by Martin Daley
Almost as soon as we left the police station, I saw Holmes in the distance, as he kept a long lead on his prey. Some two hundred yards ahead of the detective was the pathetic, struggling figure of Styles as he crossed one of the two bridges that spanned the River Eden and joined the road that headed north up a steep bank towards what I had learned from the farmer, Jennings, as Etterby village. Half way up the bank there was a fork in the road. As we hurried to catch up Holmes, Armstrong informed me that the main road led off to Scotland, while the road that forked to the right was the main eastward road towards Newcastle.
“It was probably around here that the two planned to ambush the vehicle transporting Adams to Durham,” concluded the policeman.
Sure enough, as we joined Holmes on the bridge up ahead, we saw Styles peel off in the easterly direction. The river gurgled idly beneath us.
“Keep those policemen out of sight,” hissed Holmes, over its noise, obviously fearing failure as the chase reached its climax.
Armstrong instructed his men to hold back as the three of us continued to follow Styles at a discrete distance. As the road levelled there was a sharp turning to the left; this obviously had a steep gradient as it rose to meet the northern road. To the right, the ground fell away to open parkland through which the city’s main river ran. We watched carefully, making sure we were out of sight, as Styles, glancing furtively over his shoulder darted up the lane to the left and then along another smaller opening half way up, on the right.
“That’ll be Jennings” farm over there,” whispered Armstrong pointing, “we can’t be far away now.”
“I suggest you call your men forward and position them at each end of the lane,” said Holmes to the Inspector.
This was done and our wait commenced.
The time was now after eight o’clock and the temperature must have been down around zero. The street lighting was poor; bulbous gas lamps that were positioned approximately one hundred yards apart, failed miserably in their purpose – only succeeding in laying down soft pools of illumination within a four feet radius at the base of their respective posts. Thankfully the full moon that sat serenely in the otherwise black cloudless sky overlooked the eyrie silence in this remote part of the city and afforded sufficient visibility for our covert operation.
After what seemed an eternity, two figures – silhouetted in the moonlight – appeared at the far end of the lane. Although nothing more than featureless black shapes, their identities could not have been in question. The shuffling, uncomfortable gait of Styles was unmistakable, while his companion appeared to be a giant of a man, even at the distance of sixty or more paces. His size was not only exaggerated by his broadness, but also by the comparison to his physically challenged friend, who struggled to keep up with him.
After scurrying half way down the lane the smaller silhouette stopped, sensing something was amiss, and indicated that his companion do the same by reaching up and putting a hand on his forearm. Both stood there, dead still for a moment, their breath visible in the night air; the bigger man snorting like a great Pamplonan bull after his hasty exit from their hideaway.
Holmes, Armstrong and I stood – unseen by our two opponents – watching as they pondered their next move. If it were possible, the tension was increased as owl hooted in the distant parkland and our three heads instinctively turned in silent synchronisation. Seconds seemed like minutes as the combined feeling of suspense and expectancy became almost unbearable.
Finally, Holmes indicated action by placing his hand gently on the shoulder of Inspector Armstrong. The shrill of the senior policeman’s whistle instantaneously broke the agonising silence as it echoed up and down the dark lane. In what was a deafening cacophony, uniformed officers made their noisy charge out from their hiding places to apprehend the villains.
Styles’s arrest was a formality; he could offer no resistance against the two younger, fitter men who made a grab for him. His accomplice’s ability to resist arrest was however, altogether more successful. The policeman nearest to him was sent spinning across the cobbles, with a thunderous right hand. A colleague moved in from the side only to receive an uppercut to the jaw that saw his helmet fly into the air. Two more leaped on the giant’s back and, as he whirled them round; windmilling arms and legs became indistinguishable as the misshapen silhouette created almost a comic sight.
