by J. R. Trtek
“Using one of the torches, I saw that the cupboard contained bottles, oiled silk, fine copper wire, matches, and a stout cardboard box, inside of which was a wooden case. I wrenched the case open and found within a dozen little grey bricks, each a couple of inches square. I took one up in my hand and found that it crumbled easily. Then, after smelling it, I tasted it with my tongue. Now, as a mining engineer, I can recognise lentonite explosive when I encounter it—and this was it. I’d used the stuff in Rhodesia and, knowing its power, was prepared to use it again.”
“You don’t say?” murmured Bullivant. “To blast open the door? Would not that have been extremely risky?”
Hannay looked at Holmes and smiled. “I certainly intended to use it. I had forgotten the proper charge and the right way of preparing it, and I wasn’t sure about the timing, but I knew that if I did nothing, I was a dead man in any case. I remembered the sight of Scudder lying in my smoking room, a knife through his heart. That image decided the matter for me.
“I found detonators in the box, and I took one in order to set things up to blow open the door. Then I paused, for I thought I heard a thud outside. After a moment of quiet, I resumed my preparation and was about to light the fuse when I heard a key in the lock of the door, which then burst open, and I saw a figure silhouetted in the frame.”
“‘Mr. Hannay,’ I called discreetly,” said Sherlock Holmes, continuing the story. “‘Mr. Hannay, come with me!’”
“And so watching the house and its aerodrome paid a dividend at last,” I said.
“Indeed, it did,” Holmes replied.
“If nothing else,” said Hannay, “Mr. Holmes’s fortuitous entrance prevented me from blowing myself to pieces.”71
“There was no guard stationed at the door when you arrived?” Bullivant asked the detective.
“There was no conscious guard after I had arrived,” said Holmes. “I gained entry to the house without notice and then sneaked up behind the man watching Hannay’s door. My application of a quick baritsu stroke rendering the German unconscious was the thud that Hannay heard.”
“And you did not harm yourself in the process?” I enquired.
“From the baritsu stroke? No,” said Holmes with raised brow. “I have kept in practice during my later years, old fellow. In any event, I rapidly introduced myself to Mr. Hannay and urged him to follow me away, when I noticed that he held a burning match in his hand.”
“I called Mr. Holmes’s attention to the lentonite I had set to blast open the doorway,” Hannay interjected. “But, as he had opened the door and the match was burnt almost to my fingers, I shook it out. It was then that we both arrived at the same thought simultaneously.”
“Mr. Hannay fetched another match,” Holmes said, “after we had together set a new, longer fuse. Before he ignited it, I asked that he remove his jacket and leave it in the room, perhaps to be found by the Germans after the explosion and taken as a suggestion that he had not survived the blast. We rushed out the open door, each taking an arm of the guard whom I had rendered unconscious. We pulled him from the house and set him against a wall, presumably safe from the impending explosion, the key to Hannay’s cell once more in his pocket. Then we ran.”
“We had reached a mill lade72 when the blast occurred,” Hannay told us. “I should have been expecting the sound of an explosion but was too intent on fleeing. When the concussion swept over us, I was so taken by surprise that I slipped on the edge of the lade and fell into the water.” He glanced down. “Rather embarrassing, I’m afraid. Even more so, in that I caused Mr. Holmes to stagger as well.”
“I tried to catch Hannay before he tumbled into the lade,” the detective remarked. “I was unsuccessful, and in so doing, further twisted my already injured leg and went down as well, though only my feet broke the surface of the water.
“We were both prostrate now,” Holmes said, “and I saw smoke escaping from an upper window of the house. Confused cries could be heard coming from the other side of the structure. Mr. Hannay quickly climbed from the water—feeling then perhaps a bit refreshed?” he said to the South African.
“Yes,” Hannay admitted. “Despite the situation, the water was wonderfully bracing. But though I was now free, it was apparent that the enemy would shortly be in pursuit. We had to run for our lives.”
