by william Todd
From his trouser pocket, he retrieved several folded letters and handed them to Holmes. “You see, Mr. Holmes, my sister and I are very close. Our mother died in childbirth, and I am four years older than Esme, so I helped my father with my sister, especially when she was younger, and the fits were upon her often. As I said, as she got older the seizures happened less often, and it was then, with our father, himself now frail and old, that we both took on employment. She went to the bank, and I, feeling the time was now appropriate to do so, went to Canada to apprentice with an uncle who owns three apothecaries. We had been apart for two years, but we wrote each other often. In those letters, she detailed to me their budding romance, her lover’s disclosure of his debts (taking care of a drug-addled brother which I now believe a lie). Over time, their plans became more intimate. They wanted to marry, but he was unable to take care of her until he got himself on sounder ground. Apparently, his debts were significant. They saw no other way to repay his debts than to rob the bank. With the proceeds, they would repay the debts and elope to the continent to start their new life together. I tried to persuade her in the firmest language possible how wrong that was, but she was entirely under his spell.”
“It sounds as though these letters are material evidence in the robbery,” I said. “Why did you not hand these over to the authorities. It could have helped their investigation.”
“I did just that, Dr. Watson. But because she never referred to him by name—it was only my love and my gentleman from the bank—they said it wasn’t entirely certain she was referring to Newbury. It could have been a customer for all they knew.”
“But you were certain she was referring to Newbury?” Holmes pressed.
“Oh, yes. From previous letters I know there are only three men at the bank, and two are old enough to be her grandfather, one being the owner himself. The rest were women. The process of elimination says it had to be Newbury she was in love with and with whom she was planning this heist and elopement.”
“Could it not have been a customer?” I asked.
Keene nodded in agreement. “Yes, but she began working at the bank before I went off to Canada. We were close, you see, and I could tell even from the beginning that she was smitten with Newbury. I am—was—very protective of her. He thought himself a bit of a gal sneaker, and I warned her to be careful around him.”
“But he is a suit salesman, now,” said I. “What happened?”
“This is how I see it,” Keene said. “The papers at the time mentioned that Esme died in custody before implicating her accomplice. Newbury, who had been absent from work for two days suddenly reappeared saying he had taken ill. The police initially investigated him but could prove nothing. He lived alone, and couldn’t prove his alibi, but they also could not disprove it. They searched his home, found nothing to implicate him and dropped him as a suspect. He waited for a few months until he was certain he was no longer in their crosshairs, quit the bank, and moved to London where he got the job he now has.”
“And you know this how?” asked Holmes.
“The day she was put into the ground I vowed before her and God that I would not stop until I could prove that Newbury was the mysterious accomplice—that the despicable man, even though he did not lay a hand on her, killed my sister. I got my affairs together in Canada, quit my apprenticeship, returned to England, and have been following from afar his every move for the last four months to that end.”
“Well, revenge is certainly a motive for seeing him dead,” I offered.
He shook his head vociferously. “No, you don’t understand. I was not following him to exact revenge. I was hoping he would lead me to the money. I wanted to help resuscitate the good name of Keene. My sister was easily influenced. I do not wish to condone her actions, but I believe it was entirely the idea of Newbury, and under his spell of infatuation, she followed his every whim. If I can find the money and return it, it might put right the wrong she did, and Mr. Newbury will get his just desserts. So, you see, I needed Collin Newbury alive to find the money.”
“Then, it would seem,” Holmes offered soberly, “that someone else knew about the money and ascertained its whereabouts before you.”
“Did you find anything of worth in here?” I asked.
He shook his head despondently, “No. I checked his luggage for any correspondence, maps, anything that might be a clue. I checked the pockets of two of his ghastly suits he has in the wardrobe, and they were empty. I checked the writing desk for any scribbles, along with the wastebaskets, under his sheets and bedding. I’ve checked everywhere in here, and there is nothing that might lead me to where he’s keeping that money.”
As Mr. Keene was talking, Holmes went to the window that looked down on the gravel drive at the front of the hotel. “We shall have to resume our conversation at a later time. The constabulary is here. I do not wish to divulge your information to them just yet. It may serve justice better if we work on this little problem without police interference, at least at first. There are times where they are as helpful as an untied shoestring.”
He turned back to Mr. Keene. “If you wish to employ my services, you must do exactly as I say.”
“I am your puppet, Mr. Holmes. I will follow your instructions to the letter.”
“Good. I want you to go down and place yourself amongst the other patrons in the restaurant. When you are interviewed, do not tell them anything of what you have just divulged to us. You are in town for the bee symposium, if they ask your business here. I suspect more than a few will give that same response. I am quite certain they will not wish anyone to leave the premises, and you should acquiesce to that. Go back to your room, and we shall convene there later to get more information, should we need it. Leave the rest of this affair in my hands, and I shall endeavour to bring it to a proper finish.”
“I shall do as you say.”
Mr. Keene left the room, and we closed and locked the door behind us.
We gave him a head start to the restaurant before we followed. “What do you make of his story?” I whispered as we went down to join the others.
