Then to my great surprise and horror, Holmes turned his gaze from his opponent for an instant, to ascertain the source of this new drama. With an agility, astonishing in so large a man, the bearded Italian was upon Holmes at once, felling and momentarily winding him with a single kick to the stomach. I cursed myself for failing to react as quickly as I should have, so shocked was I at seeing Holmes so incommoded. The Italian, however, lost no time in wrapping his huge arm around the fragile neck of the young girl and he backed away from us screaming unintelligibly in the most threatening of tones. By now Holmes had struggled to his feet, still nursing his abdomen, but was rooted to the spot as any action on his part would surely have jeopardised the girl’s life. The interpreter explained that if we let him flee with the girl as hostage he would release her once he was safely away. To emphasise the point, the large Italian applied a firmer grip to the girl’s neck to the point where she was struggling for breath.
A quick glance at Holmes confirmed that he was now fully recovered and I gestured towards the pocket, which held my revolver. Holmes shot me a half smile before letting out a most violent scream. Then, clutching his stomach, as if still in much pain, he staggered towards the Italian and his struggling captive. The Italian turned to look at Holmes affording me the opportunity to steal up behind the huge man and then bring my revolver crashing down upon the back of his skull. Whilst emitting the anguished roar of a wounded tiger, the large Italian clutched at his bleeding head, and his eyes started to roll back, as he crashed onto the parquet floor, unconscious.
The much relieved girl then spun away from him and into my arms. I helped her to a chair and poured her some water from a carafe on the side table.
‘A smart bit of work there, Doctor.’ Bradstreet acknowledged, whilst slapping me heartily on the back. ‘Your action certainly averted a potentially dangerous situation.
I turned to find Holmes standing beside me, smiling proudly. ‘Bravo Watson!’ He exclaimed, shaking my hand energetically. ‘Your timing, as always, was impeccable.’
I felt overcome whilst savouring every moment of so rare an event … a compliment from Mr Sherlock Holmes! I acknowledged this with the briefest of bows, and he turned his attention, once more, to the matter in hand.
Seeing that all was now secure in the ante-room, Holmes immediately dived into the inner suite, only to find his second, would-be opponent sitting passively in a chair. This individual was also bearded, but there any similarity between him and his companion ended. Although he was seated with his back to us, facing the window, he was evidently much younger and slimmer than the boarish giant I had just felled. Upon hearing us unceremoniously enter his room, the man turned round briefly, displaying a surprising lack of interest until the young beauty, Signora Calvinni joined us in the room. Then he became most agitated, jumping up from his chair and, evidently, calling for his incapacitated associate. Then, upon realizing that the giant would not be coming to his rescue and that his situation was a hopeless one, the young man dropped back down into his chair with an air of resignation.
Despite my efforts at restraining her, Signora Calvinni insisted on approaching the young man.
She spoke quickly and with passion. I think the interpreter used some licence in his translation for the number of words she seemed to use far exceeded those translated.
‘But where is he? Where is my beloved Roberto?’
‘Yes Holmes,’ said Sir James, who had also entered the room, ‘what is all this tomfoolery, where is Tordelli?’
‘Still in Italy, I rather fancy, but we are here this evening to find your missing Don Giovanni!’ Holmes exclaimed.
By this time the bearded gentleman, whom Holmes had assailed, had regained his composure and not a little confidence. He was complaining, through his interpreter, to Bradstreet, of his treatment and the intrusion.
Bradstreet, in common with most of his colleagues, was not averse to a situation whereby my friend might be brought down a peg or two and decided to intervene.
‘Now see here, Mr Holmes, this here Italian gentleman claims he and his companion are two very wealthy and respected businessmen. He claims that he only assaulted the young woman out of fear and desperation. He objects most strongly to this treatment and demands the police be sent for. He was most perplexed when I identified myself as one and is somewhat confused.’
