The Druid of Death - a Sherlock Holmes Adventure

by Richard T. ; Ryan

  “Lestrade, why don’t you and Inspector McKendry examine the site on the chance that it is somehow tied to the death of this young man.

  “Gentlemen, perhaps you could accompany them and explain the significance of anything they might discover. Watson and I will remain here with the body. Also, Inspector McKendry, could you have someone procure a wagon so that we might transport the body. I am certain the family is going to want a proper funeral.”

  Pointing to the only remaining constable, McKendry said, “Crimmins, please go to Yelverton and return with a wagon of some sort.”

  “Very good, sir,” said the constable, who started walking to the Giant’s Basin with the others.

  Left alone, I said to Holmes, “What was that all about?”

  “I wanted the opportunity to examine the body without Lestrade peering over my shoulder,” he replied.

  “Well, if I can save you a bit of trouble, there appears to be a small puncture mark on the boy’s right arm.”

  “On the arm, you say? Not the neck, like the others?”

  “I didn’t see one on the neck, but I must admit that I didn’t look there after I had discovered the one on his arm.”

  Gently lifting the boy’s head, Holmes began to examine the young man’s neck. “Here it is,” he exclaimed, “just like the others.”

  “What do you make of that?” I asked.

  “Pressed for an answer, I should say the young man was drugged and at some point he started to regain consciousness, at which time more drugs were administered - this time in the arm.”

  “But why?” I said aloud. “If you are going to kill someone, why drug them beforehand?”

  “Why, indeed?” replied Holmes. “Watson, as you know, I have been confronted by any number of puzzles over the course of my career. However, I must admit that I have never encountered anything quite like this. Obviously, the drugs render the victim pliant, but beyond that I am lost.

  “I cannot see my way forward,” said my friend in a moment of unvarnished honesty that I am certain was painful to him.

  “But you will,” I replied. “You always do.”

  “Thank you, Watson,” he said. “These events just present more of a challenge because they are seemingly random. And yet, we know they are connected.”

  After he had examined the body and the branches thoroughly, Holmes cast his lens upon each article of the young man’s clothing and the other items that had been found in the bag. I could see from the look on his face that he was no closer to the truth.

  After some time, Lestrade and McKendry rejoined us.

  “So have you come across anything that might help us, Mr. Holmes?” asked McKendry.

  “I am sorry to report that I have no news,” replied my friend. “However, you did say the young man was a baronet?”

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes. Lord Deveron was the eldest son of the late Henry Deveron, Baron of Ravenhurst.”

  “He was killed in the Sudan Campaign, wasn’t he?” I asked.’

  “I believe he was,” replied McKendry. “If I remember correctly he was killed during the siege of Khartoum when General Gordon and the garrison were massacred. As far as I know this was his only child.”

  “Has anyone informed his mother?” I asked.

  “I cannot be sure,” replied McKendry. “I was planning to journey to Ravenhurst tomorrow to speak with her. I am certain that by then she will have been informed of the boy’s death.”

  “If you don’t mind, Inspector, I should very much like to accompany you on that trip,” said Holmes.

  Lestrade glanced at me, but all I could do was shrug.

  “I should be grateful for the company, Mr. Holmes,” said McKendry.

  “And Watson, you will accompany us,” Holmes stated, rather than asked. Looking at McKendry, he said, “I think that having a medical man on hand when delivering such sad news might be to everyone’s advantage.”

  “I agree Mr. Holmes,” said McKendry.

  After arrangements were made to meet the next morning, Holmes turned to Lestrade and said, “I have made a copy of the symbols on the boy’s abdomen, Inspector. I should be quite grateful if you would have Dr. Steven Smith translate them. I will wire you from somewhere to ask about their meaning.”

  I could see from the expression on Lestrade’s face that he was less than pleased with being treated as little more than an errand boy. So I wasn’t totally surprised when Holmes looked at him and said simply, “A word, Inspector?”

  “Of course, Mr. Holmes.”

  With that Holmes and Lestrade wandered off a short distance where they spent five minutes in earnest conversation. When they returned, the expressions on their faces were indecipherable. I desperately wanted to know what Holmes had said to the lawman, but I knew there was no point in pressing the issue. Holmes would tell me when he was ready.

  Turning back to the group, Holmes said, “Reverend Baring-Gould, as you know there have been three sacrificial killings on three days that the ancient druids held sacred. Each has occurred at a site that predates the Romans in Britain. If you were pressed, might you hazard a guess as to a site the druids might have revered on the shortest day of the year - the winter solstice?”

  “Dear me, Mr. Holmes. I should have to give that some serious thought. I should also like to consult with a few colleagues who know far more about the religious practices of the ancient Celts than I do.”

  “I understand,” said Holmes. “Please be aware that secrecy is of paramount importance here. Who knows how far these people are willing to go to protect themselves and their heinous practices?”

  “I shall be the soul of discretion, I assure you, Mr. Holmes. However, I should advise you that you there is another important druidic feast before the winter solstice.”

  “And that would be?” asked my friend.

  “It’s called Samhain or ‘Winter Night,’ and it occurs on the night of October 31st and carries on into the morning of November 1st.”

