He gazed bitterly back towards the dead man. We followed his gaze.
‘Why do you believe he was killed, Mr Holmes?’ asked Thorpe.
‘I have been asking myself that question,’ said my friend. ‘You know that he was on his way to deliver some photographs to me? At first I thought he had been ambushed to prevent me seeing those pictures, but he still had them on his person. I have them here. I cannot, at present, imagine why he died. When did you last see him?’
‘Only last night,’ said Thorpe. ‘He was leaving the Colonel’s as I was arriving. We exchanged a few words. He told me that he would bring you your photographs this morning and he said he had an idea who was behind it all. He said that when he saw you he wanted to check something with Dr Watson.’
‘With Watson!’ echoed Holmes, and arched an eyebrow.
‘It sounds’, I said, ‘as if he wanted to check my recollection of some detail of old Williams’ death.’
‘I dare say that was his reason,’ said Holmes. ‘Come, Watson, there is nothing more we can do here. Superintendent, I must think hard about this latest development. When I have done so I shall let you have my conclusions.’
‘I shall welcome them, Mr Holmes. Good day to you both.’
We left on foot and Holmes was silent all the way back to the Hall. Arnold had apprised Lord Backwater of our hurried departure and he had held back luncheon for us. Now he was anxious for our news and, over the dining-table, Holmes described the second tragedy in the beech glade. Like us he could think of no reason for the murder of the Inspector, but we did not have long to contemplate it for, as the meal was ending, there was an interruption.
Arnold entered with his bland features looking positively puzzled.
‘Forgive me, My Lord,’ he said, ‘but there is a person at the door who will give no name. He says only that he has come from London in answer to your advertisements.’
‘My advertisements!’ ejaculated Lord Patrick.
‘Pardon me, Lord Backwater,’ interjected Holmes, ‘but I have been expecting such a development. Can we have this man in?’
‘Very well, Mr Holmes, if you wish it. Arnold, show the gentleman into the library and serve coffee there. We shall join him very shortly.’
As Arnold left, Lord Backwater looked at Holmes. ‘You had been expecting him?’ he asked.
‘Since hearing your father’s narrative, Lord Backwater, I have been anxious to locate the one person who I believe can explain to us many things that are impenetrable at present. I hope that this is he.’
‘Then let us see him,’ said Lord Patrick, and we rose together.
As we entered the library a tall man raised himself from a seat by the window. ‘Good day,’ he said. ‘May I ask which of you is Lord Backwater?’
‘I have that honour,’ said Lord Patrick. ‘Whom have I the honour of addressing?’
‘I,’ said the stranger, ‘am the Man from the Gates of Hell.’
Twenty
THE MAN FROM THE GATES OF HELL
The man who stood before the sunlit window was as tall as Holmes, with fair hair turning silver. His face bore the deep and even tan of one who has been long abroad. In his hand he held a wide-brimmed soft hat and his clothes were of an American, rather than an English, cut.
Lord Backwater darted forward and clasped the stranger’s hand. ‘In my late father’s name and my own I bid you welcome, sir! But what was this about my advertisement?’
‘If the gentleman will be kind enough to give us his name,’ said Holmes, ‘I can explain the advertisement.’
The fair man looked questioningly at Holmes.
‘This is Mr Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective,’ said Lord Backwater, ‘and this is his associate, Dr Watson. They have been dealing with my father’s death and certain other events which seem to have arisen from it.’
The stranger nodded to each of us and drew a slip of newsprint from his pocket. ‘My name,’ he said, ‘is Peter Collins, and I came in answer to this advertisement, which seems to have appeared in every London newspaper.’
‘“The Gates of Hell. Peter Collins must contact Lord B to break the Ring,”’ recited Holmes. ‘If our visitor will give us his true name I shall explain the reason for that advertisement.’
‘What the deuce is going on here?’ demanded Lord Backwater. ‘You say that Peter Collins is not this man’s true name?’