“Intriguing,” was the only response Holmes offered.
Instead of seating ourselves in the restaurant with the other hotel guests to wait our fate with the local constabulary, I followed Holmes, who replaced the extra key back onto its peg. Through the windows of the entrance, I could see the manager talking to the police and pointing off to the right, no doubt relaying the horrific events.
Holmes said, “Come, Watson, we might have just enough time for one more quick look before they bring their investigation inside.”
We made our way to the great hall of weaponry. He pointed to an empty spot on the wall as we passed. “That, Watson, is from where the weapon was extracted. I only remember it because I am a fan of medieval longbows and was admiring it before I had the misfortune of having my hearing insulted with a dissertation of incorrect history.”
Once at the other end, he tried the door to the residential museum of the place. It was unlocked.
“I was hoping for such luck. Come, let us go up to the observation room and surveil the area from that vantage point before we succumb to the annoyance of a police interrogation.”
As we walked through Josephine’s Room, my friend looked about him with turned brow, I assumed hoping then realizing that we would not be found out by any wandering hotel staff or inquisitive constabulary. He also stopped momentarily and took in the large tapestry upon the wall before he leapt up the stairs two at a time to the observation room.
“Should we swing around the telescope and use it?” I asked.
“No, Watson. Taking the area in broad strokes may be better, at first. If there is anything of note, we may then focus more directly.”
He looked around the area, land on three sides and a vast ocean on one. The fog was still of sufficient thickness to be unable to ascertain any boats in the water, but with seas as rough as they were when we looked over the side of Folly’s
End, none but the largest and sturdiest of vessels would be out this morning.
Holmes then focused on the rocky, windswept area around the hotel and the long-abandoned Wheal Kerrek in the distance. The entire area leading to the cliff was relatively barren, with copses of wood and brush scattered here and there, and high grass whipped in a frenzy in the morning breezes.
His eagle-like gaze scoured over the landscape. “It would be much better to find a trail through the grasses if they would but stay still.” After another moment, he snapped, “Confound this wind!” He sighed in resignation and said, “I believe we have seen all we shall see up here.”
I followed him back down the stairs. “We are at an impasse, then?”
“Not at all, my good man. Every avenue has its purpose, even if that purpose is to know it leads nowhere.”
“Coming up here did no good, then.”
“Incorrect, Watson. It revealed more than you realize. My problem at the moment is that I do not know quite yet how to fit together the one or two trifling pieces of this puzzle.”
“Do you think our murderer has escaped?”
“It is possible they left by the gravel road, but instinct tells me they are still in the area, possibly sitting in the restaurant below us as we speak.”
We finally took our seats away from Mr. Keene, as the constabulary rounded up any stragglers and the Chief Constable, introduced as Penhale, began in earnest with questioning the guests. We waited our turn to be interviewed, while uniformed men searched the area around the hotel. Holmes sighed heavily as he watched through the windows the masses of constables walking over the very evidence they needed to begin to piece together this murder. On occasion, I could see that great brain of his working its machinations as he was either deep in thought or looking around us at the hotel, at the other guests, no doubt piecing together a thought that had just begun to form in my mind: Newbury came to Kerrek House for a reason. The money had to be here somewhere. But where? And who killed him? He must have trusted the person he met at the cliff enough to divulge that secret, or he would still be alive. It only made sense to me that someone, perhaps in Newquay or at the hotel besides Rory Keene, knew Collin Newbury. I couldn’t help but think that was precisely what our new acquaintance wanted us to believe.
Once we introduced ourselves to the police, we were afforded a more judicious freedom than that given the other patrons. And as sometimes happens where man’s pride is concerned, when asked by Holmes if we could be of service in the investigation, we were curtly told by Penhale that we would be the first to be contacted if the investigation ran into any snags—their way of saying, no. With that, we were free to go about our business.
“Well, Watson, it seems celebrity has its certain privileges,” he said with a feigned smugness as we walked back to our rooms. “I believe I shall make that bee symposium, after all,”
“With all that has happened?” I asked. “Are you not going to help Mr. Keene as you said you would?”
“I shall do both. There will be plenty of local enthusiasts at the symposium. I shall gather some unauthorized history of this house and see if that can shed any light on this little holiday mystery. In the meantime, stay with Mr. Keene and make sure he doesn’t catch the eye of the constabulary for any reason. See what else you may be able to glean from him, keeping in mind that he may not have been completely truthful in what he has told us. Keep your friends close, Watson.”
“And your enemies closer,” I finished.
“I do not know that he is an enemy, but that is a reality which, when not correctly established, has been known to be fatal. It’s best to keep him close at hand until I know for certain his word is true.” He turned to go into his room then swung back around animatedly. “Oh yes,” he added, “and if possible, speak to the manager about employees. I would be most curious to know if by chance Newbury knew anyone who worked here. We shall convene later this afternoon when I return, compare notes, and develop a plan of action from there.”
