The Adventure of the Spanish Drums

by Martin Daley

  “Did you suspect any theft at the time?”

  “Well, to be honest sir, everything happened so fast. There was a lot of activity once I had raised the alarm but my only concern at the time was for Private Walker. It was only after that he had been taken to hospital that anything other than an attack by a bunch of drunkards occurred to me. I suggested to Major Young that it could have been otherwise. ‘You are in enough trouble, without causing more, Private,’ he said.”

  I glanced at Holmes; mindful of our meeting with the rather supercilious officer earlier that day, but his expression did not betray his thoughts. He simply informed the soldier, “I have spoken to Colonel Hulme and he has agreed to draw a line under the incident, given that it was a regular occurrence. He is more interested in the recovery of the drums than the punishment of his men.”

  “That’s very kind of you sir, I’m sure the lads will appreciate it.”

  “Now I would like you to take us to the Infirmary to visit your colleague, I have cleared such a visit with Colonel Hulme.”

  “Certainly sir, I appreciate that. I’d like to see him myself, although they tell me he’s still in a bad way.”

  “Perhaps you could show us exactly where you found Walker on the way,” suggested Holmes.

  The three of us walked across the square in the fading late afternoon light and Private Nixon pointed out to us the aforementioned toilet block. As we stood close to the single step he turned, pointed and said, “I came round the corner over there about half past five last Wednesday morning. It was still dark and as I came closer I saw a dark shape draped across this step. I thought at first it was an old coat but as I got closer I saw it was a man. It crossed my mind that an old tramp had sneaked in past Jack looking for shelter. But as I came to here” – he strode over to a particular point – “I saw the blood and the uniform; it was clear to me then that it was me mate.”

  “How exactly was Walker lying?” asked Holmes.

  Nixon illustrated how his colleague was found by getting down on all fours and sprawling himself across the step, “He was lying” like this,” he said, “with his legs inside the block and his upper body slouched outside.”

  “There must have been a considerable amount of blood,” I ventured.

  “Aye, there was Doctor. It was not only running down this gully to the drain down there, but there was quite a bit inside the block itself.”

  “That is most informative and quite suggestive,” said Holmes. “Now could I propose that we make our way to see you colleague in hospital?”

  We caught a tram opposite the castle for the half-mile or so, to the Cumberland Infirmary. Reporting to the reception area we were shown to the wing of the hospital where the injured soldier was. Private Nixon introduced us both and himself to a rather large, officious sister, who was obviously in charge of the ward. She informed us that Walker had shown some signs of improvement, as he had intermittently regained consciousness, during the past few hours. I asked her about his injuries and she explained that the skull had been fractured and an intracranial haematoma had been sustained in the attack.

  “What’s that?” asked Nixon.

  “There was bleeding at the back of the head,” I explained, indicating the area referred to at the rear of my own head.

  “You can stay for a while gentlemen, but it is essential that the patient continues to rest,” she said as she led us to his bedside.

  A woman – obviously the patient’s wife – was sitting by his bedside, clearly distressed by her husband’s condition.

  “Hello Rache,” said Nixon, kissing the woman gently on the cheek, “how’s he doing?”

  “Still in a bit of a state,” replied the sobbing Mrs. Walker. “These gentlemen have come from London. They’re trying to catch the buggers that did it.”

  After Nixon’s introduction, Holmes spoke: “Forgive our intrusion madam, we will not stay long.”

  The sight of his friend and colleague, who was still bruised around the face and heavily bandaged, to protect the main wound at the back of the head, visibly shook Nixon. After a few minutes of standing over the patient, Walker appeared to be entering one of the semi-conscious periods the nurse had referred to earlier. He started to moan very lightly. Nixon started, and leaned forward. “Jackie, boy? It’s Nico. How you feeling mate?” The crassness of his question almost immediately dawned on the soldier and this appeared to compound the discomfort he was already feeling through his pangs of guilt.

  “Ask your friend if he could identify his attackers,” Holmes said to Nixon.

  “Jackie, can you remember anything about when you were bashed?” he said leaning close to Walker’s ear. The latter continued to produce a barely audible moan. “He’s trying to speak,” said Nixon as he bent over still further until his ear was almost touching Walker’s mouth.

  “Can you make it out?” I asked, as I detected the injured man making a different sound.

  Nixon screwed his face up as he strained still further to make out what was being attempted, “CH?” he said to himself, “Of course! Rache, he’s calling for his wife Rachel. Don’t worry mate,” he continued, re-addressing his friend, “she’s right here.” He stood aside and allowed Mrs. Walker to lean over her husband.

  “Jack?” she questioned. It seemed his drifting into semi-consciousness disturbed the poor woman even more.

  “I must ask you to leave now gentlemen. You are tiring Mr. Walker out.” We turned to find the sister approaching.

  “Thank you for allowing our visit,” said Holmes courteously. “Nixon, we must leave now.”