“And it was then that I became the sticking point,” said Holmes, “for, with my injured leg now made worse, it was obvious to me that I could not run very fast and thus was a dead weight round Hannay’s neck. I urged him to go on without me.”
“A suggestion I refused to consider,” declared the younger man. “I was determined that it should be both of us or neither.”
“And then I saw an old stone dovecot73 on the far side of the mill,” Holmes went on. “I immediately perceived that it might serve as a hiding place. With my leg as it was, I knew I had no chance to ascend to the top, but it seemed likely that Hannay could manage it, and so I urged him to try. My strategy was that, if he hid atop the dovecot until night and I remained at large, we might later reunite and flee together.”
“But how did you keep yourself free?” asked Bullivant. “You indicated you could not outrun the Germans at that point.”
“The solution will be made clear in a moment, Sir Walter,” said Holmes.
“Climbing that dovecot was one of the hardest jobs I ever took on,” Hannay admitted. “Every joint was aching like hell during the ascent, and more than once I felt on the verge of falling. But by using out-jutting stones and gaps in the masonry, as well as some very tough ivy vines, I got to the top. There I found a little parapet behind which there was space to lie down.”
“I, meanwhile, limped off toward the woods as fast as I could and reached the trees before anyone saw me,” said Sherlock Holmes. “However, it was obvious that any pursuers would overtake me before long. I stumbled to a point near the bee colony I had previously discovered, which fortunately lay near the small stream that ran through the woods. Hearing approaching voices, I stepped into the water and proceeded to lie down, making certain to assume a position in which my bad leg appeared twisted. Then,” the detective said, “I shouted as loudly as possible.”
I gave my friend an admiring look.
“Two men came through the trees,” Holmes related. “I gestured for them to help me up while complaining about how the explosion’s short, sharp shock, as it were, had startled me and caused me to lose my footing and tumble into the stream. Thus did I explain the reason for my feet being wet and my leg injured. At the same time, I thought that by calling to them I might blunt any suspicion I was aiding their fugitive, for the guard I had subdued back at the house had not seen me before I rendered him unconscious.”
“And they believed you?” I said.
“Sadly,” Holmes replied, “though they said they believed my story that I was but a visiting apiarist, they insisted upon taking me back to the house, which by now was a scene of furious activity. A fire had indeed been started by the explosion we had set, but the flames were contained in a short while, and by the time I was settled into a chair at the centre of that very same study into which Mr. Hannay had first wandered, the grounds had been secured.
“Into the room came the elderly man whom Hannay had encountered,” the detective told us. “He was most compassionate toward me, asking about my leg and suggesting that a doctor be called to the house. I demurred, but those objections did not prevent him from insisting that I remain for rest and observation.”
“Do you believe he suspected you to be other than what you claimed to be?” asked Bullivant.
“Oh, of course he did,” Holmes replied. “However, I think he soon appreciated my expert knowledge of bees, and he had his men go off to seek the husband and wife with whom I had been lodging—for I had mentioned them as people who might corroborate my story. Still, there must have been some nagging uncertainty in his mind even then, for he was determined that I should enjoy the care and hospitality of his household fo
r the remainder of the day.
“He gave his name as Alasdair Moncrief and described himself as an archaeologist who had been associated with the expeditions of Schludermann and Gerhardt. The blast, he said, had been the result of accidental detonation of old explosives from a stock that had been used to excavate some cliffs in Asia Minor, and he offered me the comfort of his home for the night—thinking, I believe, that in so doing he might prevent me from assisting Hannay, should his worst suspicions prove true.”
“When did you eventually free yourself of him?” I asked.
“It was not until the following day,” Holmes said. “I was given a room in which to sleep, and two servants were detailed to watch over me and bring me meals, and thus I was not able to rendezvous with our precious refugee that night as planned. Instead, I was kept in bed and observed with great concern—none of it medical.”
