With that remark, the teary-eyed young girl quickly rose, ran to hug Holmes and me, and started for the hallway.
She stopped, turned and offered, “Thank you, Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson. I shall never forget you both.”
Heading Home
Our work in Torquay having been successfully completed, Holmes and I were on our way to catch the train from Exeter to London. We had been away since December 18th and we were both ready to return to our hectic, noisy, London and our Baker Street residence. Another adventure had come and gone, and once more we had been able to thwart the nefarious plans of some of Europe’s worst criminal minds. We saved the Cary family from harm and aided in the arrest of two gangs and a serial killer. To my way of thinking, we had done well, very, very well indeed!
“I see by your contented smile that you’re enjoying yourself, Watson,” my friend teased as our carriage driver moved our luggage to the baggage portal.
“That was not such a difficult deduction,” I replied as our London train pulled into the Exeter station, adding, “you know how much I have grown to love re-living our escapades!”
“We certainly had very little time to rest in Torquay,” I began again. “From the moment we arrived until we parted company with our fellow detectives, we seemed to be on the go. Wouldn’t you agree?”
My friend had little to say, for he was busy directing me into our compartment on the London Express. Luckily, this route had no stops on the way to Paddington Station, saving us at least fifty minutes on our return trip.
“Holmes,” I suggested, “you must agree that this was one of our most interesting cases. I mean, with the capture of Vicar Prentiss, and the two gangs, seeing how well Wiggins and Roberts handled themselves, and meeting that young girl, Aggie Miller, and her mother. Also, the quaint little town of Torquay. I say, it was quite the whirlwind experience!”
“Quite,” my partner tersely responded.
Sensing some mild irritation in his reply, I ventured, “Holmes, is there anything troubling you?”
“Why, no, Watson”, he stared at me as he adjusted his reading glasses, “whatever gave you that idea?”
Staring right back at him I raised my voice, “Now, listen Holmes, you can’t deny that you are not in a very talkative mood. Simply tell me and I’ll say no more!”
“Watson, Watson,” he warmed, “old friend, you who know me so well, sometimes know me not at all. I meant nothing hostile in my tone. Your reverie simply interrupted my train of thought. My reflexive response, I do admit, may have seemed a bit caustic. That was all it was. Forgive me.”
“Fine,” I replied, turning my attention to the winter scenery as we slowly moved up a mild grade.
Holmes had picked up a copy of the Exeter newspaper and was quickly turning page after page, clearly searching for a particular topic.
“Ah, hah,” he muttered softly, “Watson, how quickly the news travels. Why only yesterday the arrests and charges had been made and now, this little local paper has the information in print.”
He went on, “Listen to this, my friend.” Holmes began to read:
Headlines: Happy Christmas for Torquay Residents
“It would appear that residents of the lovely coastal town of Torquay will get to enjoy a Merry Christmas season after all. The town had been the focus of attention since October after one of their councilmen, a Mr. Henry Dinsmore, had been found murdered. The following month brought another councilman murdered, with evidence in both cases pointing to members of the Druid cult that had camped nearby. Citizens had been up in arms over these two deaths, accusing the local authorities for the lack of progress in their investigations.
Things went from bad to worse when two more councilmen were found murdered within two days of each other, once again with evidence indicating Druid involvement. When reporters tried to elicit answers from the officials, Chief Inspector, Miles Davis, could only reply, ‘these events are still under investigation. We still haven’t enough evidence to arrest.’
Residents had been locking themselves in their domiciles, afraid to work, visit the shops, go to local eating establishments, etc. The entire community had virtually been shut down out of sheer terror!
All of this changed dramatically when Chief Inspector Davis and his excellent fellow law officers were able to capture a prime suspect in the murder investigations. This individual, a Vicar by the name of David Prentiss was caught in the act of attempting to murder Mr. Donald Dunhill, another Torquay councilman.
According to reports, Prentiss was seen attacking Mr. Dunhill along the shoreline of Daddyhole Plain. Two men who witnessed the attack contacted constables in the area who were successful in subduing the perpetrator, Prentiss.
It was further discovered that when charged with attempted murder, Prentiss decided to plead guilty to murdering the other town councilmen. At that time, no further information was made available to our team of reporters.”
“Why, I’m stunned, Holmes,” I complained. “I can’t believe that Chief Inspector Davis said nothing about our assistance in the case.”
Holmes snickered at my remark then added, “Watson, our case didn’t directly lead to the arrest of Prentiss. It happened while we were trying to protect the Cary family. Still, Detectives Wiggins and Roberts were not mentioned by Davis, and they were the very ones who saved Dunhill’s life and captured Prentiss!”
“Oh, my, Holmes,” I sighed, angrily, “it would appear that Mr. Wiggins and Mr. Roberts are receiving the same treatment that you and I have received from the local police in our investigative efforts. We do all the work in helping them solve the crimes, but they claim all of the credit for themselves.”
“Sadly, that seems to be the case in most instances, Watson,” my friend replied. “I’ve told Wiggins as much when we discussed his career choice.”