‘His confusion I can well understand, I am hard pushed myself at times, in identifying you with detection.’ Holmes sharply rebutted. As he was speaking, Holmes slowly approached the young Italian, who, by now, was backing away from Signora Calvinni. Holmes was on him in an instant, despite Bradstreet’s ardent protestations, however Holmes’s back prevented us from seeing the nature of the ensuing struggle. When he next turned to us he was holding a wig or fake beard in his hand, which he held high in triumph.
The clean-shaven young man, whom Holmes had revealed, was clearly distraught.
‘Tordelli!’ Sir James exclaimed. ‘Really Mr Holmes, it would seem that your abilities even outweigh your considerable reputation. I congratulate you, and offer a thousand apologies for my disparaging attitude of before.’
Holmes waved this casually aside, yet stood there for a minute, barely suppressing a smile, enjoying to the full the drama of the moment and Sir James’s marked and sudden change in attitude. Bradstreet was visibly crestfallen, but soon decided to regain some authority by withdrawing his notebook and demanding that Holmes relate, in full, his line of enquiry.
This he was only too happy to do, as his questioning of the assistant porter at Covent Garden, which led him to this conclusion, again highlighted the inefficiency of the London police force.
I heard Bradstreet exclaim. ‘Two men with beards! Both asking for cabs to take them to the hotel. Well of course, that’s straightforward enough.’
Then in the midst of the confusion and noise, we all remembered the unfortunate fiancée of Tordelli. She stood shocked and silent in the centre of the room, tears running down her lightly rouged cheeks. Her interpreter stepped forward.
‘Signora Calvinni would like to know the whereabouts of her beloved Roberto.’ He said quietly.
‘Good heavens!’ Sir James exclaimed. ‘Is she mad? Why, he stands before her.’
Not for the first time in our association, Holmes’s kindness and consideration towards a grief-stricken lady surprised me. For one so averse to associating with women, a situation such as this showed a side to his nature that was rarely seen, even by me.
With a gentle smile, he took her by the hand and led her to an easy chair. Once he was satisfied that she was comfortably seated, he said:
‘I very much regret, Signora, that your fiancé has fallen prey to an odious band of organised criminals, commonly known in your country as the Cosa Nostra. The young gentleman here, who has taken his identity, is not entirely to blame however, for his was a simple ambition to be an opera star and he took whatever opportunity the influence of his family might present to him. He felt that crimes of bribery and deception were relatively minor.
‘I must point out, however, that even so evil an organisation as the Cosa Nostra would not carry out murder merely to advance the operatic career of one of their family. My reports indicate that Tordelli had been a witness to a murder that they had committed and they are not people who deal lightly with such matters.’
Sir James followed Holmes out, shaking his head at the loss, once again, of his opera star. It was explained to him that Tordelli or rather the impostor Guiseppe Analdo, whilst not being the murderer, would have to stand trial in Milan as an accessory to the fact.
Bradstreet also shook his head, in disbelief.
‘It is incredible, Tordelli wasn’t missing at all, and his own hotel was the perfect hiding place.’
‘I must, again, thank and congratulate you, Mr Holmes.’
‘Not at all, not at all, I merely questioned the two witnesses you, unfortunately, decided to ignore and I was ably assisted by a pair of trousers, some cig
arette ash and a beard.’
‘Ah yes the beard!’ I exclaimed. ‘However did you know which one was false?’
‘Until we reached the room, I must confess, I could not be sure that either would be. I merely regarded it as possible that the other bearded gentleman leaving Covent Garden was Analdo in his Giovanni guise. When I observed the two beards in close proximity, the truth of my supposition was clear. I have noticed, in my numerous studies of the human race, that very rarely does the facial hair grow to the exact pigment as that on the head. This you can see for yourselves on this individual.’ He pointed to the large Italian bodyguard, and there was indeed a subtle difference in shade. ‘Analdo’s, on the other hand,’ Holmes continued, ‘was matched too perfectly by Covent Garden’s costume department and gave him away immediately.
