The Man From Hell

by Barrie Roberts

  Standing either side of the entrance we could not see any distance through the slight opening and no sound reached our ears from within.

  ‘I don’t like this a bit,’ whispered the Inspector, and knocked on the door with his fist, at the same calling out, ‘Williams! It’s Inspector Scott and Dr Watson.’ There was still no sound from inside. Scott nodded to me after a moment and I pushed the door further open with my pistol. It swung unresisted and I stepped cautiously inside.

  If Williams’ hut had been a shambles when last I saw it, it was more so now. All the myriad contents of that magpie’s lair seemed to have been tumbled and overturned in all directions. Miraculously an unharmed lamp was still burning on a rickety shelf. There was only one space left in the hut and that was filled by the body of Tin-Fiddle Williams.

  The old convict lay face down on the earthen floor and it took no medical expertise to see that he was dead, felled by a series of savage blows that had left his head a bloody mess. His outstretched left hand grasped the neck of his precious and unique instrument and, in the shock of the discovery, I noted the apparent irrelevance that he held it in the wrong hand.

  Inspector Scott was searching carefully through the debris about us. ‘He put up a tremendous battle,’ he observed. ‘The place was wrecked while they fought. Was he attacked by one man or more?’

  ‘So far as I can tell,’ I said, ‘he has been struck across both sides of the head, which suggests two attackers, though not necessarily.’

  He continued to poke about among the wreckage and suddenly made an exclamation of pleasure.

  ‘Look here!’ he said and pointed to broken glass in a corner. ‘You can see how that ramshackle table has collapsed and taken everything on it to the ground. That glass was a rum bottle from its shape and colour, and there – see – three tin cups scattered.’ He borrowed my stick to hook the cups out of the littered corner.

  ‘Sure enough,’ he said when he had examined them. ‘There were three of them – Williams and two guests. They drank rum and then, perhaps when they thought they’d got him drunk enough, they beat him down. When do you think he died, Doctor?’

  I had been completing my examination of the body. ‘I doubt if he lived long with injuries such as these,’ I said, ‘but when they were inflicted is another question. I can only guess, but the body is cold and the death rigor has passed off, so I imagine that he died last night.’

  The Inspector nodded. ‘The lamp would suggest that as well,’ he agreed. ‘So they feared he was going to tell on them and silenced the poor old wretch.’

  He gazed around him. ‘I don’t think we shall learn much more here,’ he said, then paused as his eye fell on Williams’ hand clutching the fiddle. ‘What do you think those marks mean, Doctor?’

  I looked again at the instrument. I had noted before that its metal back, which lay uppermost, was bloodstained, but so was much that was in the vicinity of the corpse.

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps he had it in his hand when they struck him or maybe he grabbed at it as a weapon to defend himself.’

  ‘I think not, Doctor. They wouldn’t have struck him while he was holding something and the last thing on earth he would have used as a weapon was his precious fiddle. Besides, those marks aren’t splashes. Look!’

  Now I realised that there were five distinct marks on the polished metal surface and they appeared to have been made with Williams’ own bloodstained hand. The largest mark appeared to be the letter “J” scrawled in script and to its right lay four further blobs of blood. I could not make head or tail of it, but I took out my pocket-book and began to draw the pattern carefully for I knew that Holmes would require an account of it and who knew what meaning he might extract from it. My diagram is herewith:

  ‘So he lived long enough to try and leave us a message,’ mused the Inspector. ‘A “J” and what then? Are those blobs meant to be letters? Was he so far gone he could make no other letters? Did he mean “J” and four letters following? It is too much for me. I shall have it photographed and let Mr Holmes enlighten us when he returns.’

  Shortly afterwards we left the hut and separated at the road, Inspector Scott to arrange for a photograph of the violin and the removal of Williams’ body, I to return to Backwater Hall.

  I reported to Lord Backwater the results of the morning’s excursion and he heard me out, but without offering opinion or comment and with, I believed, a slight air of impatience.

  ‘So we do not know what he would have told us,’ he said when I had finished my account. ‘No matter, perhaps, for we have heard further from the Ring.’

