Holmes at once turned on his heels and set off for the station. ‘Remember, Watson, she must not leave the lodge, even for an instant!’ He called back over his shoulder.
As I watched my friend stride away, I turned to Hopkins for inspiration. He merely shrugged, and turned towards the beach. I returned to the lodge to begin my vigil.
The forty-eight hours that followed passed very slowly for me. The inclement weather left me with no regrets at not being able to step outside, and Nellie displayed no great desire to do so either. This, of course, rendered the task of protecting her that much easier. Holmes’s other request, that I use his method in unravelling the murderous demise of Captain Dyson and its connection with the threat to Nellie’s life, proved somewhat more difficult.
Therefore, I sat myself before a large fire in the drawing-room and began reading the chronicles of Sir Richard Burton and his fascinating exploits in the wilds of East Africa. Compelling as these were, they failed to retain my attention for very long, and Holmes’s parting words were constantly intruding on my concentration.
His startling assertion, that Dyson’s body had been thrown from the top of the cliff five days previously began to look more remarkable during the course of my first evening alone. I had just dropped Burton’s tome to the floor in frustration, when Inspector Hopkins called briefly at the lodge with the news that the police surgeon had confirmed Holmes’s estimate of the time of death.
Hopkins stood before the fire slowly shaking his head. ‘Your friend is a remarkable man, Doctor, and a remarkable detective. How could he possibly have gauged the time of Dyson’s death without even viewing the body?’
‘I have spent the day going over the problem in my mind, and, I confess the thing is no clearer to me.’ I replied. ‘Besides, why should the exact location of Nellie McCumber’s bedroom place her life in jeopardy?’
Voraciously rubbing his hands together in the warm glow of the fire, Hopkins slowly replied. ‘My own investigations have revealed little themselves, though I believe I can now identify the man you followed from the Admiral’s Mast the other evening. Based on your description of him I am certain it was James “The Weasel” Willis, an old friend of the inn’s landlord, Linus Rawlins. Though both men are disreputable, I have, to date, uncovered little of specific note. I shall, of course, inform you of further developments as they occur, but a robbery in Ramsgate will occupy my attention for the next few hours. Goodnight to you, Doctor Watson.’
I showed the industrious Inspector to the door, which I then promptly secured. I ensured that Nellie McCumber was safely asleep before retiring for the night myself.
The night passed slowly for me. A stiff breeze from the North Sea rattled the loose sash on my window, and when I did sleep, images of hooded men, constantly climbing and re-climbing the cliff path, intruded on my slumber. I was much relieved, in the morning, when my small, but satisfying breakfast was brought to my table by Nellie, apparently safe and well.
A moment later Miss Hardcastle, in a state of great agitation, rushed into the room.
‘Oh, Doctor Watson, you had better come quickly! Your Inspector friend is in the process of arresting James Willis for the murder of Captain Dyson.’
‘I must speak with him,’ I said rising from my dining chair. ‘It is a strange action for him to take in the absence of Mr Holmes. I do not intend to be gone for more than a few moments, Miss Hardcastle, but until my return, I beseech you, do not let Nellie out of your sight for an instant.’
‘I do wish someone would tell me why I should need protecting.’ Nellie murmured.
‘I wish I knew myself,’ I replied. ‘Rest assured, however, once his inquiries are concluded in London, Mr Holmes will have answers to all our questions.’
As I left, outside the lodge I noticed a small group of people gathered by the side of the path. There was a mighty commotion emanating from them, and one of the crowd, in particular, let out the scream of a banshee.
As I drew closer, I realized that the perpetrator of this unholy sound was, of course, James Willis protesting his innocence. His scrawny form was struggling, spread-eagled, on the ground whilst two constables were trying to fit him with handcuffs. I reached Hopkins’s side just as they succeeded.
‘Good morning Doctor Watson! I thought the sound of our distinguished rogue, here, might drag you from your young charge.’ Hopkins greeted me, with not a little irony in his voice.
‘Yes, and I must return to her at once. However, I must first know what prompted you to such sudden action. Last evening things were no clearer to you than they were to me.’
