The Adventure of the Spanish Drums

by Martin Daley

  Not altogether convinced about Holmes’s assumption and without sharing his confidence, I went down and saw Mrs. Graham, who kindly agreed to make us a sandwich at short notice.

  A few minutes later, Billy came up carrying a tray, “There you go, gentleman, a couple of me mam’s best doorsteps!”

  The ‘doorsteps’ were indeed of finest quality and most welcome fare. We consumed them with great enthusiasm and washed them down with the pot of coffee that accompanied them. Upon completion of our early evening meal, we made our way to the railway station, where a tight security cordon made up of uniform officers met us.

  “Sorry sir,” said a heavily built young officer, addressing Holmes, “no one beyond this point.”

  Inspector Armstrong appeared from the entrance to the station. “Let them through Constable,” he shouted at his subordinate, “they’re on our side!”

  “Good evening Armstrong, how are your preparations going?” asked Holmes as we approached.

  “Terrible – as if I haven’t got enough to worry about!” replied the policeman. “I shall be glad when our visitor is safely back on the train heading for London. Do you see these characters from London anywhere Mr. Holmes?”

  “No,” replied Holmes glancing round casually at the ever- increasing crowd. “You could not fail to spot Mr. Bennett yourself; he is such a distinctive character. As for his associate, I do not think he will be concerning himself with local, or even national politics at this time.”

  “We saw the report in this evening’s paper referring to the Irish activists,” said the policeman. “I must say the lads and I are pretty nervous about it. The last thing I want is some clandestine assassination attempt made on such a distinguished character.”

  “Calm yourself Inspector,” countered my friend, smiling at me as his assumptions about Armstrong’s thought process had been proved accurate, “there is no need to be so dramatic, I do not believe that will happen. I think you will find the story to be the proverbial ‘red herring’. I am more concerned that it is buying the thieves of the Arroyo Drums more time to make their escape. Alas, until I receive a reply to the telegram I send earlier, we are not in a position to do a great deal.”

  Before Armstrong could reply or I could question Holmes about his theory, there was some activity from within the station entrance.

  “What is it?” questioned the Inspector, to a group of uniformed railway personnel.

  “Sir Henry’s train is slightly early,” replied one, “it’ll be on the platform in a minute or two.”

  As the brief conversation was taking place, a carriage that displayed the city’s crest on its door pulled up and, rather hurriedly, out stepped a figure dressed in a scarlet cloak with an ermine collar, and a gold link chain draped around his shoulders. His female companion – clad in similar attire – in like manner did not wait for the door to be opened for her as she alighted on the other side of the carriage.

  “Mr. Mayor; Lady Mayoress,” said Armstrong, saluting as they hastily shot past. The Inspector then looked up to some men he had stationed on the roof of an adjacent hotel, placed there to ensure the rest of his men were in their correct positions and alert to any danger that may occur.

  Holmes remained close to the entrance of the station looking quite relaxed about the whole operation. I had the impression he had little interest in the arrival of the VIP but simply agreed to attend out of deference to his professional colleague.

  A few minutes later the local dignitaries re-appeared with the impressive figure, I recognised as Sir Henry Campbell- Bannerman, leader of The Liberal Party. As they appeared there was a muffled cheer of acknowledgement from the crowd that loosely lined the cobbled courtyard that naturally measured some fifty yards square in front of the station.

  I myself was quite impressed by Sir Henry, having seen him give a speech some twelve months earlier on the merits of forging closer links with our European neighbours after the disastrous prices we had paid in both human and economic terms, as a result of our participation in the South African war.

  The party of local and national dignitaries waved from the entrance of the station and posed as a photographer had set his camera up on a tripod between them and the carriage. Standing on the other side of the square, I saw the look of horror on the face of Inspector Armstrong as he watched the photographer preparing his work. Moments later there was a loud cheer from the crowd as the dull ‘whoof’ of the camera, accompanied by a flash of light and a small explosion of smoke that rose into the darkening sky, signified the successful taking of the picture. The look of relief on the policeman’s face was palpable; it was clear the detective was on edge. Already fearing some criminal activity disrupting the occasion, he obviously saw the photographic picture opportunity as an ideal moment for such agitation.

  With the local press satisfied, the party then climbed into the carriage and pulled away – flanked by uniformed officers on horseback – up the slight incline in the direction of the town hall, where I believe a light meal was to precede the politician’s speech to the local councillors and members of the local guild.

  As the carriage disappeared from our sight, Armstrong re-joined us by the station entrance. “Thank you for your assistance gentlemen, so far, so good. I am always nervous before these things take place. I’m a bit more relaxed once the operation is underway. Security around the town hall is as tight as a drum; no pun intended you understand. Notwithstanding the break-in there at the weekend – something that you have already explained away Mr. Holmes

  – I am confident the rest of the visit will go smoothly. You are more than welcome to stay and see Sir Henry off gentlemen, but if you prefer, given that it will be around midnight when his train leaves, I am more than happy to handle it from here.”

  “We will leave you to it then Inspector,” replied Holmes. “No doubt we shall meet up again tomorrow evening to address the other problem we appear to have encountered.”

