Thus, at considerable financial cost, I had transport to Settleholm. The hansom picked its way through the hushed streets, heading north out of town on the Willingdon Road. Then we were clip-clopping along lanes where the mist seemed to glide against the blackberry bushes and the hawthorn hedgerows like some fast-flowing river of condensation rolling between its banks. Now and then the driver, mounted at the rear of the cab, would mutter about the difficulty he was experiencing with seeing, the which complaints, though he kept his voice low, I was nonetheless expected to hear. I bit my tongue, thinking that if he resented being out in these conditions so much, why hadn’t he simply gone home when the sea fret first manifested?
I had asked him to give me notice when we were a stone’s throw from the manor entrance, and sure enough he rapped on the roof when the time came, announcing that we were almost there.
“Stop the cab,” I told him. “I shall walk from here.”
“You’re the boss,” the driver replied indifferently, and pulled on the reins.
As I stepped out, he indicated that I should continue on ahead. “Great big set of gates on the right. You can’t miss it.” Then he clucked his tongue to gee up the horse and began the process of turning the cab round in a series of laborious back-and-forth manoeuvres.
I raised the latch that secured the pair of immense, heavy iron gates. Hinges creaked faintly as I pushed one of them open and closed it behind me. A broad, packed-earth driveway spread in front of me, winding through an avenue of linden trees. I followed it for perhaps half a mile until at last I caught sight of the house itself, which reared up out of the mist like some forbidding fairytale castle. I noted that parked outside it, alongside Mallinson’s Humberette, there was a second car. Evidently he had a guest, perhaps guests plural.
Orientating myself from memory, I turned off in the direction of the barn where the Grahame-White was stored. From time to time I had to pause to get my bearings, even as the manor grew dimmer and more nebulous in the distance. I recognised the stand of oaks ahead and made that my next point of reference.
Halfway there, I noticed an insistent squeaking sound, and then to my right I spotted someone headed my way, pushing something before him.
It was a gardener with a wheelbarrow. The wheel’s axle was in need of oil, hence the squeak, and now I could hear an accompanying humming from the gardener himself. He was singing “Greensleeves” wordlessly under his breath in a reedy baritone as he trundled his load – rolls of turf and a shovel – across the lawn.
I darted as swiftly and stealthily as I could away from this rustic-looking member of Mallinson’s staff. A nearby rhododendron bush seemed to afford some cover. I hid behind it, peering out. The gardener carried on by, oblivious. He stopped momentarily to straighten up and press a thickly gloved hand into the small of his back, uttering a soft groan. Then he bent to the wheelbarrow’s handles and was off once more.
The mist swallowed him up. I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding.
I resumed my course towards the oaks. My close encounter with the gardener had reminded me that I was an interloper on the estate, as I had been the last time with Holmes and Reptilio. That occasion had nearly turned out very badly for us, and I had no desire for another run-in with Jenks the gamekeeper.
Moreover, it was beginning to sink in just how futile an exercise this was. Did I honestly think I would bump into Holmes somewhere by the barn? That was assuming he was even here at the manor at all. The odds against such an eventuality were astronomical. I was more likely to come up empty-handed, and then what would I have to show for my trouble? I would be stuck out in the middle of the countryside, in thick mist, with evening fast falling. What would be my next move? Strike out for the nearest village? I did not even know in what direction it might lie. Go up to the front door and throw myself on Craig Mallinson’s mercy? Possibly. I could claim I had been walking in the area and had lost my way, until I passed Settleholm Manor. That seemed plausible enough, and Mallinson was a decent cove. It was doubtful that he would refuse me hospitality and turn me out on my ear. As long as I acted the part of the wayward, stranded traveller well, he would have no cause to doubt my veracity. He might even offer me a bed for the night, in the expectation that the fret would diminish and the air be clear again by morning.
From the oaks I could just make out the shape of the barn. It was time to see this misbegotten venture through to its end.
I had gone no more than three steps when a familiar coarse voice thundered, “You there! Halt!”
I barely needed to look round. What appalling wretched luck. The one thing had happened that I had hoped would not.
