Elementary

by william Todd

  “Kerrek House was then bought in 1887 and completely restored, updated, and turned into a hotel by Ciaran Todde, a businessman from Glasgow. He and his family come down each summer and stay for a month in the residential area. They just returned to Scotland only two weeks ago.”

  The tour ended in a large observatory up a small flight of stairs from Josephine’s Room. The four corners of the glass enclosure commanded the most spectacular view I think I had ever seen. One could see, it seemed, all the way to Eternity, from such a height over the ocean. The skeleton of Wheal Kerrek was to the east along the cliff about a half-mile in the distance. To the west, where the cliffs sloped to the sea, pristine beaches and parts of Newquay could be seen well off into the distance. To our backs, the road leading to the hotel serpentined through the many copses of trees and tall grass that dotted the windswept landscape.

  The room itself was barren with but a monstrous telescope facing the ocean-side of the room its only occupant. It was said, William would while away the hours looking out over the waves or into the night sky while his wife made her masterpieces of fabric, lace, and buttons in the room below.

  Thus, ended our tour.

  As we followed the tour guide back to the populated portion of the hotel, Mr. Newbury, tail between his legs, seemed to finally succumb to the constant rejection and ridiculing and lagged behind even myself and Holmes without so much as a look in our direction. The man was in a most pitiable state, yet, however sullen his countenance, I could not bring my empathy to the point of acquiring one of the man’s suits to lift his spirits.

  Once back in the lobby, as we turned to head back up the stairs to our rooms to change for dinner, Holmes tapped my shoulder and nodded towards the receptionist, a wry grin beginning to crease his aquiline features. “We cannot seem to rid ourselves of our mysterious paper-clipper. See, our man is procuring himself a room.”

  I glanced in that direction. The young man from the train was filling out the registry in earnest with hurried strokes. “Isn’t it odd,” I offered, “that he has no luggage.”

  “It is, indeed, Watson,” was Holmes’s reply as we made our way up the stairs. “It may be that a black game is being played out before our eyes, and we know not the players nor the object of the game. I fear we may not know the victor until it is too late.”

  “Shall we just confront the fellow, show him the article, and ask his motives?”

  “No, we shall watch from a distance. If he knows he is being watched, it may scare the rabbit back into its hole. If he has dark motives, he may hide them only to bring them forth on another occasion—an occasion with which we shall not be able to help.”

  As we made the top of the stairs, the young man bounded, two steps at a time, up the stairs past us and down our hallway. He hurriedly unlocked his door as we made the hallway and disappeared into a room at the end of the hallway.

  “Knowing where his room is will at least make him easier to keep track of,” said my friend.

  . . . . .

  I awoke the next morning to a grey pall outside my window. Judging its brightness, I knew it must have been first light, and when I consulted my watch it was indeed almost 6:00 a.m. I went to the window as I tried to stretch a kink in my back from an overstuffed mattress to glimpse the vista before me. To my chagrin, the ocean this morning was blanketed by a heavy fog that was lapping at the edge of Folly’s End but quickly retreating in the early morning sun

  And it was there that I noticed, standing dangerously close to the precipice, Mr. Newbury, still in his pin-striped suit and trilby. He seemed to be mesmerized by the swirling tongues of fog being swept back out to sea. It seemed that the bank was of such a thickness that if one could but leap the distance, they could easily walk across its billowy surface. Maybe he was taking stock of his career choice. Surely there was a more honest situation out there that did not involve trying to peddle inferior product.

  What took place next both startled me and made my blood turn cold for out of the glorious morning came death. From out of my line of sight a blur raced across my eyes. That blur landed squarely in Mr. Newbury’s back: it was an arrow. The unexpected pain and force from the penetration pushed the man forward awkwardly, and he tumbled over the side of Folly’s End.

  “Holmes,” I whispered. Then, I said it again louder as I turned, threw on my housecoat, and raced to my door, “Holmes, Holmes!”

