The Druid of Death - a Sherlock Holmes Adventure

by Richard T. ; Ryan

  The city, and I suppose the entire country as well, was in an ugly mood. Holmes refrained from entering the fray, continuing to pursue his own line of inquiries and meeting frequently with Lestrade and Professor Connors.

  Finally, on the morning of September 22nd, I asked my friend, “So where will we be keeping our vigil tonight?”

  “Right here,” he replied rather coolly.

  “Here?” I asked incredulously.

  “Indeed. You saw what happened when we traveled north in the summer. I lost an entire day before I could get to the crime scene. Who knows what clues were missed because I decided to lend the police a hand and keep watch on the Nine Ladies. No, Watson, I shan’t make that mistake again.

  “Lestrade has assigned teams to a number of historic sites. They have been in place for several days now, posing as laborers and farmhands, and they will be on hand at a number of locations tonight, including Arbor Low, which if I were a betting man, I would make the favorite.”

  “Arbow Low?”

  “It’s about 170 miles northwest of London. There, some 50 large limestone blocks form a rough oval, with monoliths at the entrances, and possibly a portal stone at the south entrance. There is also a large pit at the north entrance, which possibly contained a stone. In the center lie seven smaller blocks, forming a sort of cove. The stones are surrounded by an oval earthen bank. According to Professor Connors few henge monuments in the British Isles are as well preserved as this one.

  “In addition to Arbor Low, there are men ensconced at towns and villages near Rollright, Avebury and Castlerigg.”

  “My word, Holmes. You certainly have been thorough.”

  “None of that is my doing,” he replied. “Give the credit to Lestrade.”

  “Do I detect a note of cynicism in your voice?”

  “Indeed, you do. As I told Lestrade, there are more than 1,000 such locations in England alone. Hundreds more if you add Ireland, Scotland, the Channel Islands and Normandy. The police simply do not have enough man-power to keep watch on all of them. With no idea of where the killer might strike next, I feel that my time is best spent here.

  “Besides, Watson, I have set up a network of my own.”

  “What?” I exclaimed.

  “Dr. Connors has been kind enough to provide me with a list containing all the names of the top historians and antiquarians scattered throughout the country. Should our killer strike, I expect to have an expert in place who can tell me more about the site as well as the goings-on in his own area.”

  “Bravo, Holmes. Does Lestrade know of your plans and your assistants?”

  “Now that you mention it,” my friend said, “I may have forgotten to mention it to the good Inspector.

  “Please remind of my failing memory,” he said with a wry smile, “at our next meeting with Lestrade.

  “And now,” said Holmes, “Mrs. Hudson has prepared an excellent dinner of stuffed, baked trout and afterwards, perhaps we can visit Mycroft at the Diogenes Club, and see what insights he may provide on these events.”

  Despite the impending sense of doom, we made short work of the trout. After that, we took a cab to Pall Mall, but Mycroft was not at the Diogenes Club.

  “I can only think that the government has him working on something of grave importance,” said Holmes after we had left that singular establishment.

  Although the weather was unseasonably warm, the sky looked threatening. As a result, Holmes and I took a cab back to our lodgings, and it was only about 10 minutes later that the heavens opened. What had been a rather delightful late summer day ended with a squall and fierce rains heralding the arrival of autumn.

  As we sat there, warm and dry, enjoying a nightcap and the last pipe of the day, I said to Holmes, “Perhaps the elements will deter our killer.”

  “Perhaps,” he remarked. “Let us wait and see what news the morning brings.”

  When I awoke the next morning, I found Holmes enjoying his breakfast. “Why didn’t you wake me?” I asked.

  “I saw no reason. It’s now nearly ten and there has been no word from Lestrade. I can only hope that, as you suggested, the rain dissuaded our killer.”

  I didn’t think that Holmes was being entirely sincere, for I thought I detected a touch of sarcasm in his voice. Although I knew my friend was happy that the killer had not struck, I could also sense his disappointment in not having any leads to pursue in his investigation.

