“How did your morning go?” I asked.
“I am afraid to report that things could have gone significantly better,” he said. “‘Persecution of the Druids’ was Hunt’s first major work. He exhibited the painting in 1850 at the Royal Academy where it was purchased by William Bennet as a gift for the late Thomas Combe, who subsequently became Hunt’s patron and benefactor. When Combe died, the estate passed to his wife, and after her death in 1893, the bulk of the collection they had amassed was bequeathed to the Ashmolean Museum.
“Apparently, the druid painting did not go the museum at that time, but no one seems to know who possessed the work until it turned up at the museum some several months ago.”
“How is that possible?”
“The solicitor who had handled the estate has passed, and apparently he was not the most fastidious at keeping records.”
“Have you any idea where it went?”
“I have very definite suspicions,” replied Holmes. “However just as there is an ocean of uncertainty between suspecting and knowing, so too is there an equally wide gulf between knowing and proving.
“I am reasonably certain that I know who acquired the painting; however, proving my theory may require a great deal of legwork and a bit of luck. And even if I could prove where the painting had been residing, there is no way to prove that its owner is our killer.”
“No way? Are you certain?”
“Well, I am not entirely certain of a great many things about this case, my friend, but I cannot let my doubts hinder my investigation. Three murders have been committed, and unless I miss my guess, a fourth will take place, unless we can somehow prevent it. Someone must stand for those deaths, and it falls to us, old friend, to see that justice is done.”
“You can count on me, Holmes!”
“Good old, Watson!” he exclaimed. “Here is what I would like you to do, if you are willing.”
“I am yours to command, my friend.”
“First, I should like you to visit both the Ancient Order of Druids and the United Ancient Order of Druids. Despite the similar sounding names, they are two very different organizations, I assure you. See if any of their members has been acting rather strangely of late. More to the point, see if any members have come and gone within the past year. I have visited both groups in disguise, as you know, but I believe that the membership might best be described as ‘fluid.’”
“That doesn’t seem particularly difficult,” I remarked.
“Never take anything for granted, my friend, especially where murder is concerned.”
“Of course, you are right,” I replied. “Anything else?”
“Do you remember what Connors said about the branches seeming not to match with the seasons in which the murders were committed?”
“I do.”
“If you can find a member that seems knowledgeable about the ancient druids and whom you think you can trust, see if he is willing to verify Connors’ beliefs. It’s not that I doubt the man, but I would rather have the information authenticated by an actual believer, so to speak.
“Finally, try to learn if the local druids are planning anything for All Hallows Eve, or as they call it Samhain.”
I was jotting down Holmes’ instructions in my notebook, and when I had finished, I looked at him and said, “Anything else?”
“Not at the moment,” he said.
“And what will you be doing whilst I am steeping myself in druidic lore?”
“I shall be revisiting each of the murder scenes. Tomorrow, I leave for Salisbury, from there I will make connections to Uffington and then once more to Dartmoor.”
“I expect to be away at least four and possibly five days, so I am counting on you to keep me apprised of any new developments, should they occur.”
“How am I to do that?”
“I shall be staying at the Old Post House in Salisbury, if you desire to contact me. From there, I will make my way to Yelverton and take a room at the same inn that we used on our last visit. As for Dartmoor, I am going to wire the Reverend Baring-Gould and inquire as to whether I might impose upon his hospitality for a night. His estate is Lew Trenchard, and it is approximately 20 miles from the stone rows. So there you have my itinerary.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to accompany you?” I asked. “There is safety in numbers.”
“That is certainly true,” replied Holmes, “but to quote your Mr. Kipling,
‘Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne,
He travels the fastest, who travels alone.’”
To say that my feelings were hurt would be something of an understatement. And then I remembered that we were in pursuit of a cold-blooded killer. I had been given my orders, and, by God, I would carry them out.
I guess Holmes must have seen the look of disappointment on my face, for he added, “There is one other reason that you cannot accompany me, old friend.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, I shall be traveling incognito, and I shall be using the name Alf Stimson. So any wires for me should be addressed to that name.”
Knowing Holmes’ fondness for disguises and his uncanny ability to breathe life into the characters he created, I felt better immediately.
“And pray tell, what does this Alf Stimson do to earn his keep?”
“A little of this, and a little of that, he’s a very adaptable fellow,” laughed Holmes.
“Now, would you care for a sherry before dinner?”
* * *
Once again, Holmes had departed before I had risen the next morning. After breakfast and running a few errands, I made my way to the United Ancient Order of Druids, which had split off from the Ancient Order of Druids some sixty years ago.
I wasn’t quite certain exactly what I would find, but I was determined to carry out Holmes’ request. Of the several members with whom I spoke, few knew much about the group that had given their organization its name.