  I ran across the hall and began to pound on the door. It was then that I heard screaming from the floor below.

  Holmes was hurriedly putting on his housecoat as he opened the door. “What has happened, Watson?”

  “Come,” said I. “Newbury just went over the cliff!”

  “Suicide?”

  “No,” I replied. “An arrow through the back was his fate.”

  As we raced down the hallway, patrons were beginning to poke bleary eyes through open doors, asking from whence the screaming was coming.

  We found the source once we made our way to the seating area of the restaurant downstairs. A young woman, by her dress an employee of the hotel, was standing in front of a wall of floor-ceiling windows that looked out at Folly’s End a short distance away.

  She looked upon us with tears streaming down her face. “I was opening up the curtains, sirs, getting ready for the day and preparing for breakfast, and…and that man, the suit salesman, was just standing there, sirs. I didn’t give him much attention, for guests are up at all hours gawking out over the cliffs, like they always do, but usually only at the fenced-off areas. Then, suddenly, sirs, from the corner of my eye I sees him…he…he fell over the side!”

  She began to wail, once more.

  “Come, Watson!”

  We ran out the front entrance and made our way to where Mr. Newbury had been standing, being extremely careful ourselves not to slip in the wet grass and share his fate. We both craned our necks out over the side. The man’s lifeless body was floating in the roiling waters several hundred feet below, having finally caught itself up between two large boulders.

  Holmes said, “The cliffs on either side extend for at least a mile in each direction, and the waters are too rough at the moment to safely retrieve the body. The constabulary may well have to wait for low tide before Mr. Newbury can be recovered.”

  He turned and peered up at the hotel. “Which is your room, Watson?”

  “Near as I can tell, it is the fifth set of windows from the right.”

  Holmes’s keen eye surveyed the area around. “Then, the arrow would have emerged from the left of your line of sight.”

  “Yes,” said I.

  “Then the fatal arrow would have been shot from the front of the hotel.”

  People were beginning to gather under the awning, and a gentleman in hotel livery started out towards us, but Holmes stopped him. “Please stop where you are and return to the hotel, all of you!”

  “I am the manager,” he said.

  “And I am Sherlock Holmes. This is a crime scene, and I do not want it trampled upon until I’ve had time to examine it.”

  At this point in his career, Sherlock Holmes was a name revered across the whole of the empire; at hearing it, the man instantly acquiesced. “Shall I call for the constabulary, then, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Not yet. I shall need fifteen minutes outside. Once I’ve gathered what I can out here then you may send word.”

  The manager shooed everyone back inside, which left only myself and Holmes. He looked around us, pointing. “The grass is still wet, Watson. It becomes darker where we step. Can you see our footprints left as we ran to the cliff?”

  “I can. And there. Those must be Newbury’s.” Another set could just be made out coming from the gravel drive, across from which was the sunken garden.”

  “Correct, Watson. And do you not see another set placed very close to his?”

  “I do!” I exclaimed as Holmes began to examine the areas.

  “I cannot be certain as the indentations are not as prominent as those l
eft in soft soil or mud, but it appears to me that there is a set leading to the cliff, Newbury’s, presumably, and one leading away.”

  “He must have had some clandestine rendezvous,” said I.

  “I see you’ve already got your next tale marinating,” he offered back waggishly.

  “No, no, I’m being quite serious, Holmes. It would fit the facts as we see them right now. It would seem he came out, spoke to someone who must have already been here for some time since I see no second set of prints leading up to the cliff. Newbury was either late to the tete-a-tete or the person needed some time alone to think, but whatever the reason, the second person had to be out here for some time for their tracks leading up to the cliff to be covered by more dew. When he finally arrived, they spoke—quarreled, perhaps. Newbury had a disposition that could certainly rub one the wrong way. The interlocutor left Newbury standing here, those being their footsteps leading away. In a rage for reasons yet unknown, they retrieved a bow and arrow, most likely from the wall of implements inside, and shot Mr. Newbury.”