In reply, Hopkins pulled a small, crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. He announced: ‘A wire from your friend Mr Holmes!’
I read it quickly.
HOPKINS, ARREST JAMES WILLIS FOR MURDER OF DYSON STOP DO NOT DELAY STOP HOLMES.
‘So, he has had success in London it seems. Yet no mention of his imminent return,’ I said.
‘Well,’ Hopkins replied. ‘You should know Mr Holmes and his ways better than any of us. In any event, with Willis now safely in custody, you should be able to relax your guard over Miss McCumber.’
‘On the contrary,’ I replied. ‘It is because I know Mr Holmes, and his ways so well that I shall not relax my vigil for an instant. Therefore, if there are any further developments you may find me ensconced at the Lodge. Good day to you, Inspector.’
Hopkins doffed his hat in reply, and set to organising the transport of the now silent and crestfallen Willis.
Upon returning to the lodge, I confirmed Nellie’s safety before settling myself by the drawing-room fire. The soothing effect of its rising, and falling flames, together with the bracing sea air, and two sleepless nights soon lulled my senses. Though I am ashamed to admit it, within a short time I had fallen into a deep sleep.
I was awakened, some three hours later, by a sharp prodding of my left shoulder. As I shook myself from unconsciousness, and rubbed the distortion from my opening eyes, I became aware of a familiar shape bending over me, and a less familiar shape standing tentatively behind the former.
‘Watson, it really is too bad of you to greet our guest in such a fashion!’ Sherlock Holmes began. ‘May I present to you Mrs McCumber, who has very kindly returned with me from London to aid us in concluding this affair.’ He introduced her with a flourish of his right hand.
‘My humblest apologies, madam.’ I said rising from my chair.
‘Do not trouble yourself, Watson.’ Holmes said. ‘The matter is now well in hand. Inspector Hopkins, and his men, are entrenched in the parlour ready to pounce. Even now a letter, I instigated from Miss McCumber, is on its way to Dyson’s shack, courtesy of the local grocer’s boy. As a direct result of this, I expect Dyson’s murderer to pay us a visit within the next few minutes.’
‘Dyson’s murderer?’ I exclaimed. ‘So it is not James Willis after all! This really is too bad of you, Holmes. Why should a letter from Nellie deliver the murderer into our hands? Why is Hopkins now waiting in the parlour…?’ I was interrupted by the sound of crashing metal from outside the window.
‘Hush yourself, Watson. Unless I am very much mistaken, that was the sound of the grocer’s boy’s bicycle crashing to the ground.’
Sure enough, a moment later, a warmly dressed, visibly shaken, twelve-year-old boy scurried into the room.
‘I delivered your letter, sir.’ The boy breathlessly blurted out. ‘As you instructed, I looked behind me as I cycled away, and the gentleman was making his way down the hill.’
‘Thank you, Thomas, that is excellent’ Holmes smiled, whilst handing the boy a generous handful of coins. ‘Now you had best hurry back to work.’
‘Yes sir. Thank you, sir!’ The boy cried, upon seeing the coins, and then hurried back to his bike.
‘Quickly now.’ Holmes instructed. ‘Nellie, you take Watson’s chair, while the rest of us retire to the adjacent dining-room. The serving hatch will afford us an undetected view of all that transpires
.’
We all did his bidding, and Holmes rapped on the parlour wall to alert Hopkins and his men.
The few minutes that followed seemed to take an eternity to pass, hunched as we were by the small aperture of the partially opened serving hatch. Mrs McCumber was obviously anxious and ill at ease, so Holmes placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and whispered: ‘Do not fear, I shall allow no harm to come to your daughter.’ In this situation, Holmes’s voice seemed strangely reassuring, and Mrs McCumber smiled up at him.
Then we heard the sound of footsteps on the gravel outside, and a moment later, when the drawing-room door slowly opened, Holmes tensed, and was ready to pounce on his quarry.
The quarry, however, evidently saw himself as the hunter. As he slowly advanced towards the back of Nellie’s chair he clenched, in each hand, the end of a heavy brown scarf. This was pulled taut, in a manner threatening strangulation.