  “All Hallows Eve,” exclaimed Holmes, “of course. Thank you for reminding me of that.”

  Chapter 12

  As we made our way back to the inn, I thought I could tell from Holmes’ expression that he was somewhat chagrined to have been reminded of a druidic holiday when he had been steeping himself in their culture and practices.

  As we strolled along Dartmoor, I finally said to Holmes, “Did you really forget there is a druidic holiday on October 31st?”

  “Not at all, old friend. In fact, that is one of the more intriguing aspects of this case.”

  “What is?”

  “The ancient druidic calendar was divided up into eight cycles. The equinoxes and the solstices were ceremonies that revolved around the sun. However, there are four other festivals - Imbolc, Beltane, Lughnasadh and Samhain - that focus on the moon and the farming cycles. In fact, these four festivals are all Celtic in origin and those are the Celtic names. Two of them, Beltane and Lughnasadh, take their names directly from the Celtic deities, Bel and Lugh.”

  I must admit that I was stunned to discover the breadth of knowledge my friend had accrued regarding the druids.

  “What do you find intriguing?”

  “Thus far, all of the murders have taken place on the days of the solar celebrations. To the best of my knowledge, no one has been killed on any of the lunar observances.”

  “And the significance?”

  “I am not certain yet, Watson, but I will say that the absence of killings on those days does dovetail neatly with a theory that I have been developing.”

  “Would you care to enlighten one who is still walking in darkness?”

  “Not just yet, my friend, but I will give you an avenue to pursue if you’d like.”

  “By all means,” I replied.

  “As you know the druids have always been closely associated with nature and in particular trees. We found three yew branches placed around the body of Annie Lock, three willow branches around Jeremy Mason and now three hazel cuttings n
ear the body of young Lord Deveron.

  “May I suggest that you study the manner in which each tree was regarded by the druids? I wonder if you will arrive at the same conclusion as I.”

  “Well, that will have to wait until we return to London,” I protested.

  Looking at me, Holmes remarked, “I believe time is on our side, Watson. We know that our killer is in no hurry and that he murders his victims on very specific dates, of that I am reasonably certain. And while I should like to clap him in irons tomorrow, today if it were possible, I am forced to wait. Thus far he has given us precious little with which to work; however, I believe this latest murder may be the start of his undoing.”

  I was stunned to hear Holmes’ remark. As we walked, I wondered if it might be a show of bravado for my benefit. I have often remarked how fond Holmes is of his little dramatic moments. However, the resolute tone of his voice and the set of his jaw told me that my friend was onto something. I knew I would learn all in due time, so for the moment, I would have to curtail my curiosity and attempt to arrive at the same conclusion as he.

  Early the next morning, we met Inspector McKendry, and we traveled by rail to Bath. The ancestral home of Lord Deveron was located midway between Bristol and Bath. After arriving at the station, we procured a carriage and arrived at Ravenhurst a little after noon.

  The large manor house was situated on a slight rise and afforded a panoramic view of the surrounding countryside. We saw it in the distance long before we arrived at the gatehouse to the estate.

  After McKendry had identified himself to the gatekeeper, he informed us that we were expected and to proceed to the main house. The gatekeeper also told us, “You may release your cab. Her Ladyship has arranged for a carriage to return you to the rail station.”

  We drove along a graveled drive for at least a mile. Alongside the drive, various autumnal flowers had been planted. There were all manner of trees on the estate, with some of them already arrayed in their most brilliant fall finery. To one side, there was a stand of brilliant evergreens, their verdant display offering a stark contrast to the colorful landscape that surrounded them.

  “I should like to be here at Christmastime,” I remarked.

  “Yes, those evergreens are quite striking are they not,” remarked Holmes, “and quite young unless I miss my guess. Perhaps no more than 50 years old.”

  “How could you possibly know that?” I asked.

  “Consider the height of the lowest branches,” remarked Holmes. “If those trees were significantly older, the boughs would be somewhat higher. As it is, you can easily reach up and touch the lowest branches on even the largest of them.”

  At length, we finally emerged from under the canopy of the trees along to the road to find ourselves in front of a classic example of an Elizabethan country house that had obviously been modeled on Hardwick Hall. Four stories tall, the structure was a marvel in that its exterior seemed more window than wall.

  As we ascended the front steps, the large wooden door was opened by a servant in livery before we could knock. After McKendry told him who we were, he responded by saying, “Her Ladyship is expecting you. Please follow me.”

  I have been in many grand homes over the course of my career, but Ravenhurst surpassed them all. The great hall had been constructed on an axis through the center of the house rather than at right angles to the entrance. The walls were adorned with tapestries depicting hunting scenes and other portraits of pastoral life.

  We ascended a switchback stairway and followed the servant through a gallery that stretched across almost the entire front of the manor. Here the walls were adorned with paintings by any number of renowned artists, including Hans Holbein the Younger, William Hogarth, Sir Joshua Reynolds and too many others to name. I cannot swear to it, but I thought I recognized a work by the poet William Blake as well.