I heard the ripping of cloth as the policemen, in trying to grab their opponent, only succeeded in tearing his coat and then his shirt. We moved forward to just a few paces and it was then that I saw Bennett’s bulging naked chest and almost bestial, facial expression. The two officers, previously dispatched by the former boxer, recovered sufficiently and bravely went for him again. They grabbed him by the arms but this still did not deter the huge man from putting up a defence.
“Go on Boom Boom!” yelled the captured Styles as the constables failed to gain the upper hand.
“Round the legs,” I heard myself mumbling, sensing that Armstrong was sharing my frustration, as the negligence of his officers unnecessarily delayed the arrest of the villain.
As policemen appeared to be hanging off every face of this man mountain, I could resist the urge no more. Remembering my rugby days at Blackheath, I shot out from the group observing the struggle and raced at the mass of bodies. Diving full length and hitting the knees of Bennett with my shoulder, assailant and the attached policemen came crashing down in a snarling, thrashing heap.
As the villain whirled about twisting on the ground, one poor officer flipped like a cat and fell on the enormous blood splattered back of the giant and was spread-eagled there like a human sacrifice upon the alter. In doing so however, he inadvertently brought the criminal under control and his colleagues managed finally to secure an arrest.
Holmes came running up as giddy as a schoolboy, “Watson, you old scoundrel!” he cried, “this was never part of the plan!” He howled with laughter and, dare I say, admiration at my action.
For my part I was already beginning to regret my decision to bring the fracas to an end. As I lay on the ground, peering up at my friend and Inspector Armstrong, who were both standing over me in wonderment, I felt a searing pain shoot through my previously wounded shoulder and, far from basking in the glory of my action, that brought the chase to its exciting climax, it took all of my composure to refrain from crying out in agony.
Holmes and Armstrong helped me to my feet as the uniformed officers bound Bennett, who was still scrambling about on the ground in what was now futile resistance.
“I cannot thank you gentlemen enough,” said the senior policeman, “you have not only solved one crime but prevented another and helped my colleagues at Scotland Yard to complete the apprehension of the whole gang. I would be honoured if you would accompany us back to the station where I will arrange a small celebration,” he added tapping the side of his nose.
“It is our pleasure, my dear Inspector, and thank you for your kind offer,” replied Holmes, “my friend and colleague has certainly earned his brandy and soda tonight!” With this final comment, Holmes slapped me on the back in triumph and I squeaked with discomfort as the impact shot upward through my shoulder once more. I held my poise however by looking forward to the aforementioned refreshment and the hot bath, I was determined would follow it.
Chapter Ten - An Interlude
I must say I enjoyed our stiff drink back in the Inspector’s office and from a medicinal point of view, it also helped numb the throbbing pain in my shoulder. It was clear that the Inspector was delighted with the evening’s events.
“I shall call Inspector Gregson tomorrow and inform him of our success,” he said. “I have also summoned a reporter from the local newspaper down to give him a scoop for the morning edition.”
“I would appreciate it if you would keep our names out of the paper, Inspector,” said Holmes characteristically.
“But, Mr. Holmes, if it were not through the efforts of yourself and Doctor Watson, we would never have caught
the villains. In fact I would still be on the wild goose chase, believing the thefts at the castle and the town hall were linked, not to mention the resource I would have wasted, as a result of the bogus threat to the cathedral.”
“My dear Armstrong, as my trusty biographer here will tell you, it has never been my intention to court sensation and recognition in the press. The successful conclusion of any case is all I crave. No; please feel free to take full credit for the capture of Styles and Bennett – it will do your career no harm I would imagine.”
Holmes was clearly in a good mood, after all of the excitement and he continued in such a disposition for the next half hour or so, until the reporter from the Carlisle Journal turned up. We made a polite exit at this point and left Armstrong to provide the journalist with the new lead story for the morning paper.
Once in our rooms I climbed into the steaming hot bath I had promised myself, in an attempt to soak away my aches and pains. Despite the lateness of the hour, I even treated myself to a shave, given that it had been thirty-six hours since my chin had seen a razor. By the time I had rejoined the chuckling Holmes by the fire for a nightcap, it was drawing towards midnight.