  “Well, Watson, since you have this matter in the bag, I shall retire to my room and dress for my bee symposium.”

  “Come, now, Holmes, stop being so flippant,” I remonstrated. “I am just offering a possibility. What do you think?”

  “I think I need more data. It may be that you are completely correct in your assumptions, but I do not deal in assumptions. I deal in facts, and I need more clay to make my bricks.”

  I then followed Holmes, tracing with celerity the dew-darkened footprints to the gravel drive. The options confronting us were going across to the sunken garden or following the gravel drive from the hotel. Deciding on the nearer option, we alighted the four cobblestone steps into the meandering path that wound its way through the garden, and Holmes began pushing aside shrubbery frenetically.

  “Hallo, what is this?” he said. He reached between two conical arborvitae and pulled out a longbow. “At least part of your hypothesis is true, Watson. I remember this specimen quite well from the tour and it was shoulder-height upon the wall. Easily obtainable.”

  I then followed him around, as a hunter does when his hound is on the scent, while he feverishly inspected the gardens for any sign of the murderer’s footprints leading out into the surrounding area, however, none were found.

  As we made our way back, Holmes remarked, “much of the area in the front, as well as the driveway, is gravel. It would be very easy to escape by that route and not leave a trail. Yet, my belief is the blackguard is among the hotel guests.”

  “Our news-clipper! You, yourself, said that he was acting very strangely. But what does a clothier have to do with a bank robbery?”

  “I think that is a question we need to pose to our strange friend. At this point, I am only certain of one thing, Watson.”

  “And that is?”

  “I shall not be seeing Epeoloides pilosulus today.”

  When we made our way back into the hotel, the manager, a slight fellow with wideset eyes and a dark, pencil-thin mustache, approached us. He gave Holmes a strange look as we approached, Holmes waving the longbow in his hand.

  “Where on earth did you get that?” he asked.

  “It was found among the bushes in the garden,” Holmes replied.

  “Well, why would it be there? It should be among the rest of the implements in the great hall.”

  Holmes matter-of-factly slapped the longbow on the counter of the reception desk. “This is what killed Mr. Newbury. He was shot in the back with an arrow.”

  “This wasn’t an accident, then?”

  “I’m afraid not,” replied my friend. “Could you please tell me which room Mr. Newbury was staying in?”

  Stricken with the implication of murder, the man’s face drained and only stared blankly at Holmes.

  “Mr. Newbury’s room number, please. And a key to gain entry.”

  Blinking himself back to reality, the man said, “Yes, yes, right.”

  He went behind the counter, opened the book, and found the entry. “Mr. Newbury was in 303 in the west wing.” He pulled a second key from the corresponding peg on the wall behind him and handed it to Holmes.

  “Give me a five-minute head start then call the constabulary and inform them,” he instructed the manager. “That should give me enough time to examine the room before the professional forces arrive and ruin any usable evidence. Also, get everyone, patron and employee, into the restaurant and have them sit until authorities arrive. They will want to question everyone on the premises. And have your registry handy. They will want to make sure everyone in the hotel is accounted for.”

  The manager nodded his ascent.

  Before we turned and ascended the stairs Holmes asked, rather off-handedly, “By the way, what time do you begin to serve breakfast?”

  “We start serving breakfast at 8:30.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Hungry already?” I asked,

  “I am rarely hungry at this hour,” was his only reply.

  We made the top of the stairs and turned left down the west wing of the house. 303 was the third door down on the left. Holmes put out a hand to stop me as we approached the door; it was ajar.

  “Someone has beaten us to the punch, Watson,” he whispered.

  “Shall we wait and watch until the authorities arrive.”

  “A lion does not wait for the elephant to arrive before pouncing the wildebeest.”

  “What if he is armed?”

