The Adventure of the Spanish Drums

by Martin Daley

  “‘Aye that’ll be about right,’ he said, ‘they turned up and harboured their steamer about ten days ago. One of them told me that they intended to leave with some cargo from Carlisle a week gone Tuesday, sailing at midnight. Of course they never made it did they? The storm saw to that. Wrecked their boat and three others that were moored alongside it overnight.

  “‘It was clear that they wanted to get away quick, coz they were fair panicking when the storm hit. They were all for taking their chance before I held them back. I wasn’t gonna let anyone go out in that weather’.

  “He took me over to an adjoining yard, where the wrecked boats were. I saw for myself the damage incurred by the boats on the night in question and bearing in mind that this damage had occurred while they were in the harbour, it would have been the folly indeed to have made a dash for it, given the condition of the steamer as I saw it. That particular night was certainly not one for mariners and undoubtedly, the vessel and all its hands would not have stood a chance on the open sea.

  “‘What did they do?’ I then asked Anderson.

  “‘As I say, they were desperate. When a told them a wasn’t gonna let them go, the one who did all the talking asked if there was a shed they could use to store their cargo. There’s plenty of storage in the warehouses ova yonder,’ he said, pointing, ‘so a told him they could use one of them. Then they moved the crates over to where I directed them and stored them in the corner of one of the houses. Three o’ them insisted on staying wid the cargo, while the talker buggered off!’

  “‘They stayed with the crates?’ I repeated.

  “‘Aye,’ replied the local man, roaring with laughter, as he offered to show me, ‘they had a long wait mind you. A different one disappeared every night while the other two kipped down in the warehouse. It wasn’t till yesterday that the talker turned up and asked if they could move their cargo. He told me they were gonna tek it by train after all’.

  “Sure enough, in the warehouse, there were clear signs of recent occupation. Fortunately for the detective, the sandy base of the building allowed plenty of tracks to be created. The group did not feel it necessary to cover the marks and had I not have already known that there were four of them, I could have easily deduced it from the differing footprints.”

  “Four?” I questioned.

  Holmes continued, ignoring my interruption, “Those I believed to have been from the leader of the group were fewer that those of his colleagues, confirming Anderson’s testimony that he went missing for some days. I assumed that the members of the gang that remained took turns to spend a night each in their lodgings, while his two colleagues remained with the drums. This was confirmed when I discovered later when I made some discrete house to house enquiries along the sea front houses that indicated available accommodation. Sure enough, the landlady of one of the establishments informed me that the four men had stayed with her at various times over the past week, and whereas she was aware that they were together, they never actually stayed in her lodgings as a group, ‘Strange bunch if y’ask me’, was her only contribution to the conversation.

  “Back in the warehouse, it was also obvious to the naked eye as to where the crates containing the drums had been stacked. I suggest there were three, as two had made obvious indentations in the sand, but each impression was deeper on each adjacent side. Suggestion? That a third container was placed on top of, but spanning the other two.

  “‘Did the leader of the group tell you where he went during his absence?’ I asked Anderson.

  “‘Well no he didn’t, but I would guess, he’d be making arrangements to go to Liverpool, if they still wanted to go by sea. The Carlisle to Lancaster line was extended you see, to include Silloth and Liverpool with this sort of thing in mind.’

  “‘Excellent my dear Anderson, I would wager you are exactly right. Tell me is there any way we could contact your counterpart at Liverpool to confirm this?’

  “‘Well they’ve got one of them new fangled telephone things at the Post Office. We could try there.’

  “With that, he showed me the way to the Post Office, where the telephone operator connected me to the Harbourmaster in Liverpool, much to the annoyance of the local Postmaster, who was far from happy with being called from his bed at such an ungodly hour.

  “I discovered that our opponents had indeed left, sailing down the Mersey and out into the Irish Sea only this morning. I then compounded the Postmaster’s anger by insisting I send a telegram to London.”

  “To London?” I questioned.

  “More work for my dear brother I’m afraid to say,” replied Holmes.

  “Mycroft? Why not call him when you had access to the telephone?”

  “My dear Watson, therein lays a great irony. Whereas I can find and use the most up to date communication facilities in a remote little corner of England, the thought that a telephone would be available in Mycroft’s Pall Mall lodgings would be abhorrent to him. As for such a facility in the Diogenes Club, why, half of the members would be in need your professional attention at the mere suggestion! No; the only chance we have is if Mycroft can act quickly at the receipt of my telegram, although I did request he at least tries to telephone our hotel at the conclusion of his work.”

  “What have you asked of him?” I asked.

  “All will be revealed later,” was my friend’s infuriatingly reply, as he rose from our table, after our enjoyable lunch.

  With that comment, Holmes shut up as tight as a clam on the subject of the case for the rest of the afternoon. No amount of coaxing from me could make him divulge any further information until around four thirty, when there was a knock on our door and young Billy entered.

  “Another telegram from London Mr. Holmes.”

  “Thank you Billy,” said Holmes, rewarding the youngster, once more with a silver coin. Then opening the message, “My- croft!” Holmes virtually sang his brother’s name and handed me the paper. It read:

  OPERATION SUCCESSFUL STOP WILL BE RETURNED BEFORE END OF WEEK STOP WILL CALL LATER WITH DETAILS END

  MYCROFT

  “Does this mean that the drums will be returned before the end of the week?” I asked.