As our locomotive moved ever closer to its destination, Holmes and I began to discuss many of the questions in our Torquay investigation that we had left unanswered.
One of our discussions dealt with the Ghost of the Spanish Lady.
“I must say, Holmes,” I began, “what about the legend of that spectral sighting? I remember we had read an article about a supposed recent appearance witnessed by one of the residents, I believe her name was Spenser. What do you make of it? Also, it’s too bad we didn’t track that mystery, as well.”
Holmes gave me a strange look and then confided, “Watson, you may remember as we discussed this ‘ghost’ apparition, you teased about how I didn’t believe in such things. Well, let me assure you, it wasn’t a ghost. As a matter of fact, I forgot to tell you what I discovered in that regard.”
“What?” I spewed forth my disappointment. “Do you mean you know that it wasn’t a ghost that the woman had observed? Well, what do you believe it was that you saw?”
“Watson, at the time we had more on our minds than some local woman’s vision, and we moved on with our own work,” Holmes stated. “But, just the other evening when we had returned to the Abbey in our effort to find Cary at home, I observed a strange lighting effect which could be seen moving back and forth across the upper walls of Torre Abbey and the Spanish Barn.”
“If you remember, Watson” he continued, “there is a tall pole positioned in front of the house, that has some kind of reflective plate attached to it. I had not given it much attention when first we had explored the grounds, but that evening, the wind was gusting, and every so often, when light reflected from its surface, a strange shape would be cast up on the upper levels of the Abbey and the barn!”
“Watson, the image I saw was that of a dark, shrouded figure,” Holmes confided, further issuing, “and, Watson, I noticed that as the pole swayed it produced a most unusual sound that actually did sound like some person moaning...”
After letting his words stew for a few seconds in my own mind, I offe
red, “Holmes, good fellow, that must have been how all of these ghostly appearances had occurred! Why there’s another mystery solved.”
I continued, “I only wish you had told me when you had seen and heard it.”
“Watson,” he apologized. “Yes, I should have, but if you remember, that’s when we heard Bedlam and Cary arguing.”
Next, our conversation moved on to the vicar.
“Watson,” Holmes sighed, “I’m glad that we were able to help Cary. I’m also happy that the two mobs were captured as well, but I have to say that upon looking back on the whole series of events, the one thing that I’m disappointed about was not having had the opportunity to meet Prentiss.”
“Really, Holmes,” I voiced, completely baffled by what I had just heard. “Please tell me why you would you ever want to meet with a murderer?”
“First of all,” Holmes began, “I would try to find out why Prentiss had chosen council members. I mean, why them? I would also like to have validated my belief that he was trying to implicate Terra and his clan, although it seems rather obvious. Additionally, I would like to have delved deeper into the man’s mental condition. Was he simply a psychopathic killer, or did he have some serious brain damage which led to his compulsive actions?”
“Well, Holmes,” I replied, “my friend, you are in luck.”
“What do you mean, Watson?” Holmes inquired. “Do you know something about Prentiss that I don’t?”
“Actually, I do,” I spoke most deliberately, removing a folder from my valise. “Holmes, I was saving this as a surprise until we were back in London, but I sense that you would like to read this report now. Would that be a correct assumption?”
“Why you old... “ he began as he took the folder from my outstretched hand.
A brilliant smile came to his countenance as he quickly perused the document. Immediately, he replaced his glasses and before we had reached Winchester, he had completed his reading and had returned the information to the folder.
“Watson,” the great detective asked, “when did Wiggins give this to you?”
“Holmes,” I responded, “as you now know, Wiggins and Roberts were at the police headquarters when Vicar Prentiss was being charged. Chief Inspector Davis allowed them to observe the initial interrogation and they were also allowed to take notes. Wiggins knew how detail oriented you were, and slipped me the folder before we had left Torre Abbey.”
“You know, Watson,” my friend offered, “those two young men are going to be fine detectives some day. I am most impressed with the way they handled their end of our investigation and I will most certainly let them know about it.”
Almost as soon as these words were out of his mouth, Holmes inquired of me, “Say, old boy, did you have a chance to look over this report? If not, I would be only too happy to summarize.”
“Go ahead, Holmes,” I urged, knowing full-well how much he wanted to attach his own opinions to the events.
“Well,” he began, “in answer to the questions I had posed earlier, according to the interrogation, Vicar David Prentiss is, in fact, no vicar at all. His real name is Matt Kramer, an escapee from the prison at Dartmoor, where he was serving time for the attempted murder of a London politician. He was able to hide beneath the framework of the prison milk wagon when it left the facility having completed its daily delivery.
His disguise as a minister was a brilliant scheme, for no one would have dreamed that a convicted felon could ever assume the behavior of a Man of God. Also, most individuals who had escaped captivity would most certainly have tried to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the prison in which he had been housed. Kramer decided to hide in plain sight, sensing no one would suspect him to be the escaped convict.
