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The Druid of Death - a Sherlock Holmes Adventure

Page 7

by Richard T. ; Ryan


  At the station, after the servant had departed, and McKendry had boarded his train for home, we were finally alone. Looking at my friend, I remarked, “What a remarkable woman, to have borne her sorrow with such dignity.”

  “Yes, Watson, I agree. I should say that determination and resolve are two of her more outstanding characteristics.”

  “She did her best to help,” I said, “until she was overcome with grief.”

  “As always, you hit the mark, Watson. Although I was impressed by what she did tell us, I was struck even more by what she failed to communicate.”

  I was about to ask what he meant by that remark when I heard a train whistle in the distance.

  “We should be back in London by early evening,” Holmes stated.

  “Do you have a pressing matter?”

  “I intend to pay yet another visit to the British Museum as I have several things about which I must speak with Dr. Connors as soon as possible, and then after I have concluded my business with him, it is possible that I may need to speak with one of their curators about a painting.”

  “Was there a clue in one of the paintings?”

  “It was right there in front of you, Watson, in Her Ladyship’s Long Gallery.”

  Looking at my friend, I remarked before he could, “Yes, I know. Once again, I saw but I did not observe.”

  Chapter 13

  The next morning, I awoke to find that Holmes had already eaten. I found him sitting in his chair poring over the morning papers.

  “Well, they are certainly making the most of this latest slaying,” he remarked.

  “The press?”

  “Yes, look at this headline, ‘Deadly druid strikes again.’ What poppycock!” he remarked.

  “I suppose, but headlines do sell papers.”

  “Yes, I suppose they do, but they also terrify people.”

  “Well, then you must put a stop to the killings.”

  “I am trying my friend, but we are up against a very clever adversary. They have covered their tracks quite carefully, leaving me precious little with which to work. The only thing we know for certain is the date of the next killing. However, I must confess that I think I can discern a faint light at the end of the tunnel.”

  “Would you care to enlighten me?”

  “Bravo, Watson. Like the Bard, you will pursue your puns.”

  At that moment, there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” said Holmes. A young lad, whom I thought I recognized as one of Holmes’ street Arabs, entered and said, “Here’s the note from Dr. Connors, sir.” He then handed my friend an envelope.

  “Thank you Daniel.”

  “Will there be anything else, sir?’ asked the boy.

  “Not at the moment, no. But tell the Irregulars I may require their services in the very near future.” With that Holmes handed the youngster some coins.

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” said the boy who then snapped to attention like a young soldier and saluted my friend before bounding down the stairs and slamming the front door.

  Opening the note, Holmes read it over and then looking at me said, “Dr. Connors is free until one o’clock and then he will be in meetings until four. He says come when it is convenient, either before or after his meeting. I am rather anxious to discuss several points with him, so I’m going to see him now. Would you care to accompany me, old friend?”

  “Just let me get my coat,” I remarked.

  We took a cab to the British Museum and were soon ushered into the office of Professor Connors. A tall, slender man, Connors was wearing a dark blue suit, with a white shirt and an old school tie that told me he had attended Cambridge. He wore silver glasses, but the intelligence in his piercing blue eyes was obvious, and his smile was warm and genuine.

  I was feeling rather proud of my deductions when I heard Holmes say, “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Professor Connors. This is my colleague, Dr. John Watson.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Holmes. Anything I can do to help, I certainly will.”

  “Your meeting this morning, I assume that you received the budget increase that you were seeking?”

  “How could you possibly know about that?” he replied in amazement.

  “Come, come, Professor. It’s written all over you. Today, you are wearing your best suit, your shoes have been polished to a dazzling luster and your necktie has been tied in a full Windsor, father than the simple four-in-hand knot that has been your wont.”

  “You amaze me, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Well, do give your wife my best and tell her that should I ever have need of such a knot, I shall call upon her for assistance.”

  “How could you possibly know that my wife tied this tie?”

  “On your shoulder is a single long red hair. I can only suppose that it ended up there when she was assisting you with your preparations.”

  “I give up, Mr. Holmes. You are right about the suit, the tie and my wife,” said Connors as he plucked the strand of hair from his shoulder. “But how on Earth, could you know that I was at a budget meeting?”

  “A man in your position very seldom has to put on airs. You are well-respected; you have been with the museum for more than 20 years, so there is no chance that your job is in jeopardy. That led me to the inevitable conclusion that you must be discussing finances. Also, your secretary’s desk is groaning under the weight of stacks of documents, all of which are filled with columns of figures.”

  “It seems so simple when you explain it,” laughed Connors.

  “That’s why a magician never explains how his tricks are done,” said Holmes. “The mystery rests in the creation of the illusion.”

  “Don’t you worry about it, Professor; he does it to me all the time,” I said.

  “Now, to business,” said Holmes. “I am certain that you have heard of the murder of the young baronet on Dartmoor.”

  “I have Mr. Holmes. Did you meet the Reverend Baring-Gould? Was he of any assistance?”

  “In his own way, he was enormously helpful,” said my friend. “Now that we have three murders, is there anything that links the locales beyond the fact that all the bodies were found at historical sites - some or all of which may have been connected to druids?”