I had been caught by Jenks.
The unmistakable silhouette of the gamekeeper was approaching through the mist. He unshouldered his shotgun as he came, thumbing back the hammers on both barrels.
Briefly, wildly, I considered running. But what would be the use? I was not fleet of foot, and if Jenks was half as good a shot as he professed to be, he would have a round of pellets in me before I’d gone five yards, mist or no mist.
I would have to devise some other way out of this predicament. My best bet seemed to be gentle dissuasion.
“Jenks…” I began.
“As I live and breathe, it’s Dr Watson,” said he. “Well I never. Back on Mr Mallinson’s property, and up to no good again, I’ll be bound.”
Now he was close enough for me to discern his features.
My jaw dropped.
For Jenks, like Inspector Tasker, sported a large, prominent bruise. It was on his forehead, just by the temple.
We looked at each other, he and I, for several taut seconds.
Then I said, “You.”
And he said, “Indeed. Me.”
I could see that he knew there was no point denying it. He was the one who had thrown me off the end of the pier. The evidence was as plain as the bruise on his face. His lopsided, unabashed smile clinched it. I was in the presence of my would-be killer.
And he had a loaded gun levelled at me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A STIFF UPPER LIP AND A BELLY FULL OF BRITISH PLUCK
“You survived,” he said. It was a statement, not an interrogative. He was not expressing surprise. “I watched those blasted swimmers rescue you. Not a ruddy thing I could do about it. Such rotten timing. If only I’d waited another five minutes, they would have been too far past.”
“Jenks, listen,” I said, “I have no idea why you want me dead, but I am not one to hold a grudge. Put the gun away. I’m sure we can settle this amicably, without resorting to bloodshed.”
“And now you have the nerve to come sniffing round here again,” Jenks said, as though I had not spoken. “Funny thing is, I had a hunch you might. Where’s your chum Holmes? He’s got to be somewhere nearby. You’re keeping lookout for him, that’s it, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said, and then more firmly, “Yes. Sherlock Holmes is around. So you’d better watch out. In this mist, he could be anywhere.”
The bluff had no impact. “Well, wherever he is, he won’t be fast enough to save you, if that’s what you’re hoping. This can be done with in the time it takes to pull a trigger. But first, put aside that walking-stick of yours. I’ll not have you catching me another lucky blow with it like last time, or trying any other funny business.”
I dropped the stick as requested. “There. Satisfied?”
“Good. I just want you to know, doctor, that it’s nothing personal. You’ve been too inquisitive, that’s all. Shoving you in the water was meant to put Mr Holmes off. Had you died, it would have made the point clear as day. He would realise he should leave things well alone. As it is, he should at least have taken the hint, as should you. You’re meddling with forces greater than you comprehend.”
“You should know that I am not a man to ‘take a hint’, and even less so is Sherlock Holmes. In fact, were you at all familiar with the man and his deeds, you would realise that the more you
try to deter him, the more determined he becomes. Had you succeeded in killing me at the pier, you would have made yourself an implacable enemy. Holmes would not rest until he saw you swinging from the hangman’s noose. The same applies now.”
“Is that so?” said Jenks. “Well, perhaps we should put it to the test. I failed last time, but this time I have you bang to rights.”
His finger coiled round the trigger.
“Emphasis on ‘bang’,” he added with a cruel leer.
I steeled myself. I stared him in the eye. I had faced death before, many times, and learned that it must be met with boldness and courage, for that is how you rob it of its power. When it cannot be evaded or parlayed, then it can only be confronted head on.
That was the soldier in me, ready to meet his end with a stiff upper lip and a belly full of British pluck.
Jenks hesitated, cocking his head.
Both of us had detected a repetitive, insistent squeaking, which got rapidly louder and clearer. Jenks lowered the shotgun part-way, then all the way.
“Now who the devil…?” he murmured, irritated.
The gardener came into view, pushing his wheelbarrow as before. He was a venerable, whiskery sort, with a red spotted neckerchief fastened around his throat and an unlit clay pipe clenched between his teeth. The brim of his felt hat shaded a pair of lively eyes.