‘I suggest, Lord Backwater, that if you were to assure your guest that anything he tells us will remain a secret, he may be willing to confirm his identity and tell us a great deal more,’ said Holmes.
‘That is, of course, the case,’ said Lord Patrick. ‘I do not know who you are, sir, but I have every reason to believe that my father trusted you. For that reason you may trust me and all of us here.’
‘What makes you believe my name is not Peter Collins?’ the stranger asked Holmes.
My friend had seated himself and now poured himself some coffee. ‘Because I know it to be Patrick Connors.’
The tall man lowered himself into his chair, his eyes never leaving Holmes’ face.
‘You seem to know so much about me that perhaps you can tell it better than I,’ he said.
‘That may well be true, up to a point,’ said Holmes, ‘but beyond that point you must assist me. Now, let me see.’
He steepled his fingers in front of his face as he marshalled his facts, then looked up.
‘You are Patrick Connors, who was adopted at an early age by a couple called Keep, the shoemaker and his wife of this village. They raised you alongside another orphan boy called James Loveridge.’
Both Lord Backwater and I interrupted. ‘But Holmes! That boy died on Eaglehawk Neck. We know he did.’
Holmes continued, unperturbed, ‘For reasons we know about, and through the dishonesty of Rupert Varley, you and your foster-brother were transported to Van Diemen’s Land. There you attempted a joint escape from Point Puer. James Loveridge succeeded but you failed. What happened to you after that I know not. James Loveridge concealed his identity, acquired great wealth and rose to a position of honour and public affection in this country. For most of that time he believed you to have died at Eaglehawk Neck – until, that is, you made contact with him recently. At some point you entrusted your boyhood friend with a very large sum of money, money which it appears is claimed by the organisation calling itself the Ring. Because of their purported claim against you, the Ring had you watched and set an ambush for you when next you visited Backwater. Unluckily, that ambush resulted in the death of Lord Backwater, after which you retreated to London. That is really all that I know of you.’
Collins or Connors continued to gaze at my friend with level blue eyes.
‘How did you come by my name?’ he asked at last.
Holmes smiled. ‘When I first realised that the late Lord Backwater had been connected with this place in his youth, I sought the assistance of the landlord of the Backwater Arms. He could recall James Loveridge, but he was only able to give me your surname. Nevertheless, I knew that you had employed the pseudonym ‘Peter Collins’ on your visits to Backwater and I had seen the initials J. L. and P. C cut more than once into the trunk of the beech tree that was your boyhood rendezvous and the scene of Lord Backwater’s death – “the old place” – so it seemed reasonable that your forename began with “P”. No Protestant Englishman would christen his son and daughter Patrick and Patricia unless he had some reason. I believed that Lord Backwater’s children were named in memory of his foster -brother. The landlord also told me that “Peter Collins” visited from London, which led me to place my advertisements there.’
‘But how did you realise that the Man from the Gates of Hell was Lord Backwater’s foster-brother?’ I asked. ‘We heard the description of his death in Van Diemen’s Land!’
‘We heard,’ said Holmes, ‘a narrative which set out at its beginning the fact that Lord Backwater would not break an obligation of confidence to someone. Did it not strike you as sin
gular that, throughout his manuscript, Lord Backwater never once named his beloved foster-brother? I have always believed that the absence of what should be present is as important as the presence of what should not be, hence I concluded that the foster-brother had somehow survived on Eaglehawk Neck and Lord Backwater had come to know it. When the evidence indicates that the impossible has happened then whatever flows from it is also possible. Ergo, the Man from the Gates of Hell must be Patrick Connors.’
‘Astonishing!’ said Lord Backwater and Connors grinned ruefully. ‘So you smoked me out, Mr Holmes,’ he said. ‘Now what can I do for you?’
‘You were present when Lord Backwater was attacked and killed by the Ring’s ruffians,’ said Holmes, ‘but you may not be aware that there have been two more deaths since – an old wretch who guided the murderers to the beech glade and, this very day, a police inspector. It is evident that the shedding of blood will go on unless we can reveal the man who is directing the Ring’s operations. To do that we need to know why the Ring believes it has a claim on you and Lord Backwater.’