‘Ah, I see your constables are ready to remove our foreign guest. Take especially good care of this fellow.’ He said pointing to the bodyguard. ‘I fancy he is a dangerous individual and may, even yet prove to be Tordelli’s murderer.’
Holmes glanced at his watch and announced. ‘Watson, I think we now deserve that supper that Mrs Hudson will have so kindly prepared for us, and I trust you will indulge me afterwards and accompany me to what promises to be a rather splendid violin recital at eight o clock.’
‘I should be delighted Holmes, provided there is no singing!’
THE HOODED MAN
During the early months of my marriage to my dear Mary, I saw precious little of my old friend Sherlock Holmes. My medical practice had been unusually busy due to an outbreak of influenza brought on by an unseasonably mild and wet January. Therefore, though I am ashamed to admit it, I had barely given him a thought. However, when Mary decided to visit her family for a fortnight and a frosty cold snap stemmed my influx of patients, my thoughts turned once more to 221b Baker Street.
So it was, that on a particularly frosty February morning I found myself staring up, once more, at that familiar building. I hesitated for a moment, unsure of the reception I might receive from my unpredictable friend, however Mrs Hudson’s cheery greeting helped alleviate these fears and I bounded up the stairs to our old rooms.
I found Holmes seated on the window ledge with his back to the door. I had not expected a warm greeting from him, but Holmes reacted to my presence as if I had not been away. He merely waved me towards him, barely giving me a glance.
‘Come and watch the poor career of a redundant crime specialist disappear down a London thoroughfare,’ he said quietly. I noted at least three day’s hair growth on his gaunt face and knew at once that he was bemoaning the lack of a stimulating case.
I joined him at the window and followed his forlorn gaze down Baker Street. While Holmes sat there shaking his head, I tried to observe the cause of his mood. Yet all I could see was the usual throng of hundreds of Londoners making their way to work. There was nothing noteworthy about any of them. I told Holmes as much.
‘Exactly Watson!’ Holmes exclaimed. ‘Ordinary people going about their ordinary lives, not one of them possessing that divine spark of genius or inspiration to challenge an extraordinary detective.’
Holmes’s immodesty had often annoyed me in the past, but in this context it seemed to be in very poor taste.
‘Well, I hope that not one of them would agree with you.’
‘Perhaps you are right, Watson; one unemployed detective is a small price to pay for a crime-free metropolis. Ah! Mrs Hudson has your breakfast.’ He opened the door before Mrs Hudson had a chance to knock and ushered her in bearing a large tray.
‘Doctor Watson, I have prepared something special for your visit and I do hope you can persuade Mr Holmes to join you. He barely eats enough to fill a sparrow.’ Mrs Hudson left the tray on the table and hurried out before Holmes could remonstrate with her.
‘Spare me your disapproval Watson,’ Holmes anticipated, ‘I had every intention of indulging in a slice or two of toast and a cup of coffee, prior to your impromptu visit.’
‘Well looking at you, I would say it was long overdue.’ I said while uncovering the dishes. I soon applied myself to some delicious bacon and eggs, while Holmes sat there, suppressing an amused smile.
‘I am glad to observe that married life has done nothing to suppress your appetite. So, Watson, will your sabbatical allow you time to sample some fresh Kentish sea air for a few days?’
‘I am sure it would,’ I replied between mouthfuls, ‘but in heaven’s name why?’
‘Despite my appearance and my disparaging remarks about our humdrum fellow Londoners, the wheels are turning once again.’ Holmes reached into his dressing gown pocket and produced three pages of a crumpled letter, which he tossed onto the table by my plate. ‘Ha! Now chew on that, friend Watson!’
Dear Mr Holmes,
Before I begin, please accept my apologies for troubling you on something which I am sure you will think is trivial. I would not have done so, even now, but Inspector Hopkins of the Kent Police insisted this was not a police matter, as no crime had been committed, and he suggested I wrote to you.