To a man they insisted, that their group which was run by an elected board of directors, existed primarily for “social and intellectual intercourse” as well as “general philanthropy and benevolence.” They pointed to such charitable exercises as caring for out-of-work members and assisting with the funeral expenses of the impoverished in their ranks as among the organization’s many endeavors. They could shed little light on any modern-day druids acting out of sorts. However, I did learn that they had a benefit dance planned for All Hallows Eve.
Deciding that little if anything was to be learned there, I made way to the King’s Arms on Poland Street in Soho. This was where the Ancient Order of Druids had been founded in Britain in 1781. I encountered several men who claimed to be members, but none would discuss any of their practices with me.
I was feeling frustrated when a young man approached. He introduced himself as Gerald Massey, saying “I know who you are and I can guess why you are here, but this is not the place for such a discussion.”
Since he seemed to be the only one willing to talk to me, I followed him to a nearby pub at his suggestion. He began the conversation by informing me, “Our order is not a religious organization. Truth be told, Doctor Watson, any and all discussions concerning religion or politics are forbidden within our lodge rooms.
“I suspect that given our name, you were hoping to see men in robes huddled over a fire trying to divine the future. I am sorry to disappoint you, but our members are expected to try to preserve and practice the major principles attributed to the early druids, including the virtues of justice, benevolence and friendship.”
“Sounds a bit like the Freemasons,” I suggested.
“We have more in common than you might suspect,” replied Massey.
Although he couldn’t or wouldn’t provide an exact number of members, he assured me that there had been no new members admitted for more than a year, and the only members who failed to attend meetings were those who had passed away.
Deciding to press on, I asked him if he knew anything about the original dr
uids.
“Quite a great deal,” he replied. “I am a poet by trade and I have studied the Romantics and found their works and their love of nature to be no small source of inspiration. It’s not a great leap of faith from a healthy respect for Nature to an admiration and perhaps emulation of those who venerated the same.”
He then proceeded to wax eloquent about Wordsworth and his compatriots which was followed by a rather elaborate history of London, which he claimed was a thriving druidic center in the millennia before Christ. Suffice to say that while some may find it interesting, I will not burden my readers with this rather fanciful retelling of long-ago events that had obviously been reshaped to coincide with his own rather pointed ideology.
Despite his self-professed knowledge of the ancient druids, he knew nothing about the significance of any of the tree branches.
Having visited both groups and come away knowing little more than before I had begun, I was forced to concur with Holmes’ initial assessment that these druids were far more concerned with sharing a pint than sacrificing to the gods of old.
As a result, all I could do was wait until Holmes had returned from his lengthy sojourn and hope that he had fared better than I.
I spent the next few days waiting to hear from Holmes, but there were no wires nor messages. I did send a cable to Lew Trenchard informing my friend that my inquiries had come a cropper.
On that Friday afternoon, I returned to our rooms shortly before dinner time to find a visitor waiting for me. He was a tall, rather distinguished-looking gentleman, dressed all in tweeds, with elaborate mutton-chop whiskers and the fullest head of bright red hair that I have ever seen. He stood when I entered the room and introduced himself as Professor Joseph Delanèy - “accent grave over the second e,” he informed me - and proclaimed himself an expert on all things druidical. (Given that pronouncement, I was wondering whether this fellow knew the difference between Gallic and Gaelic.)
“Your landlady said that I might wait in this room. I received a letter from Mr. Holmes instructing me to be here at this hour,” he explained. “He seems keenly interested in some archaeological work that I am conducting in Brittany.”
“Were there druids in France, too?” I inquired.
“Absolutely, Doctor. Have you never heard of the Carnac Stones?”
“Can’t say that I have,” I replied.
“They are one of the most extensive menhir collections in the world,” he replied. “Simply magnificent.”
“Well, that’s more Holmes’ department than mine,” I said. “However, I think Mr. Holmes is focusing his attention on British stone circles. I can’t say that French circles would fit into the scope of his investigation.”
Suddenly, the man’s voice changed as he said, “One should never dismiss any information just because it doesn’t appear to fit into a preconceived notion. You should know better than that Watson.”
To my chagrin, I realized that Professor Delanèy was Holmes in one of his many disguises and that I had once again been duped by my friend. “That wasn’t very kind of you,” I said, with a note of irritation in my voice. “Besides, you told me you were traveling as Alf Stimson. Whatever happened to that fellow?”
“He outlived his usefulness,” remarked Holmes as he began to remove his makeup. “He proved himself quite useful at Salisbury and Uffington, but I had to leave Alf behind when I visited the Reverend Baring-Gould, and he would have been totally out of place at Exeter and Lady Deveron’s estate, hence the incarnation of Professor Delanèy.”
“Well, that’s all well and good,” I replied, “but have you learned anything of substance.”
“Quite a great deal, actually,” replied Holmes. “We inch ever closer to the truth, and if my suspicions are correct, this is a far more sordid business than even I had suspected.”
“What have you discovered?”
“I learned that Annie Locke was little more than a child. She had made few friends during her short stay in Salisbury although there were rumors that she was seeing one of the town’s young swains.”