  “I do not think so, Mr. Holmes. The locations, like the victims, appear to have been chosen quite at random. All of the sites are thousands of years old, but I have been able to find nothing that would seem to link them.

  “Stonehenge served as some sort of calendar for the ancients. That we know. However, neither the White Horse nor ‘The Bone’ has any sort of functionality associated with it - unless of course, you consider that ‘The Bone’ may have been used as a burial site. Still the Giant’s Basin, a huge cairn, is located quite close by, so I rather doubt that functionality is the key.”

  “Yes, I’m inclined to agree with you there,” said Holmes. “I wonder though if either the victims or the sites were truly chosen at random,” he added.

  “Which brings us right back to where we started,” I interjected.

  “No, Watson, as I told you. I can see faint glimmerings at the end of the tunnel, but I’m afraid we must stumble around in the darkness for quite some time before we arrive at true illumination.

  “As you know, yew branches had been placed about the first body, willow about the second and hazel about the third. Have you been able to learn anything about the significance of the trees?”

  “I’ve been researching the various trees, Mr. Holmes,” said Connors, “and I think I have come across a few interesting facts. The yew tree, an evergreen, was regarded by both the druids and later the Christians as a symbol of everlasting life.”

  “That would seem to place the significance of the yew branches at odds with the ogham writing on her torso,” said Holmes, thinking aloud more than making conversation.

  “Yes, didn’t the symbols translate to the word ‘death’?” I asked.

  “Indeed, they did,” said Holmes.

  “That
may be explained,” said Connors. “There are many references to yews in Irish and Scottish poems and they are often described in connection with churchyards.” He paused and began rummaging through some papers on his desk. Finding the one he sought, he read a bit and then said, “The naturalist Gilbert White, who also happened to be a parson, described the trees as ‘an emblem of mortality by their funereal appearance.’”

  “If memory serves,” said Holmes, “White died sometime in the 1790s.”

  “I believe you are right, Mr. Holmes,” said Connors.

  “Is that important?” I asked.

  “It may prove to be, but right now, it is too soon to say,” said Holmes. Turning back to Connors, he asked, “Can you tell me anything about the other two branches?”

  “Indeed,” replied Connors. “The willow is one of the seven sacred Irish trees and is also sacred to druids, both past and present. Oddly enough, the willow is often regarded as the first to arrive - a symbol of spring - and the last to leave - a symbol of winter. I would be hard-pressed to explain why willow branches were placed about the body found on the summer solstice.”

  “But might there be an explanation?” pressed Holmes.

  “Well, the willow is associated with the letter S. Within the ogham writing, Saille is the lunar month; numerologically, it is related to the number five. So I suppose the phrase summer solstice, both words beginning with S, might explain its appearance.”

  “Yes, but the summer solstice would be more accurately referred to as midsummer, would it not?” asked Holmes.

  “That’s true,” said Connors. “The early calendars had but two seasons - summer and winter. The seasons began and ended on the equinoxes, so the solstices would be the midpoints - midsummer and midwinter - even though midsummer truly doesn’t occur until August and midwinter until January.”

  “I believe that we are making definite progress,” exclaimed Holmes.

  Totally befuddled, I decided to keep my confusion to myself.

  “Finally, we come to the hazel,” said Holmes.

  Waxing eloquent, Connors began, “The hazel might be said to be the quintessential Celtic tree because of its position at the heart of the Otherworld. According to myth, nine magic hazel trees hang over the Well of Wisdom and drop their purple nuts into the water. There are many references to drinking ‘hazelmead’ in early Irish literature and to Scottish druids eating hazel nuts to gain the power of prophecy.

  “The hazel was sacred to the god Thor in Germanic mythology while the Greeks and Romans saw the tree as sacred to Hermes and Mercury respectively,” continued Connors.

  “That’s all well and good, Professor Connors,” said Holmes, “but has the tree any association with the autumnal equinox that you know of?”

  “No, Mr. Holmes. Most commonly throughout the centuries, the hazel has been used as a protection against evil. While the hazel is frequently mentioned throughout the mythological landscape, I have not been able to find any direct associations with that particular day.”

  “Thank you very much, Professor Connors. You have shed even more light on a dark problem.”

  “Have I?” he asked.

  “Indeed, you have,” exclaimed Holmes. After shaking his hand warmly, Holmes said, “I cannot thank you enough. I shall let you know when my investigation bears fruit.”

  When we were in the hall, Holmes turned to me and said, “Surely, you see the pattern?”

  “I must confess, old man, that it escapes me.”

  “Well, keep mulling over what Professor Connors told us about the branches. I am certain it will come to you.”

  “Holmes, I must confess, I cannot see the forest, nor the trees, let alone the branches.”

  “You sell yourself short, my friend. I must go to Oxford. Would you care to accompany me?”

  Since I had several errands to run and had promised a colleague that I would be available to cover his practice, should he need me, I apologized to my friend, and told him that I would see him in the evening.

  With that, Holmes descended the steps in front of the museum. The last I saw of my friend that day, he was entering a cab which soon departed in the direction of Paddington.

