‘Step back, Watson!’ he commanded.
I stepped cautiously backwards and watched as Holmes picked up a fallen branch and thrust it into the mass of dead leaves: there was a convulsion among the leaves and a sharp, metallic noise. Holmes lifted the branch and I could see that hanging from it was a rusted iron mantrap, its huge teeth firmly embedded in the wood.
‘Great heavens!’ I exclaimed. ‘One of us might have been maimed! How did we miss that on the way here?’
‘Very readily,’ said Holmes, ‘because it had not been put in place when we passed this way an hour ago.’
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Author's notes on this chapter
Six
A PAUSE FOR REFRESHMENT
‘I stopped you,’ continued Holmes, ‘because I perceived that the drift of leaves behind that root had grown mysteriously deeper since we first came this way. Now,’ he said, pointing with his stick, ‘I see also a footprint familiar to me from the beech glade. At least one of Lord Backwater’s murderers is still in the vicinity.’
‘And close upon our trail!’ I exclaimed.
‘We are certainly observed,’ he remarked.
‘You sound pleased by the fact,’ I said.
‘Oh I am, Watson, I am. For if we draw the assassins’ attention so greatly that they feel obliged to frighten us away, we cannot be very far wrong in our enquiries.’
I shuddered at the thought of the injury that rusty mantrap might have inflicted on Holmes or me and he eyed me sharply.
‘Your narrow escape has shaken you, Watson. You must let me play the doctor this time and prescribe a pause for refreshment and a glass at the village inn.’
Once we had reached the road it was no great distance to the village, and a glass of brandy at the Backwater Arms soon bore out Holmes’ prescription.
The little parlour was empty of customers and Holmes invited the landlord to drink with us, introducing us as guests at the forthcoming funeral.
‘A sad business,’ said the publican, ‘that such a man as Lord Backwater should be so took.’
‘He was well respected hereabouts?’ said Holmes.
‘Respected, sir, he was loved hereabouts. He was kindness itself to this village. Do you know he even paid for new tombstones for everyone as had people in the churchyard? You see when you goes to the funeral. Each could have whatever they wanted at his expense. A wonderful kindly man,’ and he shook his head sadly.
‘Tell me,’ Holmes asked. ‘Backwater Hall is a modern building but the estate is evidently an old one. Is there no Backwater Old Hall?’
‘No, sir,’ said the landlord. ‘There was an old place as belonged to the Varleys. A ramshackle old place it were, hundreds of years old. When young Mr Varley disappeared, his dad let the place go, you know.’
‘Disappeared?’ queried Holmes.
‘Oh yes, sir. He went to sea, young Varley, and he never come back and after some years he was presumed dead and his old father he just took to drink and let the whole place go to rack and ruin. Then he died and the old place was a-falling down. Lord Backwater bought it for a song. Of course he wasn’t a Lord then, he was still Mr James Lisle.’
He drew at his cider and went on, ‘First thing he did when he bought it was to burn it down.’
‘Burn it down!’ exclaimed Holmes, as though this was the first he had heard of it. ‘How extraordinary!’
‘Well, he did,’ said our host, ‘and he made a real do of it. He invited all the village and there was tables put out with food and I was to supply ale and cider and lemonade, all of which he paid for in advance. We had a rare old do, I can tell you, sir, singing and dancing and I don’t know what.’
‘Well, well,’ said Holmes wonderingly. ‘And what part did Lord Backwater play in the festivities?’
‘He was here and there all the time, talking to everyone just as if it was me and you, sir. Then when it had all burned out and everyone was gone, me and my boys was loading the barrels and we seed him a-walking through the ashes.’
‘Walking through the ashes!’ I exclaimed.
‘Oh yes, sir. I mind it to this day, how he walked through the hot ashes and he was all in his good clothes but he was kicking up the ash like a boy on a holiday. Then he stands in front and he gets down on his knees and it looked like he was saying a prayer. Very strange it seemed to me,’ and he took a long, reflective draught of cider.
