I attempted to do the calculation in my head but Alex, counting them off on his fingers, was quicker and suddenly exclaimed, “April fifth... Tomorrow!”
Holmes held up his hand to admonish our host’s raised voice and replied, “Indeed, sir. There are some other factors I wish to bring to your attention later, but for now, content yourself to know that tomorrow, you will have a second chance at your adventure.”
Chapter VII
The three of us rode back to Falgreen together, Alex and I in anxious anticipation of Holmes’s revelations, he as calm as any gentleman out for an afternoon ride. Upon arrival, we retired to the library, where Holmes lit up his briarwood pipe and settled into a wingback chair.
Once brandies were poured all around, Holmes again took on the role of instructor and explained his thought process. Leaning back in his chair, he gestured with his pipe stem to emphasize his points.
“The first thing we must realise,” said he, “is the amount of money we are talking about. Surely to raise an army would require several hundred pounds. There was no paper currency in those times, so we are talking about possibly thousands of coins, mostly groats and placks, I should think. That will amount to significant weight, so it would likely be split amongst several containers. That would require a fairly large space. Not really something you would want to bury in the ground and not have readily available should war be declared. No, your ancestor would want someplace he could get to without digging, and to be able to store the containers away from the elements so that they would neither rot nor rust.”
“So instead of a gravesite, we should have found a vault or mausoleum,” I stated.
“Aye, that sounds logical, Johnny,” said my old comrade in arms. “But there be no vaults or mausoleums in the cemetery of the old kirk. We’ve a mausoleum here within the castle walls, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot see how Roderick’s instructions could have led us to that.”
“They would not,” agreed Holmes. “Your instincts were correct in your interpretation as far as it went. But with a new date, and thus a new position of the sun at dawn, there is another area of the old kirk much more suitable to your quest.”
“But there be nothing there but the old stone steps and foundation walls. There’s no place to hide several containers of coins.”
“I believe there is, Mr. Sinclair,” said Holmes, with an air of confidence. “At any rate, I should like to propose that we arise with the dawn tomorrow and follow the directions as before. We’ve nothing to lose but an hour or so worth of work, and certainly much to gain if I’m right.”
It was agreed, and early the next morning found Holmes and I atop the tower and Alex once again near the old kirk, but this time farther to the south. When the sun reached its appropriate spot, I signaled our host with the flags as before and then we rode out to meet him.
The shadow had fallen at the top of the old stone steps on the bannister rail nearest the castle. The bannisters were nearly a foot thick and smoothly worn by the weather of three centuries. But there were faint engravings all along them. Having backed down the steps as did Isaiah’s shadow on the steps of Ahaz, we found ourselves looking at an engraving of St. Andrews cross on the bannister.
“By God, Holmes!” cried Alex, “It couldn’t be much clearer that we are on the right track this time.”
Holmes had waited down at ground level and pointed at the wall below the bannister. There, roughly eighteen inches below where we stood, was an ancient bronze ring, once used for tying off a horse of a parishioner, no doubt.
“I believe this ring is your circle, Mr. Sinclair. If we dig out the dirt which has piled up against the side, we may find that turning it halfway will open a passageway.”
We all put our backs to digging out the windswept dirt which had been deposited by the sea breezes. When we reached what appeared to be the bottom, we set our tools down. Alex looked at each of us hesitantly and then said, “Well, here she goes then.”
With both hands he grasped the ring and attempt to turn it. It refused to budge and his face reddened dangerously. I was about to order him to stop when Holmes reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“I anticipated something like this. Wait just a moment.” He walked to his horse and retrieved what appeared to be a railway engineer’s oil can. Methodically, he squirted oil all around the shaft holding the ring, then ran his shovel handle through the ring itself, holding it in place until Alex could grasp it. With the added leverage and the advantage of the oil soaking the ancient joint, the ring slowly began to turn. At the halfway point Alex proclaimed he felt a noticeable movement of some mechanism within. Together, the three of us put our weight to what we perceived to be a door and it gave way, slowly at first, then suddenly flinging itself wide. The former Lieutenant and I found ourselves upon the floor. The sun was bearing in brightly from behind us, but our own shadows made it difficult to see into the corners. Holmes brought forth torches from his pannier, and soon we found ourselves staring at six large iron chests in a room that was the same ten foot depth that the stairway was wide. The ceiling sloped at the same angle as the stairs and all of us had to stoop once inside. Each chest was bound by a heavy padlock, but my flatmate produced a set of lock picks and soon had them all open.
One was completely empty and another only half full. Obviously, these were meant for more funds to come which never arrived. The other four were filled with brass boxes weighing nearly ten pounds each and each box was filled with ancient Scottish coins.
Alex dipped his hands into one of the boxes and ran his fingers through the gold, silver, and copper coins. “Ye found it, Mr. Holmes! Yer a genius of the first water, by God!”