As to why he chose to murder councilmen, his response was a simple maniacal, why not. While that answer would suggest Kramer’s mental instability, the fact that he was able to come up with a plan to place the blame on a cult of Druids does indicate some level of competence.
Finally, in answer to my desire to delve into Kramer’s mind, I’m afraid that would serve no purpose. According to his psychiatric evaluation, the man was nuttier than a mad hatter!”
When he had finished his summary of the official interrogation, we both settled down for a short while, resting our eyes as our locomotive continued along the rails, each second bringing us closer and closer to our stop. I was content in the knowledge that we had succeeded in helping so many people to resume their ordinary daily work and joys. Christmas would once again be a happy occasion for the lovely resort community.
I tried to rest my weary mind, but there was still something that I had to exact from Holmes. This was the first time that I had seen another side of him. In the course of this investigation there appeared a more caring, compassionate, even paternal Holmes, and I wanted to know more about these alterations.
“Holmes,” I inquired with great sincerity, “I have noticed a change in your demeanor during our trip to Torquay. I’m curious as to why this may have happened. You have always been, forgive me, the stern, unemotional, problem-solver whose only concern was to effect a proper solution to a difficult situation. I wish to know if you are aware of these changes.”
“Utter rubbish, Watson,” he replied. “I’m the same as I’ve always been: concise, demanding, with very little emotion, skeptical, sarcastic at times, and don’t forget egotistical!”
“You must be imagining things, old friend,” he suggested.
Changing the subject, he offered, “Watson, old chap, what would you say to a trip to a local pub when we disembark? I’ll join you for some fish and chips.”
Saying nothing, I simply stared at him, waiting for him to continue our discussion.
“Well, my good man,” he answered his own question, “you may not be hungry, but I am. Should you change your mind, you are most welcome to join me.”
Again, I chose to say nothing. Instead, I picked up the Exeter newspaper and slowly leafed through the agony section.
A short time later, he softened, “Well, perhaps I have changed. I’m not sure why or how much, but as we became more fully aware of the possible dangers in which we had unwittingly placed Miss Aggie, I grew very concerned about her welfare. She is a brilliant young girl; extremely intelligent, kind, observant, careful in her conduct. Those are all laudable qualities, to be sure. However, we were also witnesses to how dangerously inquisitive and terribly headstrong she can be.”
“So, what are you saying, Holmes?” I teased.
“You bloody well know what I’m saying, Watson,” he returned, somewhat harshly, “she touched my heart. There, is that what you wanted to hear?”
“Holmes,” I continued, “that is exactly what I wanted to hear you say. You’re not that cold, steely, heartless soul who cares for no one but himself. There is a compassionate individual in there somewhere and it’s something that you should cherish. God forgive me, but it makes you seem human!”
The look on my friend’s face was priceless. Holmes didn’t know where to look, what to do, what to say. The man was truly lost for words.
“See here, Watson,” he whispered with great intensity, “I may have softened a bit, but it was only because I began to feel guilty for having placed that young girl in harm’s way. When I saw her being paraded in the cavern, bound and gagged, having recently been covered by a funeral shroud, I felt ill. All I could think of was Clara Miller’s heart being broken by the careless actions of two strangers. Watson, for one of the few times in my life, I feared for what might happen to all of us. And, at that moment, I would have sold my soul to the devil to know that Aggie Miller was safe at home with her mother.”
With that having been spoken, I thought I saw some tears beginning to form. While I had long wanted to finally experience some display of care and concern in this brave man’s steely d
emeanor, I hadn’t suspected that my prompting would lead to such heartfelt reaction.
“Watson, I must apologize for my weakness,” he said sternly, ‘but this you will know, never again will I allow my good intentions to override that which I know to be the correct thing to do. I’ll never allow myself to put a child in jeopardy. Never again!”
After that heart-wrenching admission, Holmes struck a match to his briar and left the compartment. He apparently needed to remove himself from the situation and gather himself. Sensing how much that emotional outburst must have affected him, I shook my head, issuing a severe personal rebuke, “Watson,” I whispered, “you fool. Why in the world would you pressure your best friend with those concerns?”
Soon, Holmes returned from his brief absence, much more like the Holmes I was accustomed to seeing, “Well, Watson, I have to ask you what you thought about the disposition of the booty that the thugs had discovered. Were you satisfied with the ruling?”
“For the most part, I agreed with the local commissioner’s decision,” I responded, “but I’m sure there will be some individuals who will challenge how the coins and silver were dispensed.”
I continued, “Of course the decision to remand the silver bullion to the English government will be disputed by Spain, but since it had been hidden on British territory during that great battle, clearly it qualifies as spoils of war. I’m sure Spain will try to overturn the ruling, but I don’t think they have a chance in hell of changing the outcome.”
Holmes shook his head in agreement, but he quickly offered, “Yes, Watson, I am in complete accord with you on that point. Still, one never knows what might happen should a future hearing come to fruition. What about the Roman coins that were found in Kents Cavern?”
Treachery in Torquay Page 26