  “I shall gauge the situation with stealth. If he is armed, we shall reweigh our options.”

  We crept to the partially open door. All was silent but for footsteps and the opening and closing of drawers.

  “It sounds like he is alone, Watson,” my friend whispered to me.

  He slowly, quietly, opened the door another few inches until more of the room came into view. It was the young man from the train. He was in a shirt and trousers, and his hands were free, so there was no place on his person to conceal a weapon.

  Once ascertaining this, Holmes opened the door boldly. “Why did you kill Mr. Newbury?”

  The man said nothing, but his eyes widened, and they held within them a wild and fearful fury, like a cornered animal. He looked madly around, seemingly looking for a way out of the net that was cast around him.

  Holmes said, “There is no use. There is one of you and two of us with but one way to escape. I do not think you wish to try and muscle past two men who both outweigh you considerably.”

  He looked to one than the other of us, thought momentarily, then collapsed onto the bed with his face in his hands.

  “I ask again, why did you kill Mr. Newbury?”

  He looked at us, confusion transforming his features as if hearing the question for the first time. “Wait, what? Mr. Newbury is dead?”

  I replied, “Shot with an arrow in the back, and he went over Folly’s End to his death.”

  “No, no, no, no!” the young man pleaded. He went to the window and looked out. “No!!!” He turned to us. “I only thought he was out to take an early morning stroll in the gardens.”

  “Why would what Mr. Newbury does matter to you at all?” Holmes asked. “And what does all of this have to do with the St. Austell bank robbery?”

  He gave us a knowing look. “Ah, I see you must have come across my keepsake. It troubled me that I had misplaced it.”

  “I found it in the dining car on the train from London to Par,” replied Holmes.

  “May I have it back?”

  “You may not. Answer the question.”

  The man sighed. “I shall not. I wish to have a solicitor present.”

  “Young man, we are not the constabulary, but it would be in your best interest to tell us all you know.”

  He wrinkled his brow. “If you are not the police then who the deuces are you?”

  “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my companion, Dr. Watson.”

  The man’s face brightened to the radiance of the sun. “
Glory be! Could I really have the blind luck of being in the presence of the great detective?”

  With an annoyed sigh, Holmes said, “As I stated…Now, why are you rummaging through a dead man’s room, not fifteen minutes after his death, and what does this have to do with a bank robbery on the other side of Cornwall?”

  “I do not wish to be at cross purposes, Mr. Holmes, and indeed, I hope that when I am done with my explanation that I may gain your services to my benefit.”

  “You must make your summation quickly, for the constabulary is on their way. You have less than fifteen minutes.”

  He began in earnest. “My name is Rory Keene. My sister was Esme Keene. The short version of the story is that she worked at the bank in St. Austell as a teller. She was a pretty girl but not very worldly. She suffered from seizures. She had them often when she was young, but they became more sporadic as she got older. It was hoped that she would eventually outgrow them altogether. Because of her isolated state growing up, she was rather naïve and given over to flights of fancy, which only helped the bank manager manipulate her into doing his bidding. He concocted an idea of them stealing money and eloping together. The facts are fuzzy at this point. Through a means I am not privy to they pulled off the heist and fled across the countryside. At some point, with the police on their heels, Esme injured her ankle as she jumped off a boulder and tumbled down a steep slope. Instead of staying with her, Esme’s accomplice left her there, and she was subsequently caught. As she was being brought in for questioning, the whole affair was just too much for her constitution. She had a seizure in the constabulary, one of such extent that she did not recover, and there she died before they could question her. When she was caught, the police gave up their chase on the man for they seemed certain they could get the information they needed to catch him from Esme. When she died, they were left swinging in the wind.”

  “And who was this bank manager who absconded with the money?” asked Holmes.

  “Collin Newbury.”

  I gasped. “Our dead suit salesman?”

  “What makes you think Newbury had anything to do with the robbery?” Asked Holmes.