* * *
The question now, of course, became what to do with the money chests? The full ones each contained six of those brass boxes, so that was sixty pounds plus the weight of the chest itself. It would take two men to lift each one without risking serious back injury. Then of course where should we take them? Were they safer right here, or should we remove them to somewhere within the castle walls? Eventually they would have to be appraised to have their value redeemed. Would a bank accept such ancient coinage? Were they more valuable as artifacts than their actual monetary designation? Should a university or museum be contacted? Would the government get involved? Would the church make a claim?
Having raised so many questions within just the few minutes which the three of us pondered there, Alex finally made a decision. He took one box from the half-full chest and loaded it upon his horse. We resealed the chamber and shoveled dirt back along the front. Holmes used his canteen to make up a paste of mud to rub into the crack of the door. He also wiped away the excess oil around the ring and splayed dirt around it to make it appear as if it hadn’t been moved.
With everything back to its normal appearance, we returned to Falgreen. Having forgone breakfast, Mrs. Sheffield had to be convinced to provide us with tea and biscuits, with the promise that she would not need to prepare lunch, since we would be in town.
Having taken on sustenance, we changed into more suitable attire and took the coach into Gretna Green. Our first stop was the office of Alex’s solicitor, where my friend laid out his situation. Next was to the local branch of the Royal Bank of Scotland, where Alex emptied the contents of his brass box into a safety deposit box, keeping out a handful of samples to use to make further inquiries.
Finally, he dropped us at the café for lunch, excusing himself to go and visit his fiancée, Miss Lamont, to tell her the exciting news.
As we enjoyed a robust meal, such as can only be found in small, family-run establishments and never duplicated by the fanciest of restaurants, I thanked Holmes profusely for his assistance to my friend.
“It was simplicity itself, Watson,” he replied, waving his fork dismissively. “As soon as you told me the date of the document, I knew your friend had dug in the wron
g place. Logic, of course, dictated that the money would not be buried, but rather secreted in some hideaway where it was easily accessible.”
I nodded, then asked, “But if he wanted easy accessibility, why would Roderick not keep the treasury within the castle walls? Wasn’t he taking a risk in secreting them outside his fortifications?”
Holmes shook his head, “It was actually quite brilliant. If the castle were ever overrun by the enemy, forcing him to escape, he could get away quickly. He could then retrieve the money from the kirk for the Scottish army that would be raised to retake the castle.”
“I imagine his faith was also a factor,” I posed. “He was obviously a religious man and probably felt that God would protect his funds for his righteous cause.”
“No doubt,” responded Holmes, quaffing his ale. “And for three centuries it has been done. Now, at last, the money will be used for a more peaceful purpose.”
I raised my glass in salute and agreed, “Amen to that!”
NOTE
Since there is no future reference to Watson becoming wealthy, it is speculated that between government claims and legal fees, Alexander Sinclair was either forced to turn over the funds, or left with so little that Watson’s share was insignificant.
1 Hogmanay is the Scots word for the last day of the year and is synonymous with the celebration of the New Year in the Scottish manner. It is normally followed by further celebration on the morning of New Year’s Day. There are many customs, both national and local, associated with Hogmanay. The most widespread national custom is the practice of first-footing, which starts immediately after midnight. This involves being the first person to cross the threshold of a friend or neighbour, and often involves the giving of symbolic gifts such as salt (less common today), coal, shortbread, whisky, and black bun (a rich fruit cake), intended to bring different kinds of luck to the householder. Food and drink (as the gifts) are then given to the guests. This may go on throughout the early hours of the morning and well into the next day. The first-foot is supposed to set the luck for the rest of the year.
The Helverton Inheritance
by David Marcum
On that particular Saturday in October 1883, I nearly reached a crisis. Looking around those rooms that I had shared with Sherlock Holmes for over two-and-three-quarters of a year, I was hard-pressed to find either a single object of my own that wasn’t covered or crowded or obscured by some criminal relic, and there wasn’t a single empty space upon which to lay an additional item of my own, should I have desired to do so.
Perhaps my frustration was not wholly due to the overwhelming state of the sitting room that I had just entered upon that brassy afternoon. I had recently concluded one of several tedious consecutive days as a locum for a doctor on holiday from his practice near St. Pancras Station, and I was facing another bleak week of the same until his return. Every physician’s office cultivates a certain ambiance, as the French so aptly put it, and the professional abode of Dr. Weaver was singularly constructed to weary a man’s soul, consisting of plain and rather dark rooms without windows, frequent train-related rumblings - some obvious and others almost below one’s awareness, except for an unsettled feeling in one’s bones from arrivals and departures at the nearby station - and most of all a set of patients who were decidedly unfriendly toward this poor doctor who had agreed to treat them while their regular physician was pursuing his own likely prurient interests along the French coast.
It was with a day of this experience as my foundational basis that I returned to Baker Street in the mid-afternoon, with only the desire to put my feet up at the fire, sip a generous restorative, and lose myself in a novel of high adventure set upon the sea. Instead, I opened the door to find the sitting room especially avalanched, if that may be used as a word, under mounds of paper, stacked hither and yon across the path to my chair, which itself held a stack of books so high and skewed that I feared its imminent collapse into the fire.
