I edged my way along the path towards the front porch and rapped loudly upon the dark wooden door. After a few minutes, the door opened, just a few inches, and I spied a white face and a single eye of the deepest brown.
“My name is Doctor Watson, you may remember me from last night up at the Hall. I am helping the police investigate the awful events of that evening. I am terribly sorry to trouble you, as I appreciate that you have been questioned already, but might I please inquire as to whether you have had any further thoughts or perhaps remembered anything that you have not previously recounted?”
I asked this question without lengthy introduction, in the deliberately straightforward fashion that I had learned from Holmes. The idea being that the witness would have no time to prepare a deceitful answer and would perhaps let slip a truth that otherwise, given time to compose themselves, might remain hidden.
“Of course I remember you, Doctor,” Mrs Fairchance replied, quietly, as she fully opened the door and gestured that I should enter.
She led me through a dark hall and into an equally funereal parlour where she turned to address me, hands clenched tightly before her.
“I am sorry, but I really have nothing else to recount, I have told you all I know.”
“Do you live here alone? Have you no servants? I asked, already suspecting that she had none, having answered the door herself.
“To be honest with you, Doctor, all I have is what little it takes to maintain this house. If I brought in outside help, I think I would wither and die from ennui. When my husband died, half of me left with him, quite possibly the better half. I live simply, waiting for the day when I will be reunited with him.”
“You have my deepest sympathies, madam,” I replied. “But did you not, earlier, state that Mr Wergeld had charmed you into attending the evening up at the Hall?”
“Oh Doctor, I am by no means perfect. He is indeed a charming man and I did agree to attend the dinner, although without any thought of impropriety. But that matter has now passed and I will no longer be troubled by Mr Wergeld.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“Because he has left, of course,” was her startling reply. “Did you not know?”
After Mrs Fairchance had told me all that she knew, I quickly left the house. I was in a panic, how could this be? Had Gregson not insisted that the suspects, especially those who were not local, were to be watched at all times? I desperately needed to speak to Holmes. As I walked back into the village, I tried to imagine what my friend would have done in this situation.
What were the known facts? Well, Wergeld had left early that morning, before Mrs Fairchance had risen, and taken all of his possessions with him. Where could he have gone? If he was leaving for good, as he surely was, then he must have made his way to Bedford and caught a train from there. I realised that there were only two ways he could have made the six-mile journey - by carriage or on foot. I was certain that the police would have noticed if he had left in a cab, having somehow acquired one from somewhere in the village, so that meant that he must have walked. He would have probably set off several hours before dawn to avoid detection. It would have taken more than two hours, at a fair pace, to reach Bedford, but he could have still caught a train as early as seven or even six o’clock that morning. I sighed. He really could be a hundred miles away by now, or even already aboard a ship heading back east. That left just one question, but it was by far the most important of all. Why had he left in such a hurry at the dead of night? The answer now seemed obvious. He was making his escape.
The early evening sun had turned the centre of the village into a delightful bowl of golden-hued stone, umber thatch and a soft, mottled light, which reflected off the still waters of the pond. As I approached the village green, I spotted Inspector Gregson in conversation with a sturdy constable who sported great black mutton chops.
“Inspector, I have some urgent information,” I announced.
“If it is regarding Wergeld, then we already know, Doctor,” he replied with a deep sigh. “After having not seen him all day, supposing him to be inside the cottage, the constable watching over him left it until late in the afternoon before finally taking a look into his rooms. So, the villain has a good ten or twelve hour head start. I fear, Doctor, that we may have lost him for good, and with him, any chance of solving this confounded mystery.”
“I have a terrible feeling that you may well be right, Inspector. He could already be at sea by now, or at least holed-up in London, Southampton or even Liverpool,” I replied in agreement.
“Have you heard from Holmes? Although, I doubt that even he can help us now. Maybe he could explain why Wergeld killed Harrison and how he did it? I am certainly no closer to answering either of those questions myself,” I admitted.
“I sent a telegram to Baker Street an hour ago, maybe somehow it will reach him, but I fear that this case will forever be a black mark against my name and that of the whole police force. The public do not like unsolved murders, particularly those of decent citizens, slaughtered in their own homes,” sighed Gregson, morosely.
At that exact moment, a man on horseback galloped into view and thundered towards us, stopping abruptly just a few feet away in a cloud of dust and a hoarse bellow from a pair of exhausted equine lungs. A young man jumped down from the saddle and held out a sheet of paper.
“God’s teeth!” swore Gregson, before quickly recovering. “It is young Holder, the lad I sent to Bedford with the telegram for Holmes.”
“A reply sir, it came just as I was about to leave Bedford to return back here,” said the youth. “I had just been giving Apollo, here, a treat for making such good time, when a man came runnin’ out of the post office shouting and waving this message. I saw the first word - ‘Urgent’ - so I rode like the wind, made it here in no more than twenty minutes, I reckon.”
“Excellent work, well done lad,” replied Gregson, kindly, clearly impressed with the lad’s riding skills. He took the telegram from his outstretched hand and replaced it with a couple of shillings. The now smiling Holder led his horse away, steam rising from his dark but slick flanks - certainly a fine beast and very aptly named.