As he drew closer, Linus Rawlins, for it was he who was the intruder, bore an evil grimace on his face that was awful to behold. Then, as he raised his weapon of wool above Nellie’s head, Holmes and Hopkins made their move.
Simultaneously they rushed from their respective hiding places, and confronted Rawlins.
‘Stay as you are Rawlins!’ Holmes ordered. ‘Your game is up!’
Cursing profanely under his breath, Rawlins hesitated for a moment, and Mrs McCumber fainted to the floor in shock. Upon realizing that Holmes and Hopkins would be upon him before he could complete his murderous intent, Rawlins turned on his heels, and made towards the drawing-room door, there to be confronted by Hopkins’s vigilant constables.
His struggle was as brief as it was futile and he was led back to us by each arm. Then finally, handcuffs secured him, and he was made to sit down before us. By this time Mrs McCumber had recovered sufficiently for her to rejoin us in the drawing-room, and all eyes were now fixed, expectantly on Holmes.
His, in turn, were trained aggressively on Rawlins, and he stood defiantly over him, hands on hips, very much like a big game hunter with his foot pressed down on his victim’s corpse.
‘Inspector,’ Rawlins began. ‘Who is this gentleman, and why is he bearing over like this?’
‘This gentleman,’ Hopkins replied. ‘Happens to be Mr Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street, and the man whose genius you have to thank for saving your neck from the noose!’
‘Not so Hopkins.’ Holmes rejoined. ‘I may have prevented a tragic murder this day, but not the slaying of Captain Dyson some five days earlier. Mr Rawlins shall not escape the hangman for that!’
Rawlins then leapt from his chair, and would surely have attacked Holmes had his wrists not been secured. However the constables took hold of him, once again, and Hopkins had him removed to the local cells, where he would remain until the coroner delivered his report. When he was sure that satisfactory arrangements were in hand, Hopkins returned, and addressed Holmes thus:
‘Mr Holmes, we have all witnessed Rawlins’s attempted murder here today, yet if I am to secure a murder conviction I shall require more than mere word of mouth, even if that word happens to be yours.’
‘Have no fear, Hopkins. I can assure you that, with not a little help from Mrs McCumber, I have constructed a case against Rawlins that will convince the most sceptical of juries.’
As Holmes finished speaking, Miss Hardcastle, and her mother, for once able to vacate her bed, came into the room, and Holmes begged their permission to light up his cherry wood pipe. They acquiesced, and Holmes drew long and hard as he started to speak. I could see from his suppressed smile that Holmes, forever the dramatic showman, was enjoying having an audience.
‘Although I am not implying that Miss Hardcastle deliberately misled me in any way, the irony of this case lies in the fact that the contents of the letter, that first led me to the charming Kentish coast, were based on falsehoods.’
‘Mr Holmes, I assure you I was not aware of any, neither at the time of writing the letter nor now.’ Miss Hardcastle protested.
‘Very likely not,’ Holmes continued. ‘And yet I am now certain that the man staring up at you, from under the black hood, was not the blinded Captain Dyson, for as the coroner has now ascertained, he was already dead. Nor had he been staring at you, but rather Nellie McCumber, who occupies the room directly above your own.’
‘I do not understand.’ Miss Hardcastle quietly responded.
‘On that point I think we are all in agreement.’ Said I, feeling frustrated, and not a little hurt at also being kept in the dark.
‘A thousand apologies my dear Watson, but rest assured, prior to my trip to London many facets of the case had eluded me also. When I arrived at Victoria I had three intended ports of call. Much time and energy was saved me by my fortuitous encounter with my old friend George just outside the main entrance where he was awaiting his next fare. As Watson will confirm, many times in the past, George’s hansom cab and his acute eyes and ears have saved me hours of time wasting leg work, and helped me conclude cases within days rather than weeks. Thankfully he was no less successful on this occasion.
‘During the long journey from Victoria station to the maritime records building at Greenwich, I furnished him with a detailed description of Mrs McCumber and a slightly less detailed record of her arrival dates at Victoria over the last few months. By the time I had concluded my perusal of the records and inventories at Greenwich, some three hours later, George had located her to a small spartan hotel at the back of King’s Cross. By this time it was too late for me to call upon her, so George returned me to Baker Street where, a somewhat surprised, Mrs Hudson prepared me a little cold supper.