Connors passed a hand over his face. ‘You know the story as far as Eaglehawk Neck?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ replied Holmes, ‘and other than your membership of the Ring, there is no clue there.’
‘When I lay on the Neck with a hole in my shoulder pouring blood on to the shells and that ravenous dog slavering at my throat, I can imagine why Jim thought I was dead, for I thought I was a goner. I heard the guards shouting and then everything went black.’
He paused. ‘I awoke in the infirmary at Port Arthur, but I still believed I would die and I took no interest in what passed around me. I clung to the knowledge that I had seen Jim on the other side of the fence and, as day after day went by and he wasn’t brought back, I knew that I’d got him away and prayed that he would survive the bush and find a way out of Van Diemen’s Land. Slowly I got better, and they questioned me about Jim. I told them that Jim had run into the water and tried to swim around the fence. His bloodstained trousers had washed up on the beach so they believed the sharks had got him and they didn’t look for him.’
He paused again. ‘Somehow they patched me back together,’ he went on, ‘and one day I managed to get up and walk. That day I asked one of the screws what would happen to me. He laughed and said, “There’s no doubt where you’re going – to Sydney to be hanged.”’
Twenty-One
THE OLD HELL
‘When we fled from Point Puer,’ he continued, ‘I believed I had killed Hunter. Unfortunately that was not true. His head was so hard that I had only brained him. Still, he was now wandering about Point Puer like a bewildered ox, his wits completely gone, and I had the satisfaction of knowing that his life as a bully was ended. Nevertheless, attempted murder of a screw and a prison break were quite enough to hang me.’
A slight smile lit his features. ‘But that was not to be. Hunter with his addled wits could never testify against me and the boys of the Ring were agreed that, if they were taken to Sydney, they would swear that I struck Hunter in defence of my foster-brother. The Commandant saw no point in sending all of us to Sydney for a trial that might end with my acquittal and might give us all the chance of an escape. So I was dealt with at Port Arthur. I was charged with striking a lawful officer and breaking gaol. Seven years was added to my sentence and I was sent to Norfolk Island. Do you know where Norfolk Island lies?’
‘About a thousand miles east of Australia’s mainland,’ said Holmes.
‘That’s right. A thousand miles from anywhere. It is – or it was – one of the most beautiful spots on the face of the earth, with pine-clad hills, lush vegetation, flowers of jasmine, sugarcane, figs, lemons. It might have been a paradise if we had not turned it into Hell.’
He gazed out of the window, and I guessed that he was looking down a longer vista than the lawns of Backwater Hall.
‘Every stage of the System,’ he went on, ‘the county gaols, the hulks, the transport ships, Botany Bay, Port Macquarie, Port Arthur, each of these is a step, a step downwards and further into the System’s maw. If the System was Hell, Norfolk Island was the deepest of its pits. There they sent the untameable, the irreducibly vicious, the insane and the desperately rebellious, to rot for ever. To guard us they sent the worst men, often no better than the convicts, mad, corrupt and brutal. Nothing that they did ever came under review. Sydney was a thousand miles away and England sixteen thousand miles further. There I was sent to survive thirteen years if I could.
‘My tattoos from Point Puer stood me in good stead. Norfolk Island was the birthplace and capital of the Ring, and there they recognised no authority but their own, but the marks showed them I was a likely recruit and I was soon made welcome in the Ring itself.
‘All business at Norfolk Island was controlled by the Ring, for it numbered among its Brothers not only convicts and guards but even officers of the garrison. Once I was one of them my life became a lot easier.