  ‘Indeed?’ I said. ‘Have they set out any terms?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Lord Patrick. ‘If you do not mind waiting for Predge to arrive I think we should confer as to our response.’

  Predge arrived in time to take luncheon with us and afterwards we repaired to the library. Lord Backwater read us the latest message from the Ring, delivered by an unseen messenger in mid-morning.

  ‘“Lord Backwater, we have told you that, through no fault of your own, you are in possession of what belongs to us. The proceeds of the Black Queen do not belong to you. We believe that our interest in what you hold amounts to some twenty-five thousand pounds sterling, but we have been put to extraordinary lengths to collect our dues and, in consequence, require the addition of a further twenty-five thousand pounds”’

  ‘Damnably cool!’ I interjected.

  ‘They hold the whip hand at present. They can afford insolence. Let me continue,’ and he read on: ‘“If you are sensible and wish to safeguard your sister, you will adopt the following plan. On the day that this is delivered you will have the money, in Treasury notes, placed in a canvas sack. Let us have no nonsense with marked notes. We are all men of honour. The sack should be firmly attached to a long rope. Take them to the bridge over the South Pool and lay the sack exactly in the centre of the bridge. Pass the rope from the sack along the bridge to the south, leaving its end by the great oak that stands close to the bridge. It would be as well if the rope is at least the length of the bridge. At dusk you may be on the north end of the bridge. If there is anyone on the south side of the pool or on the bridge there will be no transaction. Precisely at sunset your sister and her maid will be tied to the free end of the rope and permitted to walk across the bridge as the sack is drawn to the southern end. If all goes well you shall have her back unharmed. If you attempt to betray the operation she will be shot down. If there is any attempt at pursuit after the exchange, your groom will die. These arrangements are quite straightforward. If we see the sack and rope on the bridge at sunset we shall know that you have accepted them. If not, we shall be pleased to draw our own conclusions and act accordingly.”’

  ‘And it ends with the cross and square rigmarole,’ said Lord Patrick, dropping the letter to the table.

  ‘This is preposterous,’ I said. ‘You will not, I take it, fall in with their demands?’

  ‘I really see no other choice,’ said Lord Backwater.

  ‘But surely even you cannot raise such a sum in hours?’ I asked, hoping to delay on the grounds of practical difficulties.

  ‘But I can,’ he replied. ‘As soon as I received the letter I sent for Predge. He confirms that the amount is inconsiderable in terms of the estate. My bank has been wired to prepare the notes and Arnold has been sent with my note to collect it.’

  ‘But what if this is an attempt at theft?’ I asked. ‘Arnold may be waylaid and robbed.’

  ‘He is accompanied by three armed grooms and I have little doubt that he will soon return with the money, Doctor. It only remains to make our dispositions for this evening.’

  Aware of Holmes’ solemn warning I was at a loss for a way of carrying out his advice. ‘You will recall that Sherlock Holmes warned you against any exchange in his absence,’ I said.

  ‘I have nothing but respect for Mr Holmes’ intelligence, Doctor, but he is not here when he might have been. I, on the other hand, have to
rescue my sister from her captors by any means at my disposal. If that is as easy as the spending of money, then I must do it. My father would expect no less of me.’

  ‘Your father would not have expected you to fall into a trap set by the Ring,’ I said.

  ‘If you can see the trap, then by all means point it out to me, Doctor. Unless you can do so, I shall carry on.’

  ‘Why have they selected the bridge?’ I asked.

  ‘The pool there is fed by a stream from the east that drains it on the west. At both ends the stream is wide and deep. Without using the bridge it is impossible to cross the water without a detour of about a mile in either direction.’

  ‘Then they cannot be pursued. They seem to know the ground well,’ I remarked. ‘I do not like the idea that they are choosing the field of play.’

  ‘It is no use, Doctor,’ said Mr Predge. ‘I have urged His Lordship to consider Mr Holmes’ advice or, at the very least, to involve the police, but he will not hear of it.’