Oblivious to what he had caused, for it could only have been caused by him, was my friend Sherlock Holmes, curled into his own chair opposite my own, some sort of document held close before his face, catching the last of the afternoon light from the west-facing window behind him. He looked far younger at that moment than his twenty-nine years and I, only about a year-and-a-half older then he, suddenly felt like a middle-aged parent who had returned home to find that a sheepish little Johnny or Mary had spent the afternoon making mud pies upon the carpets.
Even as I planted my feet, afraid to try and cross that battlefield of papers before me and preparing to roar at my flatmate, he looked up with that enthusiasm of old, while waving the document this way and that.
“Morgan’s palimpsest!” he cried. “I’ve cracked it! We only need to journey out to Hornchurch, and then a little pick-and-shovel work should set the matter right as quick as the greyhound’s mouth, to borrow a bit from the Bard.”
I had been prepared to list grievances, and they were still on my tongue, but they turned to ashes and, with a sigh, I let them run away. Instead, I counted to three and then stated, “That’s good news for Morgan, then. Have you let him know?”
“Not yet. I only just now understood the puzzle in the moments before you arrived. I have spent the afternoon...” He trailed off, looking around the room at the dunes and drifts of paper. Having been there upon previous occasions when he discovered a trail and set off where it would take him, I knew how such a mess of stacked books and scattered documents could occur. When Holmes perceived a connection, he would search and shift and sort while following the elusive fact until he found the way to the next, and so on. Only after the prey had been run to earth, so to speak, would the fever slowly dissipate, and he would peer around, as he was doing now, realizing just what his quest had wrought.
He smiled ruefully, set the palimpsest aside on his little octagonal table, uncurled from the chair, and leapt to his feet. “My dear fellow,” he said, taking a few steps to my chair and effortlessly lifting a nearly three-foot stack of volumes before pivoting with them toward our dining table. “I do apologize.” Setting the books down upon the tabletop, he ran his hands from bottom to top to align them, and then made his way to the sideboard. “A brandy, perhaps? Or no. I should think a whisky will do.” He began to pour while I was left to navigate through the papers on the floor.
So after only a minor delay, I was finally ensconced in my chair, a fine old friend that I had bought from a used furniture dealer in nearby Dorset Street within a day of first moving to Baker Street. I tried not to sigh audibly with satisfaction, a reaction made more tempting as I received my curative beverage. In the meantime, Holmes turned his attention to the herding of his papers, gradually combining and collapsing the stacks until they were replaced from whence they had come, even as he explained the process that had led to his understanding of the message on the document that Morgan had brought ‘round only that morning - a solution that would mean rescue from penury to the gruff old man and his two worthy granddaughters.
I only half-listened, wondering how I would get out of a planned day at Doctor Weaver’s practice in order to accompany Holmes to Hornchurch, to participate in what could only be described as a treasure hunt. It was a bit awkward, asking someone else to serve as a locum for me, while I was already acting as locum, but I’d done it before. It crossed my mind, as it sometimes did, that someday, when my health was finally as good as it was going to get and I found a full-time practice of my own, I would have to discover a way to force myself to stay there every day, facing the same progression of tedious illnesses that would shuffle in and wander out of my premises with the monotonous regularity of a ticking clock. I took a sip of good whisky to chase away the thought, and that is when the doorbell rang.
Holmes glanced up from the midst of his task, a familiar gleam in his eye. We heard the sound of conversation below as Mrs. Hudson answered the door, and then steady
footsteps climbing the stairs. Holmes just had time to put the substantial stack of papers in his hand upon a desk - my desk - and straighten his dressing gown. Then, following a knock at the sitting room door and, with Holmes’s bid to enter, we were faced by a stranger, a young man in his mid-twenties, not much younger than Holmes or me.
I stood while Holmes spoke a greeting, directing the distraught-looking fellow to the basket chair directly facing the fire. I questioned whether he would join us in a whisky, perhaps, or something else. He declined and, with all of us seated, he began to speak.
“Thank you for the gracious welcome, gentlemen.” He looked from one of us to the other. “I apologize for arriving without an appointment. I was returning to town, following the events of last night, and I fear that I allowed myself to become indiscreet upon the train, as I felt the need to discuss what happened with someone. Fortunately, I found myself sharing a compartment with a policeman returning to London from some business of his own, and he suggested that you might be able to shed a bit of light upon my dilemma.”
“And this policeman was...?” asked Holmes.
“I believe he said that his name was Youghal, if I’m recalling it correctly.”
Holmes nodded. “Indeed. He is an inspector, and quite competent, in his own way.” Turning to me, Holmes said, “He must be returning from that business in Exbourne. No doubt we’ll receive a report shortly.”
Holmes then gave our visitor an appraising glance, and I knew that he was seeing quite a bit that I’d likely miss. However, as I’d studied my friend’s methods for a while now, I could recognize some of the more obvious things, including the fact that the man in our basket chair was a left-handed bachelor with a penchant for lime hair cream, someone with an office job requiring that he do a great deal of writing, perhaps in a law office, and with a nervous disposition.
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX Page 10