“And was she?” I asked.
“Indeed! She was also saving her money for her trip to Canada. She hadn’t an enemy in the world so far as I can tell, and everyone with whom I spoke is at a loss to explain her rather grim demise.”
“And how about young Jeremy Mason?”
“Again, I spoke with his parents and acquaintances, while disguised as Alf, and their stories remain pretty much the same. There were a few minor discrepancies, but I attribute those to the passage of time. Had those I questioned been involved, their stories would have been learned by rote and not a single detail would have been altered.
“Jeremy had few friends and appears to have been very much the outlier. I think that partially explains his selection by our killer. Jeremy was probably thrilled with the prospect of finally making a friend, and then he was betrayed in a most heinous manner.”
“How did you get these people to open up to you?”
“It was quite simple,” explained Holmes. “In my guise as an itinerant peddler, people are always willing to talk. They know I won’t gossip or reveal their secrets because I won’t be around long enough. Everyone has a story to tell, Watson. Many are just waiting for a willing audience.”
“Bravo, Holmes! And what did you learn at Drizzlecombe?”
“After consulting with various experts, the Reverend Baring-Gould agrees with Professor Connors that the branches used at each killing are singularly inappropriate. He wouldn’t go so far as to call them ‘wrong’ because there is so much we don’t know about the druids.”
“As I said in my wire, I’m afraid I wasn’t much help there, old man. I visited both societies, and most of the members seem more concerned with socializing than anything else.”
Holmes laughed at my assessment and then inquired, “Have you nothing to add?”
“I’m afraid not although I did meet one rather interesting fellow, who bent my ear with his rather farfetched tales of druids in London before Christ and the veneration of nature by the Romantic poets.”
“I see you encountered Mr. Massey. He can be quite the orator when you touch on one of his favorite subjects, I met him during my first visits,” said Holmes. “I was in disguise, so he wouldn’t know me if he saw me. Thank heavens for small favors.”
“You said you stopped at Exeter?”
“Yes. I made inquiries about Lord Deveron and discovered that he appears to have been well-liked to a rather small degree, both by his fellow students and a number of faculty members, but I would never go so far as to call him ‘popular’.”
“Well, we rather knew that, didn’t we?”
“Yes, but we didn’t know that he was constantly at odds with his mother.”
“At odds, you say. What child isn’t at odds with his parents at some point?”
“I suppose they all are,” said Holmes, “but what makes this far more interesting is the fact that the present Lady Deveron is not his real mother. It seems that he was the product of the union between Lord Deveron and his first wife. After her untimely death, and his Lordship’s remarriage, she took upon herself to raise the boy as her own.”
“And what is wrong with that?”
“Nothing at all,” said Holmes, “but you will recall when we left her estate I remarked to you that what she didn’t say was far more interesting that what she had said.”
“What am I missing?”
“She constantly referred to young man as her son rather than her stepson?”
“You suspected she was not his mother?” I asked incredulously.
“You have heard of Gregor Mendel?”
“I am familiar with the name, although I cannot say that I fully embrace all of his conclusions.”
“I have studied his work, and I may try my own hand at a monograph some day on the possibility of criminal tendencies being inherited. But, I digress. Right now, some of the leading minds in Europe are re-examining his principle
s with an eye toward finally according the good monk his due. In fact, there is a theory that eye color is an inherited trait.”
“What of it?”
“It’s just that Lord Deveron had blue eyes as does Lady Judith, but the baronet had brown eyes, which if you believe the research, would eliminate her as his birth mother. Lord Deveron’s first wife had brown eyes.”
“How did you discover that?”
“I examined her portrait which is still hanging in the Long Gallery.”
“But why conceal that?”
“Why indeed?” mused Holmes. “I think when we have an answer to that question, we may be even closer to identifying our mysterious killer.”
I was about to ask Holmes about the other painting that he had examined when I caught sight of a letter that had arrived for him. “Speaking of mysterious,” I said, “this was delivered for you yesterday.”
I handed Holmes a long white envelope. On the outside, his name had been very carefully printed.
He examined it and then asked, “When and how did it arrive? The envelope tells me nothing as it is common stock and since there is no stamp, I can only assume it was delivered by hand.”
“Yes, Mrs. Hudson found it slipped under the front door around four o’clock.”
Taking a letter opener he very carefully slit the top of the envelope. He then pulled out a single sheet of white paper that had been neatly folded in half. Upon opening it, he looked at me and remarked. “I think we may be getting a little too close for someone’s comfort.”
“What is the message?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea of what the message says as it has been written in ogham. Here, see for yourself.”
Holmes then handed me the paper. It contained but a single line of carefully written characters. I have reproduced them below.
“However, I believe that I can translate it. I had Doctor Smith prepare a page that contains the ogham alphabet with the translation of each of their symbols into an English letter.”
The Druid of Death - a Sherlock Holmes Adventure Page 8