‘Inspector Hopkins again!’ I exclaimed, putting aside the letter for a moment. ‘His commission has introduced us to five or six of your most successful cases, even that affair of the Abbey Grange, which began so disappointingly, was something special.’
‘Ah yes the three glasses and the remarkable Captain Crocker!’ Holmes agreed and then waved towards the letter. ‘Please continue.’
I will try to be as brief as possible. My situation is this:
My ailing mother and I run a small boarding house, “Cliff Court Lodge”, perched on the steepest of the harbour cliffs, looking down on Broadsea Bay. Apart from Nellie, our live-in housemaid and two elderly permanent lodgers, we are the only occupants of this large, draughty house.
As you can imagine, our livelihood depends on our having a successful summer season, and therefore I can offer you nothing more than your rail fare to Broadsea Bay and the best hospitality Cliff Court Lodge can offer.
Now, to blind old Captain Dyson. Sixteen years ago, a period in my life still vivid, because it was at this time that my dear father passed away, there was a tragic fire on board the “Sea Lizard”. This was the largest and finest vessel in our trawler fleet, and was owned by Captain Dyson. An accident occurred in the engine-room whilst the vessel was still in harbour and the fire consumed the entire ship’s company save the captain.
Despite the gravity of the captain’s injuries, he lost the use of his left arm and had hideous facial burns which left him blinded and horribly deformed, the people of our village despised him for having survived whilst his crew perished. He was shunned, made an outcast and from then until now, Captain Dyson has shut himself away in his small shack on the cliff, adjacent to our property. Whenever he leaves his place, his entire head is shrouded in a large black hood.
Apart from the Widow McCumber, who cleans for him once a week out of pity, no-one visits the shack. He only comes out of it once a day when he shuffles slowly down the narrow path to the harbour, using a long staff to guide his way. People avoid the path when they hear the echo of his stick upon the cobble and he meets no-one on his route.
Out of respect for who he once was, Linus Rawlings, the Landlord of “The Admiral’s Mast” tavern, provides him with ham, cheese and a small cask of ale in exchange for a few coins. The patrons all turn from him when he enters and the transaction takes place in an eerie silence. Dyson slowly returns to his shack, clasping his precious supplies and tapping his staff, there to remain until the following day.
My room faces towards the harbour, so it is not uncommon for me to see Captain Dyson on his return trip, always at five o’clock in the afternoon, when I take to my room to read.
You can imagine my surprise, Mr Holmes, when last Tuesday, as I was leaving my room at six o’clock to serve supper, I glanced out of my window and saw Captain Dyson coming up the path towards our house, I was suddenly struck by how menacing the hood made him appear, I
must confess this feeling was compounded by the thought of what lay beneath. As I stood watching him, Dyson altered his schedule further by continuing straight up the path, rather than branching to the right towards his shack as he normally would do. Just in front of our house the path branches again, left to our entrance and right towards the original path and Dyson’s shack.
I was relieved and thankful to see him bear to the right and I left my window to organise supper. Before leaving my room, however, I was stopped in my tracks by a sound; or rather a lack of one, Dyson had stopped tapping the path with his staff.
Hesitantly I returned to my window and Captain Dyson had halted directly beneath me. Now, I understand that you might think these are the ramblings of a mad woman and burn this letter when you continue to read, but Dyson seemed to be standing there gazing up at me! Impossible for a blind man, and you would think just my imagination, yet, Mr Holmes, despite his large black shroud the Captain was standing there staring up at me. Finally, when I moved from the window I heard the tapping resume and he finally returned to his shack.
Mr Holmes, he has repeated this pattern every day since, each time lingering a while longer beneath my window and I have not had a night’s sleep since. Captain Dyson’s eyes were seared from their sockets in the fire so why does he seem to be watching me? What does it mean?
The Lost Files of Sherlock Holmes Page 8