  The soldier took a longing look at his colleague and clasped his hand, “See you mate, I’ll be back tomorrow.” He kissed Mrs. Walker on the cheek once more, and we left to return to the castle, with our companion in an even more sombre mood than when we arrived, if that were possible. It was clear that his particular internal demons were having fun with their custodian at this time.

  Upon our arrival at the regimental headquarters, we went our separate ways; Nixon returning to his barrack room, while Holmes and I strolled back along Castle Street to our lodgings after what I felt was a long and eventful day. As we walked, I told Holmes about my encounter in Victoria Park. He was most interested to learn of my conversation with old Mr. Scott and indicated that it may be worth paying him a visit.

  “Surely the old man doesn’t know anything about the robbery?” I asked.

  “I would wager he has more information than even he realises,” replied Holmes as we stepped from the street into the entrance of our hostelry.

  Chapter Five - A Mystery Solved

  After a light breakfast the following morning, I accompanied Holmes to the town hall to inspect the scene of the burglary Sergeant Smith had referred to the previous afternoon.

  The building itself was opposite our lodgings and as we climbed the dozen or so steps to the entrance, the elderly doorman afforded us a courteous welcome.

  “Good morning gentleman, you will be the gentlemen from London. My name is Wilson. Inspector Armstrong notified us of your visit. Would you like some refreshment before you carry out you inspection?”

  “Thank you, no” said Holmes. “I am only interested in the areas that were visited by the thieves.”

  I got the impression that poor old Wilson did not receive many visitors and he was quite excited about our interest in the break-in. I must say however that I appreciated his welcoming manner and my opinion of the local constabulary improved somewhat with the knowledge that the sergeant was as good as his word in informing his superior of our request, who in turn had obviously notified the local government office of our intended visit.

  The doorman called over a colleague to take over his duties while he offered to show us the areas specified. He took us down into the basement area that had been the burglars’ entry point. The soft putty and unpainted window frame was evidence enough of the repair work that followed their forced entry.

  “They then forced the door
to the stairs we have just descended,” explained Wilson, “and went up to the council offices, again forced the door and unscrewed the plaque from the wall of the main chamber. I assume they then retraced their steps and left the way the entered.”

  “Tell me,” said Holmes, “has this theft been reported in the local press?”

  “It was associated with the theft at the castle in Monday night’s paper sir,” replied Wilson.

  “And this theft took place on Saturday night,” Holmes added to himself. “That could be important. Tell me, where is the police station?”

  “Left at the bottom of the steps sir and straight down Scotch Street.”

  “Thank you for your help Wilson; a very good morning to you.”

  As we descended the exterior steps of the building I sensed Holmes was troubled by what he had learned. “Perhaps we have been a little unfair on our official colleagues. It may well be that these two crimes are connected. Perhaps however, if they furnished us with all the evidence, we could make a balanced judgement. I think we should pay them a visit to discuss the matter further.”

  We followed the directions given by the doorman and found ourselves standing in front of the uniformed desk sergeant, in the reception area of the police station, within ten minutes.

  “Good morning, Sergeant, my name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend and colleague Doctor Watson. I wonder if you would be so good as to inform Inspector Armstrong that we wish to see him.”

  I could see by the poor man’s face that he recognised our names but at the same time could not believe our presence; he peered at us as if we were characters from one of Monsieur Verne’s science fiction novels. I took it from his reaction that our involvement in the case was not common knowledge around the police station. After a moment or two the sergeant stirred from his semi-trance and disappeared down a corridor. Some minutes later his colleague Smith, who we had met the previous afternoon appeared and showed us to an adjacent waiting room. “Inspector Armstrong will be with us shortly gentlemen,” he said, and added, “he just had to nip out,” without further elaboration.

  Holmes sat in silence, with knitted brow, clearly troubled by something. I almost had the impression that he had underestimated the task at hand as his confident manner had all but left him. After waiting for a few minutes, a man of medium height with a large moustache entered the room.

  “Good morning gentlemen,” he said without any suggestion of superiority, “I am Cornelius Armstrong, I’m delighted to meet you. My apologies for having to send my sergeant to speak with you at the castle yesterday but I was otherwise engaged.”

  The policeman removed his coat and bowler hat. His piercing blue eyes shone out with the eagerness of a man half his age, and with the fervour of intense dedication to his chosen profession. Unlike our meeting with his colleague the previous day, I took an instant liking to the man.

  “We appear to have a development,” continued the policeman reaching in his pocket and producing a piece of paper. “This was left on the front desk anonymously this morning.”

  Holmes took the paper, read it and handed it to me. I read it out loud “‘Call yourselves detectives? You lot couldn’t catch a cold. Try the Cathedral later this week. See you then, or maybe not!’ The damned effrontery of them!” I said, as I handed the note back to the Inspector.

  “What do you make of it, Mr. Holmes?” said the policeman who, unlike his subordinate, appeared to welcome my friend’s help.

  “It is difficult to say at this stage. I certainly did not anticipate this chain of events. One thing I do know Inspector is that we must work together, if we are going to solve these crimes.” I was clear Holmes was referring to Sergeant Smith’s attitude the day before.