‘I wonder,’ said Holmes, ‘if I might trouble you for a pen and paper. There is a message I must send while I am in the village.’
‘No trouble at all, sir,’ said our host and, reaching under his counter, he produced a pad of cheap writing-paper, a schoolroom pen and a crusted bottle of ink.
Holmes tipped the man and carried the items to a table by the window where, under the pretence of scribbling a note, he examined pen, ink and paper minutely. When he showed me the few lines he had scribbled I had no difficulty in agreeing with him that the message from the Gates of Hell had been written in this house.
He returned the writing materials to the landlord, ordered up more drinks and gazed reflectively out of the window.
‘You are in a very pretty part of the country here,’ he observed.
‘We do think so, sir. It might not be entirely to our liking in winter, but this time of year the woods and hills is very pretty.’
‘I’ve an acquaintance in London,’ Holmes mused, ‘who travels this area regularly on his business. He has often recommended it to me, but this is the first time I have found myself hereabouts. What is his name. Watson?’
My completely genuine inability to supply a name must have convinced the landlord.
‘No, no use,’ said Holmes. ‘Neither of us can recall his name. You know him, Watson – tall fellow, a bit weathered about the face, talks with a colonial twang. What is his name?’
‘Why,’ said the landlord, ‘that sounds like Mr Collins, Mr Peter Collins. He was here only days ago.’
‘That’s the man!’ exclaimed Holmes. ‘And I’ve missed him? What a great shame! Was he here long?’
‘Oh no. He never stops long. Mr Collins comes every few months for just a night or two, never longer. I don’t know his business, but I’d have thought it was connected with the sea.’
‘I do believe that it is,’ said Holmes. ‘Tell me, was Mr Collins a friend of the late Lord Backwater? It would be extraordinary if Collins and I were both friends of his and never knew it.’
The landlord chuckled. ‘No, sir, I think I can safely say that Mr Collins was not even an acquaintance of Lord Backwater. The first time as I had Mr Collins here he caused a bit of upset by speaking freely in the public bar, giving out radical opinions about the landed gentry. Now there’s many hereabouts as received great kindness from Lord Backwater and they didn’t care to hear that kind of thing, so I had to take him aside and explain that, being a publican, I has no politics but I should be grateful if he would draw it a bit mild. He was a perfect gentlemen about it, bought a round of drinks and never said another word out of place.’
‘Well, well,’ said Holmes, ‘I would never have suspected Collins of radical opinions.’
‘I hope you will not mention the matter to him,’ said the landlord anxiously. ‘I would not have him think as I had spoken out of turn.’
‘Never fear, landlord,’ replied Holmes. ‘Like you I have no political opinions and the views of others may be what they wish.’ He drew out his watch. ‘I fear,’ he said, ‘that we have enjoyed your hospitality too long and must now return to Backwater Hall. Good-day, landlord.’
As we made our way out of the village I saw that my friend was smiling to himself, no doubt at the budget of fresh information that he had acquired from the garrulous landlord.
We had not gone far when a trap rounded a bend in the road ahead of us and I saw that it carried Inspector Scott.
‘Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,’ he hailed us. ‘I have been looking for you. I gather you have visited Tin-Fiddle Williams.’
‘You
r intelligence service does you credit,’ said Holmes as we climbed aboard. ‘May I enquire how you knew?’
The police officer laughed. ‘Because I had him in my office half an hour ago, accusing me of setting spies upon him and threatening to apply to the Chief Constable if I did not stop it.’
‘Dear me,’ said Holmes, ‘we are rapidly wearing out our welcome in Backwater. The Chief Constable seeks any occasion to remove us from the county, our client is not convinced of my theories and now the village fiddler regards us as police spies. Nevertheless, Inspector, if your Chief Constable is even partly right and there is any poacher involved in Lord Backwater’s death it is Williams.’
‘Should I have him watched?’ asked the Inspector.
‘I would prefer it if you did not,’ said Holmes. ‘I have made him an offer which I think, upon reflection, he will find difficult to refuse.’