“Urgent,” Gregson read out aloud. “W and G return to London immediately (abbreviated) have JW under surveillance (again abbreviated) W bring SR. Well, I understand the first part of course but what is your SR?” asked Gregson.
“Service revolver,” I replied, darkly. “Once again, I believe Holmes is several steps ahead of us all.”
Chapter Seven - The Shipping News
Gregson quickly secured a light two seater Gig and we set off for Bedford as fast as we could. We just made the eight o’clock train and sat in nervous anticipation as the darkening countryside whipped past us. We arrived at St. Pancras almost exactly an hour later, and there, a realisation struck me. Holmes had not specified where we should meet him. Gregson agreed with me that we should head to Baker Street as that was from where Holmes had sent his message. We stepped out onto the Euston Road, hoping to find a cab in the growing darkness, when suddenly we heard a voice cry out.
“Ahoy! Ahoy! Over here!”
I looked towards the source and saw to my delight, illuminated by gaslight, Holmes waving from a four-seater carriage, just ten yards opposite. We rushed across the street and climbed aboard before setting off at a goodly pace.
“Time is now our enemy, gentlemen. We must find Wergeld before he leaves the country,” Holmes announced. “I have learned much in a short time, but I have also had to rely on others to try to keep track of this miscreant.”
“So you knew he was the guilty party before you left?” I asked.
“Not exactly, I still had several theories and suspects in mind when I left for London but, on the balance of available information, he was certainly the one who most attracted my interest.”
“He is certainly an odd cove, that�
��s for sure, but what made you suspect that he might be the killer?” asked Gregson.
“When a man lies once, he becomes a person of interest to me. When he lies repeatedly, he becomes a suspect. As a dear friend across the water once said to me, ‘when you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember a thing’. Wergeld lied and lied again.”
“First, he claimed to have made his fortune in rubber in Malaya,” Holmes continued. “As of this day, there are no rubber plantations in Malaya. Coffee abounds, and is far too profitable a crop to be replaced with any other in the near future.”
“Then there is the matter of his name. ‘Wergeld’ or ‘weregild’ was the Saxon term for ‘blood money’, which was to be paid to the family of a murder victim. This may seem innocent enough in itself, but what if I were to tell you that not a single man in all England is known to have this for a surname?”
“A fake name, of course. It did strike me as rather unusual, but I just assumed it was foreign or perhaps from one of the more remote regions, such as Northumbria or Cornwall,” said Gregson.
“I have no doubt at all that this name was not chosen at random,” Holmes declared. “I believe it may contain a clue as to the reason for the murder itself.”
“Blood money? I fail to see how the rogue made any profit out of this act,” I said.
“Not quite, Watson. While the Wergeld is indeed, quite literally, a payment for a crime, I believe this man has, in his mind, made Harrison pay for a crime or injustice in a different, more deadly and utterly final way.”
“What crime could this have been? I have to say that this case just seems to become more complex at every step, each time we answer a question, several more new ones spring up before us and take its place,” sighed Gregson.
“Far from it, Inspector, the case becomes clearer by the hour. I need only a few more pieces to complete the puzzle, but I believe Wergeld himself is the only one who can provide these. We must find him quickly, if he leaves the country all may be lost.”
“I thought you had someone watching him?” asked Gregson, his tension growing visibly by the second. He seemed to have aged several years in the past couple of days and he now appeared grey, drawn and haggard.
“I did, but the lad lost sight of him just after he reached the East End by cab. I should have put at least two boys onto him, Wiggins and another. See, Watson? Another foolish mistake, caused by inactivity of the mind!”
“But, surely, we have him, Mr Holmes,” declared Gregson, brightening suddenly. “He is heading for the docks, I must get to a Police Station or Post Office, I will have fifty men on the docks within half an hour!”
“That’s the spirit, Inspector!” laughed Holmes. “Cabby, take us to the nearest Police Station and quickly!” he commanded, banging his cane on the roof. “The Post Offices will all now be closed, of course. Now, Watson, please recount all that you have learned from your investigations today, back in the village. I can see from your expression that there is much to tell,” he added.
Within ten minutes, Gregson had sent his message and we were rushing along Great Eastern Street, heading toward the docks. The mood had brightened considerably. Gregson was staring expectantly out of the window, while I was perched on the edge of my seat. Holmes sat silently, sphinx-like, his eyes peering into the middle distance, as I told Holmes every detail of what had occurred earlier in the day. Once I had finished, he made no comment but simply remained completely still, concentrating silently on thoughts I could not even begin to imagine.
“I have instructed my men to check the shipping agencies to determine which boats are leaving this evening. I have told them to drag the agents out by the scruff of their necks if they protest about the hour. We will soon know where he is heading.” Gregson’s face appeared keen and youthful once again.