“Afternoon, Mr Jenks,” he said in a thick rural burr, touching finger to forehead. “Begging your pardon, sorr. Don’t mean as to interrupt your chitchat with this gent, but where’s Mr Mallinson wanting this here stack of sod to be laid? Only oi can’t seem to find the bare patch oi’m meant to be looking for. Was it the croquet lawn?”
“How am I supposed to know?” said Jenks testily. “Ask Daykin, the head gardener. It’s his job.”
“Right you are, sorr. You wouldn’t happen to know where he be, would you? Mr Daykin, that is.”
“No, I would not. Now be off with you.”
“Aye, sorr. Whatever you say, sorr.” The gardener hoisted up the wheelbarrow handles, but then abruptly let out a hiss of pain and dropped them. The barrow tipped over, landing on its side and disgorging its contents. Several rolls of turf unravelled, half burying the shovel among them.
“Oh, fiddlesticks!” he exclaimed. “How clumsy can a fellow be? It’s me back, see. Me lumbago. It keeps giving me these abominable twinges. Now look at what oi’ve gone and done.”
He knelt to start gathering up the turf. I tried to catch his eye and give him a look that would convey that I was in distress, but he was too involved in his task to notice. Jenks’s shotgun was no longer pointing straight at me. There was no way the gardener could have inferred the true import of the situation, how things actually stood between me and Jenks. To him it looked as though the gamekeeper and I had merely been engaged in casual conversation when he happened by. Doubtless he assumed from my dress and deportment that I was a houseguest of Craig Mallinson’s, perhaps the owner of that second car.
If I could somehow get him to notice that something was awry here…
But then that might endanger him too.
At any rate, he continued to pay me no heed. Jenks watched impatiently, and I impotently, as the old man righted the wheelbarrow and loaded the turf back into it. It was absurd – farcical, even. This cackhanded yokel was holding us up, keeping us from concluding our business. Unfortunately for me, that business was my being murdered in cold blood.
Jenks peered intently at the gardener. “I don’t know you, do I?” he said. “Haven’t seen you around before.”
“Oi be a recent hire,” came the reply. “Only started as of last week. Tuppen’s the name.”
“How come you know my name, then? Seeing as we’ve never met.”
“Everyone in Mr Mallinson’s employ be knowing Mr Jenks the gamekeeper. Besides, Fanny the chambermaid pointed you out yesterday as you was passing in the distance. ‘That’s Mr Jenks,’ she said, all admiringly like, in such a wise that oi could tell she be nursing a special fancy for you.”
“Fanny, eh? Well, I don’t deny that she’s a pretty young thing. Shapely, too. There’s just one problem.”
“Oh arr?”
“I wasn’t here yesterday. Wednesdays are my day off.”
“Then it must’ve been the day before,” said the gardener. “Oi gets muddled, see. Me age, sorr. Memory isn’t what it was. Oi can remember scrumping apples from farmer Evans’s orchard as a nipper, clear as anything, but ask me what the missus served for supper last night and oi couldn’t tell you.”
Jenks raised the shotgun again, only now it was aimed not at me but at the gardener.
“Stand up,” he said.
“Sorr?”
“You heard.”
Before the gardener did as bidden, his hand stole towards the shovel.
In that instant I perceived the full picture. It should have been obvious but, as Holmes was fond of pointing out, too often I saw but failed to observe.
I made my lunge for Jenks even as the gardener moved too, with startling swiftness for a man of his years who professed to suffer from chronic lumbago. The shovel came sweeping upwards, connecting with the shotgun barrel. Jenks’s finger involuntarily tightened on the trigger. The gun boomed, discharging into the sky. At the same time I collided bodily with Jenks in a sort of bearhug-cum-rugby-tackle which, I regret to say, had greater consequence for me than it did for him. He was strong, more muscular than I had given him credit for. He shrugged me off as though I were a child.