‘I retired early, as I had instructed George to collect me at eight o’clock the following morning, in order firstly to visit the record’s office at Somerset House and to arrive at the hotel in King’s Cross before our bird had flown. I was not disappointed. Mrs McCumber was still in her room, though on the point of vacating it when I arrived. After the initial shock of finding me on her doorstep had subsided, and I had explained the purpose of my visit, she relented from her threat to summon the police and invited me into her small, dusty, uncomfortable room.
‘In this unenviable setting I told her of everything I had, thus far, ascertained. She, in turn, supplied me with most of the missing details, before agreeing to return with me to Broadsea in time to prevent further tragedy. Inspector, I only lay emphasis on this point in order for you to feel you can deal more leniently with this lady when the whole truth is revealed.’
At that moment Inspector Hopkins turned towards Mrs McCumber, and said solemnly: ‘That, madam, very much remains to be seen.’ A tearful Mrs McCumber turned away from him while Holmes continued his narrative oblivious of her discomfort.
‘I have now told you of every action I took from the moment I left Broadsea two mornings ago, up to the present. Now I will tell you of the reasons behind my actions and all I have learnt as a result of them.’
It was amazing to me, to hear my friend narrate this tale of high drama, with all the dryness and equanimity of a scientist lecturing at the Royal Academy.
He continued: ‘It seemed reasonable enough for me to assume that Mrs McCumber’s knowledge would be the key to the whole mystery. Her romantic connection to Dyson and the fact that Nellie was her daughter and occupied the room above that of Miss Hardcastle, made it obvious to me that Nellie was the object of the hooded man’s attention. The question that nagged at me was why, and I felt sure that Mrs McCumber would be able to furnish me with the answer.
‘My examination of the area of grass near the cliff’s edge revealed much. I was lucky in that the recent moist weather revealed boot prints and trails that were both clear and distinct, though for that I also have to thank Inspector Hopkins and his diligence.
‘As you may remember, Watson, my initial examination was fruitless, and yet as I drew closer to the edge of the cliff I began picking up definite prints coming from the direction of the shack. One large pair of boots
leading the way, and over five feet behind, another, considerably smaller set of footprints. I was also able to observe that the set in front were sunk into the mud to a greater depth than the set behind.’
‘Of course!’ I exclaimed excitedly. ‘The person taking the lead was carrying something of greater weight than the individual who followed. In other words, the leader was carrying the torso, and he who followed was holding the feet!’
‘Excellent Watson! The improvement in your deductive abilities is really most gratifying. However, my discoveries did not end there. My immediate conclusion, that Dyson’s murderer was undoubtedly the hooded man who had been so studiously observing the lodge, was borne out by a separate set of footprints I observed on my way back from the cliff. Watson, you may recall my turning away from you and Hopkins at the last, and disappearing down the hill, and behind the shops?’
‘I did find it curious at the time, but your departure for London was so sudden that I had little opportunity to raise the point with you.’ I replied.
Ignoring my comment, and being swept along by the momentum of his own narrative, Holmes continued.
‘In my haste, my own steps almost obliterated another set of prints that, I must confess, even I had not expected to find. This time they were coming from the shack and leading along the route you saw me take towards the harbour. My excitement, at this fresh discovery, was heightened still further when I realized the footprint was the duplicate of that of the torso bearer and, in all probability, Dyson’s murderer. The trail led me directly to an obscure rear entrance to the Admiral’s Mast Inn.
‘I then retraced my steps towards you with the knowledge that Dyson’s murderer and, consequently, the hooded man were undoubtedly one and the same. Furthermore, because the rear door to the inn was securely locked when I attempted entry, this man was, without doubt, Linus Rawlins. His accomplice and the footbearer none other than our friend, James Willis.’
On this occasion it was Hopkins’s turn to interrupt my friend’s narrative.
The Lost Files of Sherlock Holmes Page 10