We thundered down Leman Street, Holmes had promised the cabbie a sovereign if we reached the docks within half an hour and he meant to earn it! I am sure I saw sparks fly from where the metal rim of the wheels ground against the cobbles as we took a corner at a seemingly impossible speed. I feared the carriage would tip over, but the driver appeared to possess an almost unnatural skill in high speed driving, and kept us on the road and in one piece.
“My word, Holmes, I could quite believe that this cabbie was a chariot racer from ancient Rome in a former life,” I managed to blurt out above the cacophony of clattering hooves and the iron-rimmed wheels flying over the cobbles.
Holmes broke, momentarily, from his apparent trance. He grinned, “Do you really think I chose this cab randomly? This is Bob Watkins, finest cab driver in London, ex-jockey and formerly employed as an escape driver by the city’s most successful bank robbers.”
A further lurch to the right pushed me back into my seat, where I remained, holding on to the window ledge as tightly as I could manage. It was with a sense of considerable relief that we finally reached the riverside, halted, and could step down from the still heaving cab and onto solid unmoving ground.
“The Malay Star and Contessa II are both scheduled to be leaving for the east this evening,” Holmes announced. “But these are of no interest to us.”
Holmes looked at our surprised faces. “Well, he is hardly going to return to a home that exists only in his own falsified history, is he?”
“It would have been remiss of me not to check up on which ships would be setting sail for the east tonight, but I believe he is heading south, towards Africa,” Holmes explained. “There are three ships sailing for there, tonight. However, many more will be heading to the continent, aboard any of which he could reasonably find passage. We must not discount these vessels, as Wergeld may well take one of these to try to shake us off his trail and then change, once he arrives on the continent, for a longer haul vessel.”
“That makes things much more tricky. In effect, we have to search almost every ship leaving port both tonight and tomorrow morning,” Gregson replied, resignedly.
It was not long until the police began to arrive and in large numbers. Gregson and Holmes devised a search pattern based upon the shipping agents’ information. Two police steam launches blocked the river about a mile upstream, so no vessels could slip by in the darkness. All ships bound either for the continent or Africa were thoroughly searched, Gregson even ordered inspections of those heading east, just in case Holmes was wrong about Wergeld’s intended destination.
Wednesday 11th June 1884
Dawn broke in fine scarlet rays, and a bright blue sky slowly rose above London’s stinking shipyards. Gregson sat upon a large iron capstan barking out orders to dark navy clad constables, Holmes was nowhere to be seen. We had found nothing. Wergeld was not aboard any ship that had set sail that night, he appeared to have completely vanished. I strolled along the riverbank feeling utterly useless in the face of such bustling industry.
“Watson, I am a fool, a blunderer and much worse!” Holmes had snuck up behind me and I flinched in surprise.
“Holmes, whatever do you mean?” I replied, quite perplexed.
“I have made a colossal error, one which I may not be able to repair. I have underestimated our quarry and that is unforgivable.”
“Underestimated? How?” I asked.
“We have an image of our foe, Watson, but it is an image which was entirely constructed by the man himself. A sailor, a farmer, a decent, simple man. However, I now believe, in fact I am certain, that he is none of these things. After all, what do we really know of him, actual verifiable facts?”
“Well, erm, not much, I suppose,” I struggled.
“Three things, Watson. One, he lied about his background, so we have no idea who he really is. Two, he ran from a murder investigation, a clear sign of a guilty conscience to most observers. And finally, three, if he is the killer that we suspect him to be, then he is a most clever and resourceful individual, as he has done away with his victim
in a way that even I cannot currently explain.”
Holmes looked at me directly, face to face, “Watson, this man is deeply intelligent and devious and has thrown us a blind. But I now see it. Gregson!” he shouted. “Bring me the records of boats leaving for Southampton and Liverpool.”
I suddenly understood what Holmes had deduced. Wergeld had taken a boat, not to his final destination or even to mainland Europe, but to another English port, from where he would then catch an entirely different ship to wherever he wished to go. This, of course, brought up a frightening possibility. From whichever port he had landed at, he could have left for any one of a thousand destinations, far too many for the police to monitor. He had gone.
Gregson had passed on Holmes’ order and now approached us.
“We’ll soon have that information, Mr Holmes. On the down side, it will probably be largely guesswork and hearsay, as domestic routes are neither registered nor recorded. However, such trips are relatively rare these days, as the railways and canals transport the bulk of inland cargo. A passenger would certainly be noticed and remembered.”
“Some good news at last, however small.” I breathed on my hands to try to gain some warmth. The morning air was chilly, despite the bright sunlight.
“It occurs to me, that if we knew where Harrison himself had travelled to all those years ago, we might be nearer to knowing where Wergeld is heading. The two must surely be connected, now that we more than suspect him of being the killer. After all, from where else could they have known each other?”
“Once again, Watson, you cut through the gloom with your sword of light,” smiled Holmes, kindly. “I am hoping to hear, shortly, a reply to an inquiry I made earlier today upon that very subject. There are many records for my allies to search through, but we should be able to ascertain the destination that both men set out for, sometime around 1848.”
“Both men? You believe they might have travelled together?” asked Gregson.
Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Pigtail Twist Page 12