  I went out later that morning as I needed to visit my tailor. Holmes declined to come with me, preferring to wait at Baker Street. After making my purchase, I lunched at my club. When I returned home around three in the afternoon, I found Holmes poring over a map of England.

  “Still no word?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” he replied.

  “Are you expecting to be summoned?”

  “I am.”

  “What has changed your mind?”

  “Murderers are often creatures of habit. Consider the similarities between the bodies. They were mutilated in an identical fashion and the marks on both were arranged in the same way, using the same symbols and that same ogham writing. No, Watson, the more I consider the problem, the more I am convinced that the weather does not matter to our killer. What concerns me more is the fact that he wants the bodies to be found. He craves the attention, though I could not begin to explain why.

  “No, I am convinced that someone was murdered last night, but what I fear is that if the body is not discovered in a timely fashion, he may well kill again in a place where the body will be found.”

  As usual, Holmes was correct. Around five in the afternoon, we received a telegram from Lestrade. “This is what I was expecting,” said Holmes, who then proceeded to read it aloud.

  “Body found at Drizzlecombe on Dartmoor. Stop. Come at once. Stop. Have reserved a special train at Paddington. Stop. Awaiting your reply. Stop. Lestrade. Stop.”

  After he had finished, Holmes looked at me and said, “Come Watson. We have no time to lose.”

  Holmes then told the messenger to tell Lestrade that we would join him at Paddington as soon as possible.

  As I went to pack my bag, Holmes said, “I have my stick. It couldn’t hurt if you were to bring your revolver.”

  Some ten minutes later, I found myself in a cab with Holmes hurtling toward Paddington Station. When we arrived, we found Lestrade waiting for us. “This is a bad business that is getting worse,” said the Inspector.

  “It has been bad from the beginning,” replied my friend. “Is there anything you can tell me?”

  “The victim was, a young man, found late this morning near a tall stone at Drizzlecombe or Thruselcombe.”

  “Your telegram said Drizzlecombe,” said Holmes impatiently. “Is there nothing else you can add?”

  “He was discovered by a historian who was out checking the condition of the various historic sites.”

  “Have you identified the young man?”

  “Not yet,” replied Lestrade, “but the local authorities are working on it.”

  At that point, we boarded the train, and after we had settled in, Holmes asked, “Have you any idea how far this is from Lew Trenchard?”

  I remember wondering what or who Lou Trenchard was and thinking to myself, “What an odd question,” but I knew that Holmes had a reason for asking it.

  “I believe that Lew Trenchard is approximately 20 miles away as the crow flies,” said Lestrade. “From what I understand, the man who discovered the body first reported it to the owner of Lew Trenchard, the Reverend Sabine Baring-Gould. In fact, it appears to have been he who sent the telegram.”

  “Excellent,” said Holmes.

  “Why do you say that, Mr. Holmes?”

  “The Rev. Sabine Baring-Gould is one of the leading antiquarians in all of Britain, and the top expert for the region of Dartmoor.”

  Holmes then shot me a knowing look, and I recalled his conversation of the previous evening about his assistants.

  “I know that name,�
�� I said, “but not in connection with history.”

  “No,” replied Holmes. “The Rev. Baring-Gould is a rather remarkable man. He authored ‘The Book of Were-Wolves’ as well as ‘Curious Myths of the Middle Ages,’ not to mention two novels, including ‘The Broom Squire’.”

  “No,” I said, “Although I have heard of the werewolf book, I know the name in connection with something else.

  At that point, Holmes began to hum “Onward Christian Soldiers.”

  “That’s it,” I exclaimed.

  “Yes,” replied Holmes, “he also wrote the lyrics for the hymn and then Sir Arthur Sullivan composed the melody. While Baring-Gould had titled his work ‘Hymn for Procession with Cross and Banners,’ it was subsequently renamed ‘St. Gertrude’ after Sullivan had composed the music.”

  “So how on earth did it become ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’?” I asked.

  “The Salvation Army, apparently enamored of its militaristic theme, simply adopted it,” replied Holmes.