  “Indeed. I will have a team awaiting your instruction from six o’clock onwards. Until then gentlemen, goodnight and thank you once again.”

  “Not a bad fellow, Armstrong – just like his cousin,” I commented as we made our way back.

  “No,” agreed Holmes, “we have certainly encountered far worse in his profession during our many adventures.”

  Magnanimous indeed! I thought to myself.

  Chapter Nine - A Dramatic Arrest

  Following my friend’s final instruction the night before, I rose on the Saturday morning and deliberately avoided my razor; something that would leave me irritable and uncomfortable for the remainder of the day.

  “If we are to pass as two working class ruffians,” he had said, as we were about to turn in, “we must make every effort to look the part.”

  Holmes joined me in our sitting room shortly after nine thirty, looking equally unkempt. He looked at me, and I at him, with smiles mirrored on each of our faces telling of our thoughts concerning the other’s appearance. We ventured quietly down stairs for some breakfast and then returned to our rooms once more, with the morning paper to wait the appointed hour.

  The local newspaper was full of the VIP’s visit of the previous evening, with the photograph we ourselves had witnessed being taken outside the station, dominating the front page. Details of Sir Henry’s speech were included in the piece that was rounded off with a quote from our new friend, Inspector Armstrong, who was obviously happy the visit had passed off without incident and that ‘… the danger apparently threatened by Irish Fenians did not materialise’.

  “Good old Armstrong,” sniped Holmes over my shoulder, “just like the rest of them, he cannot resist getting his name in print.”

  “Be fair Holmes,” I said, “the chap was clearly concerned about the visit and all in all, he seems to have organised the security surrounding it rather well.”

  A rather less than generous “Hmmm,” was all that was forthcoming from my friend.

  It was about four o’clock when old
Mr. Scott turned up with the clothes we were to use during our evening’s adventure.

  “I hope these will do the trick gentlemen,” he said laying a bundle that was wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, on the chez-long. “They are some of the old clothes we collect, clean and repair before giving them to the Salvation Army who distribute them among the poor folk of the city.”

  Holmes cut into the bundle and chuckled to himself. He laid out two black heavy-duty waist length workmen’s jackets, some old shirts, neckerchiefs, trousers and a couple of flat caps that had seen better days. The old man had even brought two old pairs of boots that fitted perfectly and made our outfits complete.

  “These will do nicely my dear Scott, thank you,” he said. “I will make sure they are back with you on Monday morning.”

  We bade the tailor a good afternoon and Holmes set about making the old clothes even more authentic. He called on Billy to take them down to the cellar and “… roll around in them for a while!” Upon the lad’s return, the detective completed their grubby appearance by tearing at the odd seam here and there and scuffing the boots with the fireside poker. As he was doing so, I was wondering what Scott and his employer would make of the garments upon their return. Holmes then split the clothes up between us and arranged for Mrs. Graham to repeat the repast she made for us the previous evening, prior to our preparing for the commencement of our evening’s adventure by retiring to change.

  I climbed into my old clothes and was amused as I checked my appearance in the mirror. If I keep my head down, I’m sure I can pass myself off as a labourer, I thought to myself, rubbing my – by now – heavily stubbled chin. Momentarily Holmes rejoined me in the sitting room. I was absolutely staggered, as my friend had not so much thrown on some old clothes to create an appearance; rather his whole demeanour and personality had altered. If it were possible he had lost over an inch in height, with a slight tilt of the shoulders. He had a hint of soot spattered around his face and his – normally so immaculate – un-creamed hair, flopped down untidily over his forehead. Even though my friend did not have access to his usually considerable resource when taking up one of his infamous disguises, I swear I would have passed him in the street on this occasion, had I not had this sneak preview.

  He was equally complimentary about my appearance. Joining me at the mirror he said with a laugh, “Excellent Watson. A couple of more roguish characters I would not wish to meet!”

  Holmes then covered once more what he expected to happen over the following few hours. He reminded me that the governor of the County Gaol, Mr. Lyons, would arrange for Simmons and one of his colleagues to be in the, so called, ‘Gaol Tap’ pub. They would then divulge certain information concerning the arrangements surrounding the transference of Raymond Adams. Holmes’s calculated gamble was that one of Adams” accomplices, Styles, would be there; he would pick up on the indiscretion and lead us back to his hideout where both he and his colleague Bennett would be apprehended by Inspector Armstrong and his men.

  He suggested that we enter the premises separately as to attract as little attention as possible, “You go in first Watson and find a quiet corner; I’ll follow you in after ten minutes or so and we will see how our plan unfolds. Remember Styles and his companion can be dangerous characters, my friend, so we must be on our guard at all times.”

  With these words of warning ringing in my ears I set off for the City Arms public house.

  Recalling my first impressions of the pub as I arrived, and Harry Vaughan’s warning – ‘You do not want to being hanging around there after dark’ – I was filled with trepidation, as I entered. I found the town centre Inn with a not inconsiderable amount of patrons, given that I believed it to be a rather early hour in the evening. I immediately recognised Simmons, the guard from the gaol who we met earlier in the week. He was standing by the bar with a colleague and although they had top coats on, their prison uniforms were clear for all to see under the unbuttoned over garments. I wondered if that was for effect during this operation or, bearing in mind Governor Lyon’s reservations about his men frequenting such an establishment, it was normal practice.