“All that afternoon, I lay baking on the rooftop of the dovecot,” Hannay went on, picking up his portion of the story. “Thirst tormented me constantly. My tongue was like a stick, and the worst part of it was that I could hear the cool drip of water from the mill lade below. Watching the course of the stream as it came in from the moor, I thought I would give a thousand pounds for the opportunity to plunge my face into it.
“From that vantage point, though, I also had a fine prospect of the entire surroundings. I saw a car speed away with two occupants, as well as a man riding east on a hill pony and two others go into the woods. I knew they were looking for me at the least, but I also feared for Mr. Holmes.
“I saw them escort him from the stand of firs, and my heart sank. It was then, while casting my eyes about, that I noticed the plateau ringed by trees. The level of the dovecot was such that I could see what lay within: the great oval lawn that served as aerodrome for the monoplane.
“Late that day, when I had convinced myself that I had eluded my pursuers, the aeroplane appeared in the sky—fortunately, not directly overhead. I heard its engine suddenly cut out, and the craft volplaned74 onto the lawn. There were the flashes of lights and sounds of much coming and going from the house. Then night fell.
“The moon was past half and had not yet risen, leaving the early night sky dark. Well into evening, overcome by thirst and hoping for the best, I descended from the top of the dovecot. Mr. Holmes was nowhere to be found, but I decided I could not tarry, and so I crawled on my belly across the grounds in the lee of a stone dyke, till I reached the fringe of trees surrounding the house. Briefly, I considered rendering the monoplane inoperable—”
“An admirable thought,” said Bullivant, “but foolhardy.”
“Yes,” agreed Hannay. “I thought it more prudent to simply be off, and so I continued into the woods on hands and knees, feeling carefully before me every inch of the way. It was well that I did, for presently I came upon a wire about two feet from the ground.”
Sherlock Holmes smiled as he contemplated the South African. “One of the wires I mentioned earlier,” he said. “In our rapid flight from the house before the explosion, I had no time to warn you of it, Mr. Hannay. I compliment you on your cautious observation.”
“If I had tripped over that wire,” Hannay went on, “it would have rung some bell in the house, no doubt, and I would have been caught. There was another such wire a hundred yards farther on, on the edge of that small stream. I avoided it also, and then plunged deep into bracken and heather. Ten minutes later, after quenching my thirst in the stream, I was running at full gallop, putting as many miles as I could between me and that accursed archaeologist with the hooded eyes.”
“But you did not head straight here, for Berkshire,” commented Bullivant.
“No, sir,” replied Hannay. “I couldn’t, for I had left Scudder’s notebook with Mr. Turnbull, the roadman I had impersonated. It and my original garments were presumably safe with him at his cottage, and I realised I would need the notebook if I were to make a convincing case to you or anyone else concerning what the truth was.”
“Yes,” said the spymaster, “of course.”
“I determined to reach Turnbull’s place, aided by a map supplied by your godson, Sir Harry, which I still carried with me. When, at last, I sat down on a hilltop that night and consulted it, however, I realised that by now I was close to twenty miles from the cottage and couldn’t reach it by daybreak.”
“And so you must have found refuge somewhere,” I offered.
“Yes,” answered Hannay. “Just after dawn I came upon a herd’s cottage. He was away, but his old wife was there, and she turned out to be a decent, plucky sort. She offered me a bowl of milk with a dash of whisky in it, and let me sit for a little by her kitchen fire. I’m sure she often cast a glance at an axe that sat in a corner, for I presented quite a fright: I had no jacket, waistcoat, collar, nor hat. My trousers were badly torn, and though I had washed as best I could in a hill burn, my face was still somewhat soiled.
“Still, she took the money I offered in return for her hospitality, and she gave me food and a new plaid, as well as an old hat belonging to her man. She showed me how to wrap the plaid round my shoulders, and when I left that cottage I think I must have been the spitting image of a traditional Scotsman. I found shelter below an overhanging rock in the crook of a burn and slept there until nightfall, when I set out for Turnbull’s cottage. As a second dawn broke, with the mist lying close and thick, I was knocking at his door.”