  I spent part of the afternoon at my solicitor’s office and then dined alone as my colleague had no need of my services. I considered taking in “The Gipsy Earl” at the Adelphi, but then decided that I would rather wait and see what news, if any, Holmes might be bearing.

  It was nearing nine when I heard my friend’s familiar tread ascending the stairs. He entered the room and his face bore a slight smile. I could tell that his efforts had yielded some fruit, but knowing his flair for the dramatic, I decided to indulge him and let him spin his tale in his own time.

  After hanging up his coat, he looked at me and smiled. Then he said quite casually, “So how did your visit with your solicitor go?”

  Although I am used to Holmes doing that sort of thing, I must admit that I was stunned that had been able to ascertain my whereabouts. Deciding to play along, I said, “I’m going to take you at your word that you traveled to Oxford today.”

  “I did,” he replied, thoroughly enjoying my confused state.

  “And I’m going to trust that you had no one following me, just so you could perform your little parlor trick.”

  “On my word, I did not.”

  “Then how on Earth could you possibly know that I visited Dougherty today? I have changed my clothes since I returned home. There is no mud on my boots or ink stains on my cuff. And the papers that he gave me have been placed in my strongbox under my bed. There are no clues, I say. So how could you possibly know?”

  “You may have changed my clothes, my friend, but you have not changed your habits.”

  “What on Earth are you talking about?”

  “I have thrice accompanied you to your solicitor’s office in the past. Each time I watched amused as you placed a handful of the sweets that his secretary keeps in a dish in your pocket as she announced your presence. So when I see the ashtray next to your sitting chair, containing the wrappers from such confections, what else can I conclude?

  “You concealed your legal papers, but not your confectionary papers,” he laughed.

  “Holmes, you astound me!”

  “Nothing to it, old man.”

  “So, given your somewhat lighter mood, can I surmise that your trip was a successful one?”

  “We are getting closer, Watson, but knowing and proving are two very different things, as you know.”

  “What drew you to Oxford, Holmes?”

  “Over the past few months, I have been making inquiries regarding anything concerning the druids. Surprisingly, I learned about a painting depicting the ancient Celtic priests.”

  “A painting, you say? Is it prehistoric? And if so how does it figure into these dastardly killings?”

  Holmes chuckled, “No, it’s a fairly contemporary work. As for whether it ties into the murders, I believe that it may. I still have some sorting out to do in that area,” he said ruefully.

  “What painting? Surely you could have found something similar here in one of the London museums?”

  “I think not, Watson. The painting is titled ‘A Converted British Family Sheltering a Christian Missionary from the Persecution of the Druids’ by William Holman Hunt.”

  “I believe that I have heard of the fellow,” I said.

  “I am certain that you have. Together with John Everett Millais and Dante Gabriel Rosetti, he founded a group called the Pre-Raphelite Brotherhood. They believed that Raphael’s classical poses combined with his emphasis on elegant composition had corrupted the academic teaching of art. But I digress, you want to hear about my trip not the artistic squabbles that surround us.

  “At any rate, Millais had painted a work which he titled ‘Christ in the House of His Parents.’ The work is replete with religious symbolism as the family tends to the wound that a young Jesus has suffered. More to our line is the fact that Hunt painted his ‘Pe
rsecution of the Druids’ as a companion piece.

  “It’s an interesting work in that, as its title suggests, an early British family of Christians is providing refuge for one missionary in a rather primitive hut. Outside, in the background, a mob of pagans, urged on by a druid is attempting to capture a second missionary. Again the work is rife with religious symbols, including a cross painted in red on one of stones in the hut. Even more interesting, however, is that sections of a stone circle can be seen through the openings of the hut.”

  “A stone circle?”

  “Yes, rather like a miniature Stonehenge,” offered Holmes. “It is suggestive, is it not?”

  “It is curious,” I remarked.

  “Both Millais’ and Hunt’s works now hang in the Ashmolean Museum of Art and Archaeology in Oxford.

  “Even more curious is the fact that while Millais’ work has been hanging there since it was painted, Hunt’s work was donated to the museum about five months ago.”

  “Just before the second killing, I exclaimed. “If we can find out who donated it that may point us in the direction of the killer.”

  “That is going to prove an extremely difficult task,” said Holmes.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I visited the museum about two months ago, and the curator told me that he woke one morning and arrived at work only to discover the painting had been placed on his desk sometime during the night.

  “It had been carefully wrapped in blankets and paper. Attached to it was a note that read ‘Companion pieces belong together.’

  “As you might expect, the blankets, paper and note were not preserved. Oh Watson,” he said vehemently, “those items might have told us a great deal about who owned the painting prior to the museum. They might have even been used as evidence against our killer.”

  “Well, surely, Hunt must know to whom he sold the painting,” I added.

  “We will find out tomorrow,” said Holmes, “but something tells me this trail of breadcrumbs is going to end very soon.”

  Chapter 14

  The next morning Holmes had once again breakfasted and left our lodgings by the time I arose. I caught up on my correspondence and then lunched at my club. When I returned to Baker Street in the early afternoon, I found Holmes sitting in his chair and the room filled with smoke from his pipe.

 

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