  ‘Patricia is my sister, gentlemen,’ said Lord Patrick. ‘You must allow me to act as I think best. Nevertheless, Doctor, and in spite of your objections, I would value your assistance if you will give it.’

  With a sense of foreboding I agreed.

  Sixteen

  THE BRIDGE AT TWILIGHT

  The South Pool of Backwater Park in daylight is a place of great charm, fringed with bullrushes and spread with water-lilies. On its north side a carriageway runs along most of the shore, crossing the pool by a narrow ornamental bridge some one hundred yards long towards the eastern end. While the northern carriageway runs through open grassland at the shore, once it has crossed the bridge it plunges into an ancient part of the thick woods that clothe much of the park to the south.

  Shortly before sunset I accompanied Lord Backwater to the northern end of the bridge. With us came three armed grooms. There was no sign of activity when we arrived.

  The money sack had been prepared and now we attached it to a length of rope and carefully set it in the middle of the bridge. Following the instructions in the letter, we carried the end of the rope to the southern limit of the bridge and laid it beside the specified area. With a last glance around us we retreated to the north side.

  Anxiously we watched the sun slipping down behind the trees at the western end of the lake, the silence broken only by the occasional croaking of frogs and the rippling of the breeze in the reeds about the shore. Light dwindled from the sky and soon it became impossible for our eyes to pierce the dark tunnel opposite us where the carriageway disappeared into the woods. At last the sun vanished entirely, so that the scene was lit only by the reflection of the sky from the pool.

  Lord Backwater and I were pacing nervously about the bridge’s northern abutment and I had just lit a cigarette when a voice hailed us from the far side.

  ‘Lord Backwater!’ it cried. ‘If you are ready to make the exchange, raise your right arm.’

  Both of us strained our eyes but could see nobody across the bridge. Lord Patrick raised his arm and called, ‘Let me see my sister and her servants!’

  Now we saw movement under the trees and a small group of figures emerged into the light. Two heavily built men in rough clothing and soft hats flanked the group, and between them stood two young women and a youth, their hands apparently tied behind their backs and handkerchiefs bound across their mouths.

  ‘They have come to no harm,’ the same voice called, ‘and there will be none so long as you stick to our terms. We shall tie the young ladies to the end of the rope.’

  ‘Watch the money-bag,’ Lord Patrick commanded the grooms. ‘If there is to be false play this is where it will occur.

  ‘Proceed very slowly!’ he called across the bridge. ‘You must know there are guns on you.’

  ‘There will be no tricks,’ came the reply. ‘Wait now while we make our arrangements.’

  We watched while the two girls were attached to the rope, about two paces apart. They were led round the back of the tree while one of the men held the rope.

  ‘Lord Backwater,’ our communicant called, ‘I am going to pay out the rope around the tree and allow the young ladies to walk across to you. So long as the bag comes back to us there should be no difficulty.’

  Lady Patricia and her maid began to advance slowly across the bridge as the man by the tree let out the rope. When the slack of the rope was taken up, the canvas sack of money began to inch towards the far shore. Suddenly there was a disturbance. The bound and gagged youth, whom I took to be Tommy the groom, seemed to be struggling to escape. My heart went out to the poor lad, realising his fellow prisoners were about to be freed and not knowing his own fate.

  Lord Backwater stepped forward. ‘Tommy!’ His voice rang sharply across the water. ‘Bear up, lad. You are my sister’s safeguard in this and I shall not forget you. I promise you that I shall not rest until you are safe.’

  The boy abandoned his struggles and the exchange went on. The rate at which the rope was paid around the tree governed the speed of the operation and the man at the rope seemed to be in no hurry. Foot by foot the canvas bag slid away from us and pace by pace the girls stepped towards us.

  ‘Your Lordship,’ muttered one of the grooms, ‘when that bag reaches the far end and Her Ladyship is at this end, couldn’t we rush them? There’s five of us here.’

  ‘Tommy would die instantly,’ said Lord Patrick, ‘and we should be shot down before we were half-way across the bridge. We are in the open here and they can see better than we can, even in this light.’

  ‘Besides,’ I added, ‘we cannot tell how many more of them there may be in the darkness under those trees.’