“Well that is it for me, old fellow,” said I, as I drained my glass of its final mouthful, “I shall see you in the morning.”
“Good night,” said Holmes and, as I reached the door to my room he added, “and Watson? Very good work tonight; thank you.”
As I have stated many times in the past, Holmes’s manner frequently bordered on the cold, so this final comment almost amounted to a show of affection from my friend. I turned in that night completely worn out but at the same time, extremely contented with my efforts and the appreciation in which both Holmes and Armstrong held them.
One thing I had forgotten to do of course, before retiring, was to check with Holmes on our progress against our primary case and as a result, I failed to arrange any morning call. It was the pealing of the nearby cathedral bells therefore, that woke me as they signified the imminent service at the eleventh hour of the morning.
As I made the effort to get up, the previous evening’s adventure immediately came back to me as was overcome by tremendous stiffness in what seemed like every muscle. I felt a shooting pain in my shoulder and once more, questioned the wisdom of my action that brought the struggle to an end. I managed to haul myself out of bed however, washed, shaved and entered our sitting room. Although my friend was not in our communal room, I heard him pottering about in his bedroom, so in his absence I took the opportunity of popping down stairs to collect a selection of the morning papers and arranging some late morning refreshment with our extremely patient and obliging hostess, Mrs. Graham.
I returned to find Holmes smoking a pipe by the fire. I sensed his jovial mood from the previous night had deserted him as my jolly “Good morning,” was greeted with a barely audible grunt.
“What are our intentions today?” I asked.
“Nothing until I receive a reply from my telegram.”
“Telegram?” I questioned.
“Do keep up Watson,” Holmes replied curtly, “the telegram I sent to London on Friday.”
My heroics of last night and the subsequent appreciation shown were short lived, I thought to myself philosophically. Thankfully at that point there was a knock at the door and Mrs. Graham entered with a pot of coffee and some eggs, bacon and toast. I tucked into the hearty late breakfast with gusto, while Holmes took just a cup of coffee to accompany his pipe.
It was clear my roommate was in a pensive, non- talkative state of mind. Furthermore, I knew that even if I could entice him out of this, I would undoubtedly have discovered him in one of his more disputatious moods. I therefore decided to leave him to it and settle down to read the morning journals, obviously interested most in how the local paper reported the exciting events of the previous evening.
‘CITY ARREST OF LONDON CRIMINALS!’ was the dramatic title of the piece that outlined the apprehension of Styles and Bennett. A thorough summary then followed into the background of the Adams gang, with their various successes and failures being listed. An outline of the reason for their presence in Carlisle was given, with appropriate quotes from Inspector Armstrong and even the lugubrious Governor Lyons, giving the piece credibility. One of Armstrong’s more generous, if cryptic quotes, referred to the ‘… considerable assistance given by two members of the public, who acted above and beyond what is expected of any private citizen. I have no doubt that these arrests could not have been effected successfully, had it not been for their help’.
“Good man, Armstrong!” I said to myself, acknowledging our help and yet adhering to Holmes’s request to keep our names out of the paper. Holmes of course, showed little interest in our joint triumph but continued to gaze into the crackling fire.
Another hour of this inactive Sabbath past, and then another and with it, Holmes’s agitation increased. Although there was clearly danger the previous night in our apprehending of the London criminals, retrospectively I was glad there was something to occupy that great mind of his, as the primary reason for our presence here seemed to be dragging on somewhat.
Ordinarily, had Holmes been locked away in his Baker Street den, I’m sure his attention would have drifted towards the cocaine bottle, as this was his usual protest against the tedium of existence. I do believe however, that this dreadful vice was not so much an addiction but a substitute for the adrenaline created by the thrilling chase, the excitement of discovery and the activity of detection.