  I walked over to the bar and mustered up my best attempt at the local dialect by barking, “Give uz a pint,” at the poor chap behind the bar. To my astonishment, the barman – obviously used to being spoken to in such a discourteous manner – responded to my demand without a second glance. Furthermore, the two guards standing nearby did not react, or even appear to recognise me. My inward cringing turned to smug satisfaction as I took my drink and walked towards a vacant table in one corner of the establishment. I sat down, pulled down my cap and waited.

  Some minutes later Holmes made his entrance. As I stated earlier, had I not had prior warning of my friend’s appearance, I would never have recognised him. Every aspect of his manner and behaviour was completely in keeping with our surroundings. The scene I myself acted out moments earlier was repeated but I was sure Holmes was far more natural and convincing in the role. After being served, he sidled over to a stool at the far end of the bar and slumped down over his drink.

  It was sometime after six thirty when the reason for our presence materialised. A pitiable figure of a man, not so much walked, as shuffled his way through the doors of the Inn and towards the bar. His sever disability was plain for all to see and even with my considerable experience of most medical matters, and as well as being fully aware of the man’s villainous background, I could not help feeling some sorrow for this individual. That notwithstanding, this was clearly our man and Holmes’s warning about this deceptively dangerous character remained with me, as I concentrated on the matter in question.

  Although Styles’s arrival caught the attention of some of the clientele within the establishment, I felt this was due simply to his apparent incapacity than to any other significant reason. I was conscious however, that Simmons visibly tensed when he saw the criminal enter, and foolishly nudged his colleague as if to forewarn him of the impending act they were to play out. Holmes, of course – still seated at the other end of the bar – did not flicker at the appearance of his quarry. Fortunately, Styles did not see Simmons’ give-away sign and carried on about his business, taking a tankard of ale from the bar and making for a table.

  From my position in the bar room I had the perfect vantage point from which to observe every element of the scene that was about to unfold. The patrons of the increasingly crowded pub carried on about their business, completely unaware that their place of relaxation was the stage on which this pre- arranged drama was about to be played out.

  No sooner had Styles left the bar, than Simmons – in a slightly raised voice to make him heard above the escalating background noise – said to his colleague, “That’s a rum do about that Adams bloke, mind you.”

  The villain stopped in his tacks, unobserved by anyone who would not have known the significance of the comment. He immediately changed direction and headed for a seat that would give him a better opportunity of overhearing the conversation between the two off duty prison wardens.

  “What was that then?” said the other guard, taking the lead from his colleague.

  “Well there was some carry on, wasn’t there? They’ve moved him over to Durham,” continued Simmons, trying desperately not to over-act.

  “I thought that wasn’t taking place until later.”

  “Well I don’t know much about it, other than it’s been brought forward and he’s gone already.”

  As I observed the scene from under the peak of my pulled down cap, I saw Styles’s eyes widen as his agitation increased and the realisation of his predicament dawned on him. Clearly his own vulnerability, and that of his colleague, was now overtaking his desire to free his leader. In his haste to vacate the premises and get to Bennett as soon as he could, he rose from his seat and stumbled into a neighbouring table, upsetting some of the drinks in the process, much to the cheering amusement of everyone else in the pub.

  “Get out of it, ye blood
y menace,” cried one of the men sitting at the table, as he pushed him back onto his feet.

  The fretting Styles scuttled out of the building. To those of us who knew of the background to the incident, it was obvious that he was not so much worried about the spilled drinks, but the ever-increasing possibility of losing his own liberty.

  As he disappeared through the doors back onto the street outside, Holmes – who all the while, had been part of the background, as he sat quietly in his position – calmly got up and walked towards the door himself. I followed his lead and as we walked past, my friend gave Simmons a friendly slap of acknowledgement on the back. The sudden realisation in the warden’s face, that he and his colleague’s woeful amateur dramatics had not been in vain after all, was something to behold. It was clear that he was not aware of our presence; something that, I must confess, gave me a great thrill.

  Once in the street, Holmes pulled me into the shadows as a precaution against being spotted by our prey, although I was confident that this was not the main thing on Styles’s mind as he made his way north through the city centre.

  “So far, so good, Watson. I suggest you now go to collect Armstrong and his men while I follow Styles. It is clear he is heading north across the river and as long as the Inspector has his men ready – as he claimed they would be – I am sure you will overtake me before we reach their hide-away.”

  I followed Holmes’s instructions and made my way discretely towards the police station. As arranged, the Inspector was waiting with eight uniformed officers, ready to arrest the criminals from London. Disregarding Armstrong’s amusement at my appearance – something I must confess I had forgotten about as the adrenaline had started to pump through my veins – I quickly recounted what had happened so far and invited him and his men to accompany me and join Holmes in the chase for the remaining members of the Adams gang.