  Nevertheless I sympathised with the groom’s impatience. It was completely galling to stand impotently while the scoundrels across the pool drew the ransom nearer and nearer to their hands.

  The slow movement of the young ladies across the pool had taken so long that the light was now almost gone and my unease deepened with the darkness. All seemed to be proceeding smoothly, but Holmes’ warning still echoed in my mind.

  At last the girls were almost within our grasp, but still Lord Backwater held the grooms back, ordering them to light lanterns.

  A jerk on the far end of the rope brought the girls up short, only two paces from us. Out of the inky darkness across the pool the voice called again.

  ‘We are cutting the bag free. When I call again you can take the ladies. If all has been done properly we shall release the boy in the morning.’

  ‘If you harm that boy I shall personally seek you out and kill you!’ replied Lord Backwater, and I knew that he meant it.

  A laugh floated across to us. ‘Never fear,’ said the voice. ‘The bag is ours and the ladies are yours. Good night, Your Lordship.’

  The grooms lifted their lanterns and Lord Patrick and I sprang forward to receive Lady Patricia and her maid.

  With my pocket-knife I slit the gag around the maid’s jaw. Tears were streaming down her face and, as I freed her hands, she was struggling to find words.

  Behind me I heard a sharp oath from Lord Patrick. Swinging around I saw the cause of his alarm. He too had freed the other prisoner and the lanterns’ light revealed that he now held the groom Tommy dressed in Lady Patricia’s clothes.

  ‘Oh, Your Lordship!’ cried Catherine. ‘Lady Patricia is still there. They made her dress as Tommy and they’ve still got her!’ and she burst into loud sobs.

  The groom and I had to restrain Lord Backwater from plunging across the bridge into the blackness that now enveloped the far woods.

  It was a silent and gloomy party that made its way back to Backwater Hall and, once there, I busied myself with ensuring that Tommy and Catherine had not suffered by their experience. Both were, at least, able to assure Lord Backwater that his sister had been unharmed when they left her beside the bridge.

  His Lordship’s mood swung like a pendulum. At one moment he paced the floor, raging incoherently against his sister’s abd
uctors, at another he would slump into a chair and stare in morose silence at the floor.

  When I had attended to the boy and girl and sent them to their beds I poured Lord Patrick a large brandy. ‘This will not do,’ I told him as I pressed the glass into his nerveless hand. ‘There is nothing to be done tonight, Lord Patrick, and you are overwrought. We must get a good night’s rest and prepare a new plan in the morning.’

  He swallowed the brandy and looked up at me with dulled eyes.

  ‘You are quite right of course, Doctor. We shall meet again at breakfast. Good night, Doctor.’

  I watched him walk away across the room, his shoulders bowed and the youth entirely gone from his step. He turned back at the door.

  ‘I apologise, Doctor. I have not thanked you for standing by me at the bridge, despite your misgivings.’

  You may imagine that our meeting at breakfast was scarcely more cheerful. Both of us picked at our food and barely spoke, each not knowing how to raise the topic of the previous night’s failure.

  A rattle of gravel outside the windows alerted us to the arrival of a vehicle. It was a dogcart from the station and, a moment later, Arnold was at the door.

  ‘Mr Sherlock Holmes, sir,’ he announced and he had barely spoken the words when my friend strode into the room.

  ‘Good morning, Lord Backwater, Watson,’ he greeted us. ‘Is there any coffee to spare? The refreshment room at Swindon in the early morning is not the best place to break one’s fast.’

  Without waiting for an answer he made for the side-board and commenced loading a plate. I was surprised, for I had long observed that Holmes’ appetite seemed to vanish when a case was going badly and only returned when he was making progress, but I reflected that he could not yet be aware of last night’s fiasco. Nevertheless I was deeply relieved to see him.

  He joined us at the table and Arnold poured his coffee. As my friend ate, Lord Backwater outlined the events of the previous day. I watched Holmes’ face during the recital but it betrayed nothing. When the story was done, he wiped his mouth and laid down his napkin, gazing at me across the table.