The gardener swung the shovel again, and this time the flat of its blade struck Jenks’s right hand. The gamekeeper bellowed in pain and his firearm fell to the ground. Clutching his right hand in his left, he seethed and swore, spittle flecking his lips. The gardener whirled the shovel as though it were a golf club, hitting the shotgun where it lay and sending it skidding across the grass, out of immediate reach.
In the event, the gamekeeper ran at him like a charging bull. The gardener danced backwards with alacrity, then thrust the shovel at Jenks’s midriff like a lance, the blade end-on. Jenks arched away defensively, but in a surprising move, one that the gardener had not foreseen, he seized the shovel blade and pushed hard. The butt of the handle was driven forcefully into the gardener’s belly. He managed to brace himself, but the blow clearly still hurt.
I launched myself back into the fray, somewhat more circumspectly than before. I clouted Jenks on the side of the head. Who could have predicted that he would possess such a thick skull? I reeled away feeling that every finger in my hand was broken. Jenks, for his part, was barely fazed. He and the gardener continued to grapple with the shovel, which lay between them like the rope in a particularly vicious tug-of-war.
“Watson,” said the gardener, his bumpkin accent gone, “I would truly appreciate some help.”
“I’m trying,” I replied, shaking out my bruised hand.
“Well, try harder.”
Grimacing and gasping, the two men fought to wrest the shovel from each other’s clutches. Jenks was half as old as his opponent – as Sherlock Holmes, I should say, for the secret of the gardener’s true identity was now out. Jenks, furthermore, was in prime physical condition, only to be expected in a man who engaged in outdoor activity all day long. There seemed little doubt but that he would prevail in the contest with Holmes.
That, apparently, was Holmes’s conclusion too, because all at once he loosened his grip on the shovel.
Jenks was caught unawares and teetered backwards several steps, off-balance. Holmes pressed at him, hoping to topple him entirely, but Jenks regained his footing.
This left the two of them nose to nose, with the shovel now turned sideways between them, so that in a strange manner they resembled a pair of dogs squabbling over a hambone.
I, meanwhile, made for the discarded shotgun. I picked it up, only to find that my right hand, the one I had punched Jenks with, was too painful to use properly. I had badly bruised the knuckles with that ill-advised blow, perhap
s even torn a ligament or two, and my index finger refused to bend sufficiently to be inserted inside the trigger guard.
Still, I could hold the gun, and that meant I could employ it as a striking weapon. Gripping the forestock with both hands, I approached Jenks from behind. Holmes, spotting me, gave a brief, tight nod. One white sideburn had partly peeled away from his face, revealing a familiar gaunt cheek.
Jenks, alas, sensed my presence, perhaps alerted by Holmes’s surreptitious nod. He wheeled round just as I was preparing to ram the shotgun butt down onto his crown. He dragged Holmes in a half-circle with him, and it was only by dint of sudden self-correction that I avoided clubbing my friend with the gun instead of Jenks.
Holmes still had that clay pipe in his mouth, and as a last resort he spat it out hard. It flew into Jenks’s eye, and in that split second, while the gamekeeper was distracted, I saw that I had been given a fresh opportunity. I slammed the gun into Jenks’s face. The impact was not as powerful as I would have liked, but I didn’t have much time to steady myself for the blow and I was delivering it at an awkward angle, over Holmes’s shoulder. It was enough, all the same, both to send Jenks reeling and to release the hammer on the second barrel. Another gunshot blast rent the air, deafeningly loud, and the gun itself bucked so hard in my hands that I dropped it.
We all staggered apart in different directions, Holmes, Jenks and myself, dizzied and panting, ears ringing. Of the three of us, it was hard to tell who was in the worst shape, although Jenks, unlike Holmes or me, was cut. A trickle of blood was issuing from the small gash that I had put in his forehead.
I realised the shotgun was at my feet. So, at the same instant, did Jenks. With a sudden, atavistic growl he sprang for it and snatched it up. I admit I did not react nearly fast enough, but in my defence, I had not thought the gamekeeper capable of such a turn of speed just then. He was less stunned than he had seemed.
With practised facility Jenks broke the shotgun open, ejected the spent cartridges and produced a fresh pair from his pouch.
Sherlock Holmes - Gods of War Page 16