  “Author, composer, antiquarian, this Rev. Baring-Gould sounds quite the accomplished fellow,” remarked Lestrade.

  “Indeed, he is,” replied Holmes. “He is also the current president of the Royal Institution of Cornwall. In that capacity he is involved with the Royal Cornwall Museum, which maintains a permanent display on the history of Cornwall from prehistoric times to the present day. Add to his many other accomplishments a book on Dartmoor, and I should think that we will be in excellent hands when we arrive at Drizzlecombe.”

  “I must say, Holmes, I am impressed,” said Lestrade.

  “You flatter me, Inspector,” said my friend, barely concealing a smug grin.

  We spent the rest of the journey, which took us nearly eight hours, discussing various aspects of the case.

  As we pulled into the station at Plymouth, I asked the question that I knew had been on everyone’s mind. “Holmes, the first two murders were relatively close to London, compared to this one. Why do you suppose our killer - if indeed it is the same person - has wandered so far afield?”

  “That, Watson, is what terrifies me the most. As I said earlier, murderers are creatures of habit. On the surface, this does not appear to follow the pattern, except that it has taken place at another prehistoric site. No, I’m afraid we must wait to see the body, before we can say with absolute certainty whether we have just one killer to catch or two murderers to apprehend.”

  “You don’t really think...,” started Lestrade.

  “I will say no more on the subject until I have seen the body,” replied Holmes.

  I looked at Lestrade, smiled in commiseration and did the only thing I could think to do, shrug my shoulders.

  Chapter 11

  Since we had arrived so late in the evening, we spent the night at a small inn in the village of Yelverton, and the next morning, we made our way to Drizzlecombe, hiking across the moor.

  Located about four miles east of Yelverton, on the western side of the moor, Drizzlecombe can be found in a large open field. The primary attractions for historians and antiquarians are three stone rows, each of which is associated with a particular barrow and a very tall stone at the end, called a menhir.

  There was a small group of men waiting for us at the closest stone row. They were standing fairly close to a stone column that I guessed to be about fifteen feet tall.

  As we made our way across the field, one of the men left the group and met us about halfway. “I am Inspector Kenneth McKendry from the Devon Police.” Turning to Lestrade, with whom he shook hands, he said, “It’s good to see you again, Inspector.”

  Then he turned to Holmes and me and said, “And you must be Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. I am so glad that you could join Inspector Lestrade. I’m afraid we’re going to need all the help we can get on this one. It’s not something that we see every day here.”

  “Have you identified the victim?” asked Holmes.

  “We have, Mr. Holmes. He was the Honorable Trent Deveron, he was a 17-years-old, a baronet and a student at the Exeter School.”

  “Has the family been notified?” asked Holmes.

  “Yes, sir,” replied McKendry. “I dispatched a man to Tilverton last night after we learned his identity.”

  “How did you come by the information so quickly?” asked Holmes.

  “Earlier in the day, we received a wire from William Buckley, the headmaster, informing us that one of his students, young Mr. Deveron, had gone missing. After we arrived, one of my men discovered a bag containing an Exeter blazer and the rest of the boy’s clothing under a bush not too far from the body.”

  “Speaking of discoveries,” said Lestrade, “who found the body?”

  “I am getting a bit ahead of myself,” apologized McKendry. “Please allow me to introduce you to the Rev. Sabine Baring-Gould and his associates, Robert Burnard and Richard Hansford Worth.”

  “Rev. Baring-Gould, I must say that it is an honor to meet you,” said Holmes.

  “The honor is mine, Mr. Holmes. Even out here on Dartmoor, we have heard of your exploits, and I never cease to marvel at your powers of deduction.”

  “I am afraid that those are somewhat exaggerated,” said Holmes modestly.

  “And you must be Dr. Watson,” said Baring-Gould, shaking my hand warmly. “I must say that I have enjoyed your chronicling of Mr. Holmes’ adventures.”

  “I am just sorry we had to meet under these circumstances,” said Holmes, deftly steering the conversation back to the investigation. “Who was it that actually discovered the body?”