For my part I must confess to missing my own hearth and my dear wife tremendously during these periods of inactivity. I broke the tedium by reading the Sunday newspaper and writing up details of the case to date.
By three o’clock in the afternoon, Holmes was like a caged animal once more, prowling round our quarters. If he was not biting his nails, he was grinding his teeth and when he was doing neither of these, he would stand on the hearthrug, frowning, eyes tightly closed, while his fingers would drum like pistons upon the mantelpiece, as if fingering one of the great violin masterpieces he so admired. During this period he appeared to smoke endless cigarettes. The heightening tension was finally broken by a knock at the door that pre-empted young Billy’s entrance to our quarters with a telegram.
“At last!” cried Holmes, ripping open the missive and almost instantaneously giving a snort of disapproval.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Gregson!” barked Holmes, virtually throwing the message at me.
The message ran thus:
ARMSTRONG ADVISED ME OF STYLES AND BENNETT ARREST STOP THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONTINUED ASSISTANCE STOP BRANDY AND CIGARS ON ME WHEN YOU RETURN END. TOBIAS GREGSON.
Whereas I acknowledged the Scotland Yard Detective’s genuine intent and thanks, Holmes cast it aside as he viewed it as a distraction from the case in hand. I escorted Billy back out on to the landing outside our room and asked, “Is there anywhere I could take Mr. Holmes on a Sunday afternoon that would help relieve his boredom?”
“Well sir, the brass bands‘ve finished in the park last month for the summer. Mind you the fun fair’s still on!” was the youngster’s enthusiastic reply.
I laughed at the thought of Sherlock Holmes killing a few hours at the various stalls, rides and mirrored hallways offered by the lad’s suggestion. “Hardly appropriate,” I said.
“The only other thing’s the baths then,” concluded Billy “Baths? Is there a Turkish bath?”
“Yes sir, on James Street. Just go down English Street and across the viaduct, you’ll see it on the left hand side.”
I gave the boy a shilling for his help and his deliverance of the telegram, took a deep breath and re-entered our room, prepared to make my suggestion.
“Holmes you have been a veritable bear all day, I suggest we go out and try to find some relaxation.”
“What do you have in mind,” asked my friend, his expression lightening somewhat.
“The young lad tells me that
there is a Turkish bath nearby; I think it is just the solution to our aches and pains, not to mention re-invigorating the old grey matter!”
Looking around at the increasingly thick atmosphere of our room, Holmes replied, “Anything to beat this endless stagnation I suppose. Watson, what would I do without you?”
On what was now a rather muggy afternoon, we donned our outdoor-wear once more and followed the young lad’s directions, crossing the Victoria Viaduct in the process, which – according to the plaque at its central point– was opened and named in honour of her mother by Princess Louise during her visit to the city in 1877.
Upon entering the public baths we paid the young lady on the front desk who directed us along a corridor to the Turkish bath. There, we found ourselves in surroundings as far removed from an industrial city in the north of England as could be imagined. The tasteful Moorish decor was complimented beautifully by the palms and tropical plants that were strategically arranged throughout the spacious entrance area.
A Turkish Bath was a treat my friend and I regularly enjoyed and I was pleasantly surprised that such a facility was available to us; not only could we indulge ourselves in such a pleasant pastime, but it also broke up the interminably boring day.
After our invigorating bath, Holmes and I spent a relaxing period in the high temperature and moist atmosphere of the steam area, before rapping ourselves in crisp white sheets and spending another equally enjoyable hour over a pipe in the drying room. Our usual haunt in Northumberland Avenue had a hookah that Holmes enjoyed inhaling, but a relaxing pipe whilst allowing our pores to breathe and cleanse was most acceptable to us both.
I was delighted with my suggestion that brought us out of our quarters; my remaining stiffness from the previous night’s activity, not to mention the pain in my shoulder, was gradually eradicated as our relaxing afternoon wore on. I even sensed that Holmes was finally beginning to wind down from his earlier agitated state, although we both sat in silence throughout.