  I was surprised when I saw that Holmes had stopped and was inspecting the portrait of a rather striking woman. While he is many things, Holmes has little appreciation for the arts, and his interest in this portrait, when it was surrounded by so many other masterpieces by what I believe were far more accomplished artists, struck me as odd. I made a mental note to ask my friend about it later.

  Finally, we arrived at a pair of doors, which the servant opened, and then he led us into a great chamber, at which point, the he said, “Gentlemen, please be seated. Her Ladyship will be along momentarily. I shall bring you refreshments. Please make yourselves comfortable.” With that, he bowed and was gone.

  I looked at Holmes and McKendry and said, “This is the grandest house that I have ever seen. I believe it could rival one of the Queen’s castles.”

  McKendry replied, “I believe you are right, Doctor Watson. I had always wondered how the other half lived. Now, I know.”

  As we were talking, I saw Holmes prowling about the chamber.

  “I really don’t think this room gets ‘lived in’ a great deal,” he suddenly remarked.

  “Why do you say that,” I asked.

  “You heard the squeak of the doors when the servant opened them. I find it hard to believe that if this room were often used, they would have arrived at that state. Also, the windows in the long gallery were spotless, while these have a thin, but noticeable, coating of dust on them.”

  At that moment, we heard the squeak that Holmes had just alluded to, and a woman, dressed all in black, entered the room.

  “Gentlemen, I am Lady Judith Deveron. I am sorry to have kept you waiting, but I needed a few moments to compose myself. Your arrival, though expected, suddenly made the horror of my son’s death hit home again. I think I half expected to see Trent standing here, and I was prepared to chastise him for such a cruel prank.”

  I have seen many beautiful women in my life, but there was something compelling about Lady Deveron. Dressed in black, as befits a mother in mourning, she was still a vision. Tall and slender with long, dark hair and crystal blue eyes, she seemed almost fragile. I thought to myself, “A cross word from Holmes, and this woman will collapse.”

  “Gentlemen, please be seated,” she said. “I shall do my best to answer any and all questions that you might have. I want my son’s killer captured, tried and executed.”

  Standing there watching this brave woman, I was struck by her fierceness and her unwavering demand for justice for her slain son.

  “I can certainly appreciate your agony, Your Ladyship,” said Holmes. “I give you my word that I will do everything in my power to see that your wishes are carried out.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

  At that moment, the door opened and the servant wheeled in a tea trolley. It bore pots of coffee and tea as well as scones, clotted cream, and several types of jam.

  “Gentlemen, you must be famished after your journey. There is nothing that precludes us from enjoying a light repast while I answer your questions, is there Mr. Holmes? Inspector McKendry?”

  Both men shook their heads.

  We watched as Her Ladyship poured the tea, and I noticed that she preferred it with lemon rather than milk and sugar. A woman after my own heart, I thought.

  After taking a scone and a sip of tea, McKendry began by saying, “I might as well get right to the point. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm your son, Your Ladyship?”

  “No, Inspector. Trent was enormously popular - both at school and here in the village. He had a warm, generous personality, and everyone who met him thought well of him.”

  “Do you have any idea why he might have left the school grounds?” asked Holmes.

  “None that I can think of,” she replied.

  “Was he doing well in school?” continued Holmes.

  “He was at the top of his class and preparing for university next year,” she said proudly. Suddenly, as if struck by the realization that it would never happen, she began to sob softly. After she had regained her composure, she said, “I apologize, gentlemen.”

  “Not at all,” said Holmes soli
citously. “I cannot imagine the agony you must be going through.”

  “We must persevere,” she said.

  Looking at McKendry, Holmes said, “We will take our leave, now, Your Ladyship. If anything should occur to you, please feel free to contact either Inspector McKendry or myself. And please know that you have our deepest sympathies.”

  As we rose, she did as well. “No need, Your Ladyship. We can see ourselves out.”

  “Just a moment, please,” she said as she rang a small silver bell to summon the servant.

  When the door opened, she said, “Thomas, our guests are leaving now. Is the carriage ready?”

  “It is, Your Ladyship.”

  Turning back to us, she said, “Thank you for your kind words. I can only wish that we had met under different circumstances.”

  As we walked back through the long gallery, McKendry and I had reached the stairs before I realized that Holmes was no longer with us. Looking back, I saw him pause for a few seconds to admire a different painting. I then watched as he walked to the work, a landscape of some sort as far as I could tell, and examined it quite closely. He then turned to a maid, who was dusting, and spoke with her for a moment or two. After she had disappeared into the sitting room, Holmes quickly put his walking stick up against the painting, and I could only assume that he was attempting to measure it. After the maid had returned, Holmes spoke with her briefly. When he finally rejoined us, I thought that I detected just the slightest smile on his face. I was about to ask him about it, when he shook his head as a signal to me to be quiet.

  On the ride back to the station, Holmes was silent, and I could tell that he was deep in thought. Knowing his moods, I began to converse with McKendry and soon discovered that we had several interests in common, including the turf. While we sat there debating how the prince’s horse, Diamond Jubilee, might fare in the upcoming Middle Park Stakes in October, Holmes sat silently, pondering the events of the day. I could see from his posture that some small degree of progress had been made.