“An admirable hike,” murmured Sherlock Holmes.
“But if I am keeping track correctly,” Bullivant said, “that still brings us only to a few days ago, not the present.”
“Yes,” replied Hannay. “You see, during my youth in Africa, I contracted malaria and have suffered recurrent bouts of the disease ever since. By the time I reached Turnbull’s cottage, I was feeling a good deal of fever in my bones—perhaps it was my night journey in damp weather, but whatever the reason, the ailment had chosen to reassert itself within me.
“Turnbull recognised at once that I was ill and immediately put me to bed. The roadman nursed me for days, and even after the fever broke, I found it took me some time to get my legs again.” He clasped his hands together. “And by that time, Mr. Holmes had found me a second time.”
Bullivant and I turned toward the detective.
“Moncrief, the archaeologist, kept me in his house through that first night and then allowed me to depart the next day, once he was convinced I was who I claimed to be. He even said he would have a man convey me to Dumfries in a motor, an offer I readily accepted.
“It was there that I learned, though discreet enquiry, that a government man had recently left the town after surveying the district for the location of a new RFC aerodrome,” Holmes wryly noted.
I shrugged, and the detective continued.
“Though my stay with Moncrief had prevented me from rendezvousing with Hannay, it had enabled me to observe the house and draw conclusions about its possible function as a headquarters for German spies. We will discuss that, perhaps, later tonight or tomorrow, Sir Walter,” he told Bullivant.
“Of course,” said the spymaster. “I believe that, at present, my principal interest is how you latched onto Hannay again.”
“Well, it was not that difficult,” said Holmes, “though it did take some little effort.” The detective took a deep breath and crossed his arms. “I had had but a few brief minutes in Hannay’s company between opening the door to his cell and leaving him to climb to the top of the dovecot. However, in that short span, I had taken stock of several features of interest.
“Stripped, as it were, of coat and jacket, and without baggage of any sort, he clearly did not possess Scudder’s notebook,” declared my friend. “That meant he must have deposited it elsewhere, at a location from which he could later retrieve it. Then too, there was the state of his hands, visible when we set the second fuse.
“I was most unmindful of yours the other week, Watson,” he said to me, “as my brother noted with undisguised glee. This time, I mad
e certain I was not so careless. I had seen that the edges of Mr. Hannay’s fingernails were cracked and uneven, to such an extent that I could not believe their condition to be due merely to his scrambling about in the wild. Instead, their appearance suggested that he had, on purpose, recently been scraping them against rocks and pebbles. Then there were the accumulations of white dust on his clothing, artefacts I immediately associated with the local macadam roads. Placing the two observations side by side, I concluded he had been engaged in some type of road work.”
“Yes,” said Hannay. “My stint in place of Mr. Turnbull.”
“It was all I had to begin my search, but I determined to find all instances of current road repair in the county,” Holmes said. “It took me the better part of a day to track down a road surveyor, to whom I posed as a correspondent for Baedeker75 seeking information about local turnpikes, and he supplied me with everything I wished to learn about ongoing building and maintenance in the area. Indeed, he was about to make rounds of inspection in a motor and invited me to join him. I suspect he came to regret that gracious offer, for at every stop I made a thorough survey of the immediate surroundings.
“It was during the fifth such episode that I came upon Hannay’s Mr. Turnbull, feverishly pounding rock into pebbles. I engaged the man in discreet conversation and, after assuring him of my true identity and purpose, learned that he harboured Hannay in his home. Bidding the road surveyor farewell, I hiked to the cottage and came upon our friend, still in bed but largely recovered from his bout of malaria.”
“Yes, Mr. Turnbull said I had been ill for ten days when you arrived,” the South African said.
“And you had already done a marvellous job of deciphering a small but crucial portion of the American’s text,” remarked Holmes. “I spent another day in Turnbull’s cottage completing a bit more. It is a trove of data,” he told Bullivant. “Still, many more pages still need to be translated.”