‘What was that?’ asked Scott.
‘To tell me what he knows about Lord Backwater’s death and to be saved from the gallows, or to remain silent and to hang with the perpetrators when I lay my hand upon them.’
‘And do you believe that will work?’ the Inspector enquired.
‘I think it may,’ said Holmes, ‘and it would shorten my task, but I shall reach a conclusion with or without Williams’ assistance.’
We had reached Backwater Hall. As we disembarked Holmes turned to the police officer. ‘When next you report to Colonel Caddage,’ he said, ‘you may tell him that I was wrong in one respect. At our brief interview I told him that the roots of this matter lie a very long way away. That I still believe to be true but there is an aspect of the affair that has its origins here in Backwater.’
Seven
LORD BACKWATER’S WILL
Lord Backwater’s funeral was to take place in the village on the following morning. Holmes wished to take particular account of those who attended and so we were at the church early.
It had been announced as a family funeral, but Lord Backwater’s wealth and reputation, his kindness to the people of Backwater and the brutal manner of his death guaranteed that many more than family and friends would attend.
The station trap was busy all morning, delivering passengers to the little church, and the lane alongside the graveyard was filled with carriages in a short time, as there arrived from all over the country senior functionaries and, in many cases, aristocratic patrons of the charities that the late Viscount had supported. There were many widely known faces among the mourners and several senior coats of arms on the panels of the waiting carriages.
The tiny village church was too small to hold all of those who had come to pay their last respects and the villagers of Backwater gathered outside the porch. Prominent among the congregation we saw Colonel Caddage, which was predictable, but at the back of the gathering around the porch was Tin-Fiddle Williams, a degree less unclean than when we met him and apparently not anxious to advertise his presence.
I drew Holmes’ attention to Williams, but he merely nodded.
‘I had marked him,’ he said, ‘and I imagine that he is here because he dare not draw the villagers’ attention by staying away. He is not who I had hoped to see.’
‘You were, perhaps, expecting Collins or whatever his name is – the Man from the Gates of Hell?’ I ventured.
‘I had some slight hope that Mr Collins might make an appearance,’ he replied. ‘Still, the service has not begun, he may yet arrive.’
‘But he was not a friend of Lord Backwater,’ I said. ‘The landlord told us how Collins spoke against the landed aristocracy.’
‘A device, Watson,’ said Holmes impatiently. ‘A transparent ruse to convince the villagers that the cause that brought him to Backwater regularly was not to visit Lord Backwater. Whatever the nature of his business with the Viscount it was both secret and dangerous. I would remind you that the ambush in the beech glade was set for Collins, not for Lord Backwater.’
The last of the congregation seemed to have taken their places and I suggested to Holmes that we join them, but he wished to stay outside.
‘I think the eulogies for Lord Backwater will be so predictable that they may be taken as read,’ he remarked. ‘There will be nothing to learn in the church but there may yet be data to be gleaned here.’
He strolled off across the churchyard and I followed. Our route brought us to the side of the cemetery where an open grave awaited Lord Backwater.
‘It is not,’ I remarked, ‘a very prominent position for Backwater’s most eminent citizen.’
‘Exactly,’ said my friend. ‘It is, in fact, a rather obscure position for the village’s most renowned resident.’
The waiting grave lay at the very edge of the churchyard, surrounded on three sides by existing burials. Holmes paced round the pit, looking at each of the inscriptions on the adjacent memorials.
‘Watson,’ he said, ‘if you have your pocket-book, I wonder if you would be kind enough to write down these names for me.’
I took out my notebook and at his dictation recorded the following:
JOSEPH KEEP
cobbler of this village
1783 – 1847
also
ELISABETH KEEP
beloved wife of the above
1790 – 1845
FREDERICK JARMAN
1778 – 1852
Coachman to Squire Varley
for 51 years
Well done, thou good
and faithfull servant
PRUDENCE GROVER
Born 1835
Died in childbed 1852
Also John
an infant child
Born & died 1852
‘Well,’ I said when I had noted the epitaphs, ‘these are humble companions in death for Britain’s greatest philanthropist.’