There have always been times in the past where some seeming innocuous diversion from the case-proper served more in the development of a theory than any perceived lack of initiative on the part of Holmes, such as taking in the opera then promptly closing the infamous Marquess of Westminster diamond case. To that end, I no longer questioned my friend when he seemed to lose interest in our prey when it seemed we most needed to hunt. I, for my part, just shook my head in agreement, and Sherlock Holmes disappeared into his room to change into his beekeeper’s outfit.
Within the hour, dressed in his bulky white uniform, his netted hat tucked under his arm, Holmes was in a taxi and on his way into Newquay, leaving Mr. Keene in my, what I had hoped, capable hands.
I waited by the front desk while the rest of the interviews took place. Shortly, the manager found his way to my spot.
“I am truly sorry, Doctor Watson, that you and Mr. Holmes couldn’t even come on holiday without leaving this dreadful business of murder behind,” said he in earnest.
I shrugged in a desultory way. “When you have been friends with Sherlock Holmes for as long as I have, these events take on the expectancy of afternoon tea.”
He offered his hand, and we shook. “I haven’t formally introduced myself. I am Willoughby Jones. I have been the manager at this hotel since its inception, and even being this close to Folly’s End, no one has ever gone over the edge until today.”
Remembering what Holmes had told me, I endeavored to start my own little investigation while he was off attending his bees. “What can you tell me about Mr. Newbury?” I asked.
The man gave a shrug of his shoulders. “If you’ve been around Newbury for more than five minutes, that’s all you need to know about him. He was a horrible peddler, selling horrible clothing, and he seemed to rub just about everyone the wrong way.”
“Yes, we had the misfortune of his sales pitch on the train from London. And he seemed to, as you say, rub your tour guide the wrong way yesterday afternoon.”
Mr. Jones nodded his knowledge of the affair with irritation. “Yes, Mr. Vigus, the tour guide, bemoaned the constant rebarbative blather from Mr. Newbury. Apparently, he also had the audacity to correct him on some minor account of history.”
I cleared my throat with no small amount of embarrassment. “The blathering was certainly coming from Newbury, but the correction came from Sherlock Holmes.”
It was Mr. Jones’s turn for his cheeks to redden. “I must have misunderstood. My apologies. No offense to Mr. Holmes.”
“None taken, I assure you,” I replied, knowing that peoples’ feelings never got in the way of truth when it came to my friend.
“Truth be told,” he went on, “Newbury, ruffled quite a few feathers at dinner last night, as well. His constant nuisance in interrupting people at their meals got to be too much, and I had to ask him to please take his seat for dinner or leave the restaurant.”
“This must have been after our dinner.”
“Yes, he was down late with about fifteen other guests, around half-nine, I think.”
“I would not feel so bad for the man if he could in fact sell one of his suits. Do you know if he had any success?”
Jones shook his head. “From what I saw, he was rebuffed in no uncertain terms on every occasion. Yet it never seemed to bother the man.”
As much as I would have liked to tell Jones that Newbury was a rich man whether he sold a suit or not, I kept that information close to my vest.
Finally, the man said, “I had entertained the hope that he would tire of coming here and move on to other hotels, maybe stay in Newquay. They have a fine hotel there. But for whatever reason, despite his lack of success here, he continued to fancy Kerrek House when he came to Cornwall.”
I was surprised by that statement and strived to get clarification. “So, this was not Newbury’s first time at Kerrek House?”
“Heavens no. This would make his fourth stay in the last year. I only know this because his presence here is neve
r without its struggles.”
“His peddling?”
“Yes.”
“Has he made any acquaintances here? Anyone he has befriended or befriended him?”
“I am sure we all know him by now, but I doubt anyone here would consider him more than an annoyance, surely not a friend, but he does seem to try hard with the ladies on occasion. It might be that, with their comforting dispositions, that someone here might have taken pity on the man.” He ended that statement with a curt chuckle. “But I highly doubt it.”
It was at this point that I saw young Mr. Keene appear from the restaurant. We gave each other a telling look, and I thanked Mr. Jones for his time and followed Keene up to his room.
Once inside, he took a seat on his bed while I sat on the chair at his writing desk.
“So, all went well with the interview?” I asked.
He nodded. “They asked the standard fare—where was I from, why was I here, how long was I staying, did I know Mr., Newbury. I have to assume they will check us all out and soon enough they will know I was lying about knowing him.”
“With as many people as they will have to go through,” I assured him, “it will be some time before they get to you. Hopefully, by then this matter will be well in hand.”
“Well, I would wager they go through the men first, since they could scarcely believe a woman would have the skill with a bow and arrow to strike a man through the back at such a distance. I don’t think, Dr. Watson, that I have as much time as you might expect.”
“What were your directives?” I asked.
Pushing back his hair, he said frustratedly, “We are to remain inside the hotel. In our rooms, in the restaurant, in the library, they didn’t care, but we were under no circumstances to be outside until this matter is resolved.”
“Rest assured, even though he is not here, I know Sherlock Holmes, and he will not let this go until the blackguard is in the docks.”
“Holmes is not here? Where is he?”
I did not wish to aggravate Keene unduly, so I said, “We have been given a bit of a free reign, so Holmes went into Newquay to follow some theories of interest there.”