertheless, these two men were interested, and seemed agreeable to pay extra for the privilege. Additionally, the old sailor could always use the money.
So it was that Mr. Wiggins and Mr. Roberts boarded the vessel, wearing several layers to keep them warm, at least as warm as anyone could be on the deck with whitecaps breaking and splashing across the ship’s prow. The men kept their eyes peeled on the steep stone cliffs that served to support a well-known plateau known as Daddyhole Plain. The shorter man used a pair of binoculars to scan the impressive formation.
While they were being tossed about and bounced by the Channel waves, they spied what appeared to be a small opening halfway down the side of the Daddyhole cliff. Having validated the existence of the aperture, they signaled Kirk and they soon found themselves back on the city dock, happy to be once more on dry land.
Minutes later, they were atop that same cliff side, preparing for their mission and enjoying the striking view out over the Channel. With the waves breaking so powerfully, they believed that their best hope of reaching what appeared to be an entrance to a cave would come by being lowered from the top of the ledge.
“Wiggins, might I have a word with you?” queried Bobo Roberts as he continued to harness his torso to a thick piece of hempen rope.
“Why, certainly, Bobo,” came the response from his partner as he continued fastening the other end of the rope to the wheel of their carriage.
“Can you tell me why I am always the one to be lowered down sheer cliff walls, sides of buildings? Why is it always me that gets pushed through small, dark, holes across deep crevasses?” the diminutive Bobo inquired. “Answer that for me, if you would.”
After a brief pause, Wiggins turned his head slowly, stared directly into the eyes of his partner and whispered, “Bobo, would you rather lower me down? Really?”
“Think about it,” Wiggins continued. “Bobo, you weigh less. Furthermore, you’re agile and supple. Your size allows you to go where others may not. Need I continue?”
“Enough, enough... You may stop, now!” Bobo Roberts interrupted Wiggins, preventing him from any further commentary. He groaned “You have made your point. Let’s get on with it.”
The words were no sooner out of his mouth when Bobo began
to move to the edge of the rocky ledge atop Daddyhole Plain and slip over the side. Slowly, slowly, the shortish Mr. Roberts felt himself being gently lowered down the ragged side of the sheer cliff wall. Closer, ever closer, he moved toward the Channel waters below him.
“Easy there, Wiggins,” he called up to his partner, “there are several sharp outcroppings over which the rope must pass. We certainly don’t want to cut the cord!”
Wiggins continued to let out the rope, slowly, ever so slowly, waiting for word from his partner.
“Hold it there, Wiggins,” Bobo called softly, as he lit his lantern. “Tie us up right here. I’m directly across from the opening!”
“Can you see anything?” Wiggins inquired.
“Not yet, but I’ll soon have a report. I’m going in,” Roberts announced.
The aperture was just far enough away from the dangling investigator that he had to swing back-and-forth on his harness to reach the edge of the tiny opening. After several efforts, Bobo was able to grab hold of one side of the cave wall and maneuver into the darkness.
“I’m in, Wiggins,” he called out. “Give me some slack, while I venture further into the cavern.”
Wiggins followed Bobo’s request and slowly loosened the rope. He watched each section of the line gradually move to the edge of the cliff and disappear.
A short time later he called down to his partner, “That’s all of it, Bobo. There’s no more rope for you.”
He repeated his message, “Bobo, I said there’s no more rope for you. Are you there? Can you hear me?”
Seconds passed that must have seemed like minutes to Wiggins as he waited to hear from his companion. He pondered what could be taking him so long to respond. Had he been injured somehow while entering the cave? Had the rope been cut? He could only wait.
Suddenly, he heard a small branch snap behind him accompanied by a familiar voice, “I can hear you clearly, Wiggins. You needn’t bother to raise your voice!”
Treachery in Torquay Page 19