  “I assure you Mr. Holmes that if you and the Doctor consent to help solve these thefts, you will receive our full help and support.”

  As the Inspector was speaking there came great commotion from the front desk. I heard the desk sergeant shouting, “You can’t bring that thing in here, we’ve just ‘ad the floor cleaned!”

  We all went out to see what the fuss was all about. In the middle of the front office stood a tall, well built man – a farmer apparently, judging by his dress. In his right hand, hung down by his side, he held a large wooden slab that almost reached the floor. The cause of the sergeant’s consternation was the condition of the piece of timber. Not only was it dripping wet, it was also covered in a soggy moss and river weed, that was dripping on to the floor of the front office and consequently turning it green by the second.

  “The lad found this in the beck on me farm,” said the man, in an accent even broader than that of our host Mr. Graham. To the sergeant’s further distress, he then lobbed the item of interest onto the desk, sending papers flying and splattering everything in a three-foot radius with sticky emerald slime. Holmes all of a sudden sprang forward and, without a thought for the appearance or the condition of his overcoat, swept the surface slime from the wooden plate with his forearm. As he did so, names and dates started to appear.

  “Well I never,” ejaculated Inspector Armstrong, as we looked on, “it’s the Town Hall plaque!”

  Holmes addressed the farmer. “You said your son found this Mr.?”

  “Jennings. Yeah, that’s right. Only this morning”. I have a farm over the river in Etterby village”

  “I would like to speak with the lad, if that is possible.”

  “Aye, he’s in the cart outside, I’ll just get him. BOY!” he hollered out of the main entrance door. A young lad of about eleven or twelve came running into the station. “Gentleman here wants to ask you about the plaque.”

  Although he appeared a rough and ready character, it is clear Jennings had raised the lad well, as he took off his cap in respect, as Holmes addressed him. “Is there anything you can tell me about this plaque, my young fellow?”

  “No sir,” said the lad. “I was tekkin’ the dog out this morning and found it in the beck. I know it’s a state but it was sitting near the top, so it can’t have been there long.”

  “Did you see anyone in the area, who may have disposed of the plaque there?”

  “No sir, though I saw a couple a strangers last night. Milling about.”

  “You never said out!” interjected that lad’s father.

  Holmes waved away Jennings interruption. “What did they look like?” he asked the boy.

  “Well, one was a big darkie, sir. I’ve never seen anybody that big before! His mate was much smaller, he “ad a bad arm an” leg.”

  “What?” questioned Holmes.

  “Aye, he kept his arm close into his side and dragged his foot like this.” The boy supported his narrative by acting the role of a cripple – hunched, and hobbling back and forth in the reception area of the police station.

  At this Holmes appeared frozen to the spot. Everyone in the room stared at the consulting detective, before he himself broke the silence with an enormous roar of laughter. It took him some minutes to compose himself before he said, “My, my, they are a long way from home! Mind you I do applaud their sense of opportunism.” With that he gave the boy a shilling and shook his father by the hand, thanking them both for their help.

  As the two left, Armstrong said “Mr. Holmes I am at a loss to see what is so funny. And who, exactly are a long way from home?” I must confess I was pleased the Inspector asked this, as it was usually left to me to ask such questions, only to be left looking rather foolish by Holmes’s answers.

  “Well,” started my friend, “I am pleased to say our investigations are back on track. But I am afraid gentlemen that you are in the presence of a complete imbecile. I have been as blind as a beetle.” Seeing the collective puzzlement on the faces of the three policemen, and myself Holmes continued, “I do not believe the thefts at the castle and the town hall are connected gentlemen. I think opportunists committed the latter of these two break-ins as a smoke screen to their main aim. Perhaps I could explain fully over some refreshment?”
r />   “But surely we should act quickly if we have made progress,” I protested.

  “Later, my dear fellow. There will be no further developments in either case for at least thirty six hours.”

  “Thirty six hours?” repeated Armstrong, “if something is going to happen over the next couple of days, I need to know about it Mr. Holmes, as it could compromise the visit of Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman, the leader of the Liberal Party, who is visiting the city tomorrow. He will be arriving in early evening and giving a speech at the town hall, before returning to London on the sleeper. Security needs to be tight and I can ill afford to have men elsewhere on something that may or may not happen.

  “If we take the necessary precautions, your dignitary’s visit should not be affected. Perhaps I could explain fully in your office,” suggested my friend.

  Inspector Armstrong showed us to his office and instructed the sergeant to bring some coffee. Holmes, having shouldered out of his – by now almost ruined – overcoat, went to light a cigarette. “I do have some cigars, if you would prefer,” said the Inspector.

  “We are not home and dry yet,” replied Holmes, “but why not a little self indulgence.” We each took a cigar from the box offered by the policeman, just as the desk sergeant came in with a tray on which sat three mugs and a pot of appetisingly rich scented coffee. I took the liberty of pouring the liquid refreshment for all present and then addressed my friend.