‘I might have done as others were doing, and used my membership of the Ring to ease the passing of the years until time wore out my sentence, but I looked at the wretched old crawlers about me, men who had come there in their youth and stayed to rot, and knew that I must never become like them. They would tell newcomers that the way to go on was to take one day at a time, to see no further ahead than next Sunday, but I knew that if I did that I should realise one day that all my youth had been lost, one day at a time. Even for a member of the Ring it was easy to have years added to your sentence for some imagined infraction of the rules and proverb said that those who came to Norfolk Island never went back. So desperate were some that they drew lots to murder each other, both of the parties being thus freed – one by his partner’s hand and the other by a government rope in Sydney. I knew that I must find my own way out.
‘With that in mind I set out to be as useful a member of the Ring as I might, for I knew there was no chance of escaping without the Brotherhood’s assistance. Among the military officers who joined the Ring was a young Lieutenant who taught the organisation a valuable trick as it seemed. The Ring had great power within the island, often deciding who should live or die, but it operated solely through its sworn members, for it lacked the freedom that money would give it, the freedom to bribe those outside its ranks. This officer was well hated and feared by both soldiers and convicts, but he wielded great power for a particular reason.
‘He had begun a system of taxation upon the ships that called there, taking fees from masters to discharge their cargoes at the island. Those who would not pay found that there were insurmountable obstacles to the purchase of their goods by the garrison and soon every vessel was paying his commission. A proportion of his collection he passed on to the Ring. In the first place it enabled us to swell our store of tobacco, rum and foodstuffs, but it also meant that our power over the island was greatly increased. Now guards who were not Brothers could be persuaded to turn a blind eye to the Ring’s transactions and witnesses could be purchased to speak for the Ring, the more believable since the authorities knew fairly well who was of the Ring and who was not.
‘Every day I sought to learn all that I could about the island and its systems and every night I lay and pondered the possibilities of escape. The cliffs that surrounded the island were an insurmountable obstacle, and the few landing places were heavily guarded. At Kingston, where goods were landed, ships did not come alongside, but lay off while they were unloaded by small boats. I was beginning to believe that my task was hopeless, but Fortune is a strange lady. I have known her hard and I have known her gentle and I have known her wear some strange disguises.
‘She came to my hammock one night, in the guise of a soldier with an order to go at once to the Lieutenant’s quarters. I had done him many errands and such a summons was not unusual. The Lieutenant occupied one of a row of cottages at the edge of Kingston. I followed his messenger to the officer’s cottage, the door of which stood open to the warm night, lamplight spilling out. The sold
ier left me there and I entered cautiously.
‘The Lieutenant was drunk in some degree. He sprawled behind his desk in waistcoat and shirt-sleeves with a glass in his hand.
‘“You,” he accused me, “are planning to escape.”
‘I stammered a denial, but he said, “Don’t anger me by lying, Connors. I’ve seen you prowling the island like a cat, sniffing into every corner. You tried it at Port Arthur and you’re looking to try it again here.”
‘“There’s no denying that I’d far rather go than stay, sir,” I answered.
‘“For all your prying and seeking you’ll find no way,” said the Lieutenant, and he leaned across the table, grinning at me. “There’s only one way off Norfolk Island, boy. D’ye know what that is?”
‘“No, sir,” I said nervously, for his drunkenness and the topic of his conversation puzzled me.
‘“The only way,” he said, “is by a Yankee boat. English skippers daren’t take you, Frogs won’t, but a Yankee’ll do it for money. But then, you haven’t got any money, have you, Connors?”
‘“No, sir”’ I said again.
“He gulped his drink noisily and peered at me through narrowed eyes. ‘You can climb like a cat, can’t ye?” he demanded.
‘“Yes, I can climb, sir,” I said.
‘“Could you climb that chimney?” he asked, jerking a thumb at the fireplace behind him.
‘I stepped into the empty fireplace, crouched and looked up. The chimney of the wooden cottage was made of rough-hewn stone. As I looked up I could see a square of starlit sky above.
‘“I don’t see why not,” I said.
‘“Good!” he ejaculated. “Come with me!” and lurching to his feet he led me out of the cottage. He took me to the front door of the next house. A light shone inside but there was no sound. I knew this cottage to be the billet of another officer, Lieutenant Dawson.
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