‘An elderly bachelor,’ Holmes mused, ‘an unmarried girl and a cobbler and his wife, and Lord Backwater will lie with the couple on his right, the old coachman at his left and the girl at his feet. You asked me once, Watson, what has Lord Backwater’s murder to do with Australia. You might ask what it has to do with these graves.’
I had no opportunity to comment for at that moment the doors of the church opened and the Viscount’s coffin was borne across the graveyard towards us.
Once the interment was over the villagers and many of the visitors left. Holmes kept a sharp eye on the departures and spoke briefly to our friend the landlord of the Backwater Arms, but there was still no sign of Peter Collins. The remainder of the mourners returned to Backwater Hall and Holmes and I accompanied them. At the funeral reception my friend’s keen eyes still sought anyone who might be Collins, but without success.
When the guests had departed Lord Backwater invited us to join him and his sister in the library, where Mr Predge was about to read the deceased’s will.
The solicitor laid out his papers carefully on the great library table, took out his spectacles and adjusted them, took a sip of water and then gazed around the table. Clearing his throat he began.
‘Lord Backwater, Lady Patricia, gentlemen... I am sure that the principal provisions of the late Lord Backwater’s will are straightforward and are well known to his heirs and it will, perhaps, suffice if I summarise them. There are, however, two less ordinary provisions and I shall come to these in a moment.’
He paused and gazed around him, but no one reacted to his announcement.
‘Very well then. The entire estate of Lord Backwater, whether real or otherwise, with all investments, royalties and patents, descends intact to Lord Patrick apart from a list of bequests to local and national charities which are scheduled and certain personal bequests to existing and former retainers of the family. There is, of course, a provision, the details of which are known to Lord Patrick and Lady Patricia, to make allowance for Lady Patricia before and during any marriage and in the event of her widowhood or – ahem – the ending of any marriage. These arrangements are, as I have said, straightforward, and make Lord Patrick an extremel
y wealthy man and place Lady Patricia in a position of independence. The bequest to Lord Patrick is made subject to a hope that he will continue to support those charities that were always Lord Backwater’s special concern, most particularly the support of the orphaned poor and victims of injustice.’
He paused again and Lord Backwater nodded as though to encourage him.
‘I come now,’ continued the solicitor, ‘to two provisions which I am unable to explain inasmuch as Lord Backwater had them included in the testament without vouchsafing any reason to me.’
He drew a slip of paper from his document case and examined it for a moment before beginning to read from it.
‘“I have provided my solicitor with details of the precise location at which I am to be interred and the necessary arrangements have been made with the incumbent of the village church, but I have not hitherto expressed any view as to the memorial to be placed on my grave. I now require and demand of my heir that there should be placed at the head of the grave a simple monument of the local stone bearing only the dates of my birth and death and the name...”’
‘James Loveridge,’ murmured Holmes.
The lawyer stopped, apparently dumb-struck, and all of us stared at Holmes in astonishment.
‘May I ask how you knew that name, Mr Holmes?’ enquired the solicitor.
‘It is my business to know what others do not,’ said Holmes, ‘and my methods of discovering it are rarely unusual.’
‘But my father’s name was James Lisle!’ exclaimed Lord Patrick. ‘Why should he wish to be buried under a false name?’
Holmes remained silent and, after looking round the table again as though seeking an answer, Mr Predge continued.
‘In addition to his requirement as to the memorial,’ he said, ‘Lord Backwater placed in my hands a document which, by the terms of the testament, I am obliged to hand, unopened, to his heir.’ He took from his document case a bundle of papers, bound with lawyers’ tape and heavily sealed. ‘In the presence of witnesses I now do so,’ he announced and passed the package to Lord Patrick. ‘If Your Lordship will be good enough to observe that the seals are intact and are your father’s.’
The Man From Hell Page 4