  “Richard, did,” said Baring-Gould, pointing to one of his associates.

  “How did you happen to be in this remote place?” asked Holmes.

  “Several years ago,” Hansford Worth began, “Robert, Sabine and I re-erected this stone. We dug down several feet and poured concrete so that it would remain upright. Periodically, we examine the various sites on the moor that we have enumerated and catalogued, and as luck, would have it, I rode by ‘The Bone’ yesterday, and saw the body.”

  “The Bone?” asked Lestrade.

  “That is the name the locals have given this particular stone,” explained Baring-Gould, pointing to the column. “If you look at it from a certain angle, it’s easy to understand why the appellation was bestowed and why it has stuck.”

  “May I examine the body?” asked Holmes, looking at Lestrade and McKendry.

  “Please do, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade.

  I followed Holmes to the body, where he pulled back a sheet, revealing the face of a handsome young man with dirty blonde hair. On the boy’s forehead was another symbol, presumably drawn in the young man’s blood.

  Looking at Baring-Gould and the others, Holmes asked, “Are any of you familiar with this symbol?”

  “Of course,” Baring-Gould replied, “that’s the triquetra. You perhaps know it as the trinity knot. In a way, it resembles the ouroboros, does it not?” asked the reverend.

  “Do you know what it means?” asked Holmes, trying to control himself.

  “It is an ancient infinity symbol,” explained the reverend. “You can see how the triquetra is actually one continuous line interweaving around itself, and as a result indicating the lack of a beginning or an end. Within that context, it is often regarded as symbol of eternal spiritual life.”

  “Does it relate to the druids in any way?” asked Holmes.

  “I should say so,” replied Baring-Gould. “Although my knowledge of Celtic mythology is rather limited. I do know that the Celts believed that everything important in the world was made up of threes. They believed in three stages of life, three basic elements, three domains; earth, sea and sky; past, present and future; mind, body and soul.

  “It is one of the oldest symbols in Celtic mythology, and you can see its descendant in the shamrock, so beloved of the Irish.”

  “Would that correlate in some way with the three hazel branches that have been arranged around the body?” asked Holmes

 
Before Baring-Gould could answer, Lestrade, unable to contain himself any longer, interjected, “That’s a symbol of eternal life, you say? Well, it certainly didn’t do this lad much good, did it?”

  Looking at me, Holmes said, “Watson, would you please examine the body for any writing?”

  “Oh there’s writing,” said Hansford Worth. “There are some strange symbols in blood on the left side of the boy’s abdomen.”

  Kneeling by the body, I slowly pulled back the sheet. On the left side of the victim’s abdomen was a single stab wound just below the heart and on the right side of was a succession of figures. Although I didn’t know what they meant, they looked exactly like those that had been drawn on the other bodies.

  Turning to Baring-Gould, Holmes asked, “Can you translate that?”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Holmes. I know it is ogham, and although I have spent a little time studying it, I am afraid my knowledge will not suffice in this instance.”

  Holmes looked at both Burnard and Hansford Worth, both of whom shook their heads.

  “Watson, would you please make an exact copy of that for me? I shall have it deciphered when we return to London.”

  As I followed my friend’s instructions, trying to reproduce the symbols with painstaking accuracy, I heard Holmes interrogating the others. “Did anyone notice any footprints near the body?”

  “The grass around the body had been trampled somewhat,” replied Hansford Worth, “but there were no footprints to speak of.”

  “Have any strangers been seen in the area lately?”

  “No more than usual,” said Burnard. “We always have a few amateur archaeologists examining the stone rows and the Giant’s Basin.”

  “The Giant’s Basin?” asked Holmes.

  Pointing back in the direction from which we had come earlier that morning, he indicated a large mound.

  “What exactly is that?” asked Holmes.

  “It is a huge cairn, but many of the stones have been removed,” explained Baring-Gould. “In the center is a rather large crater. We suspect that it was used as a burial ground. However, everyone agrees that the rows were here first and that the cairn was a later addition.”