  “It does indeed, my boy!” was Holmes triumphant response.

  “So the case is at an end. I must congratulate you Holmes, it looked completely cloudy to me.”

  “It is not quite over Watson, I have to go out for an hour or so.”

  With that Holmes left me to fill in the missing pieces of the jigsaw; something – despite ploughing the deepest furrows of my mind, in an effort to cultivate a plausible explanation to the mystery – I found virtually impossible to do.

  He returned in a surprisingly downbeat mood later that evening and refused to speak of the case, other than to say, ‘I have just received the telephone call from Mycroft as I returned’ – the solemnity of his tone was in marked contrast to his earlier mood – ‘our work will be concluded tomorrow’.

  Once back in the fug of our sitting room, he lit a pipe and threw another log on the fading fire, which immediately retaliated with a loud crackle and a spray of sparks. He sat quietly and gazed into the flames as they roared back into life; an incandescent hue becoming visible in his cheeks after being out in the cold evening air.

  For my part, I was weary from my own in-action and I sat nodding in my chair, struggling to fend off the drawing on of sleep. My mind drifted back, in its semi-conscious state, first to Maiwand and my own horrific experiences, and thence to Roman times where my strange dream world had the invaders battling against the advancing Scots, whilst being aided by King Arthur. And yet all the while, throughout my strange hallucinations, I was conscious of the old grandfather clock, on the far side of our sitting room, arduously ticking the hour by.

  I was unaware of how much time had passed during my slumber before I was propelled back into consciousness with a startling suddenness; my bizarre dreaming was interrupted by my friend’s hand on my shoulder, “Watson? You should turn in
, old fellow, we have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow.”

  Chapter Twelve - The Perpetrator Exposed

  In my long and adventurous life that has seen me travel on three continents, serve my country and witness countless adventures with my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, there are certain individual days that – although memorable for different reasons – stand out above others.

  For example, two days I think of with great fondness are those when my late beloved Mary and latterly, my current dear wife agreed to join in matrimony with me. Another example would be that spring day in 1894, when Holmes turned up in my surgery, after his three-year absence; an event that caused me to faint for the one and only time in my life. A further case in point is the distinct memory I have of that terrible day in June 1880 that saw me involved in the dreadful battle at Maiwand – something that I have recounted elsewhere in this narrative. This in turn brings me back to Tuesday 20th October 1903; another day that, for me, will remain unforgettable.

  The day began with my rising to find Holmes dressed and in an excited mood, ready no doubt for his extravagant performance at the castle that would see him bring down the curtain on another successful case.

  “If the thieves did not use the hidden passageways, as I suggested yesterday,” I commented during breakfast, “I still cannot see how the drums could have been taken without someone noticing – and for what motive? As for the inference that someone as senior as the Regimental Sergeant Major could somehow be involved – Irish connections or not – is surely impossible.”

  Holmes rose from the table, clearly not wishing to debate the subject, “Only yesterday you told me that the piece referred to them as being mythical passageways. I shall meet you in the Colonel’s office in half an hour, Watson, and remember – as I have told you on many occasions – when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable …”

  “Must be the truth,” I completed, as my friend walked away.

  I finished my breakfast and went back to our rooms to get my hat and coat. Minutes later I was walking through the lobby of our diggings heading for the scene of the case’s finale. As I stepped out on to the street I noticed a group of rough looking characters loafing by the town hall steps, opposite. For some reason I was overcome by a feeling of great uneasiness and feared that they were up to no good.

  I proceeded down the, by now, well-trodden street towards the castle however, sure in the knowledge that my friend would soon be providing me with another successful case to relay to his many admirers, who so enjoyed reading about his many adventures. From my own point of view, I was also looking forward to seeing the end of the mystery and returning home to my wife.

  At the street’s end, it meets the cobbled bridge that leads across the moat to the castle itself and it was at this point that I was met by Sergeant Smith of the local constabulary. He was standing there with a smug expression on his face.

  “Good morning Doctor, I believe we have a successful conclusion to the case,” he said.

  “Yes,” I rather drew out the word before adding, “thanks to the work of Mr. Holmes, I hope you recognise.”

  “I suppose credit where it’s due,” was his foolish reply, “but I don’t think even the skilled amateur like Mr. Holmes could be so successful without the guidance of the regular force.”

  I was saved from prolonging the inane conversation and – as best I could – illustrating Holmes’s solitary denouement, by the distinctive sound of a policeman’s whistle that came from the direction of the town centre.

  “If you’ll excuse me Doctor,” said Smith, “it seems my services are needed elsewhere.”

  He set off at pace in the direction of the apparent trouble, while I turned to walk up to the castle. As I did so, the regimental band struck up from its interior. Once under the portcullis and onto the castle square, I discovered that rehearsals were apparently underway for Arroyo Day, that was now just over a week away. To see the soldiers in action and hear the band again brought back rather fonder memories once more of my own, all too brief, military career. As I progressed across the square I could not help myself breaking into a swaggering march in time with the music.

  On the opposite side of the square, in the entrance to the Sergeants’s Mess, I observed Sergeant Armstrong in deep, animated conversation with his cousin, the Inspector. If it were not for the fact that the men were close relatives, their appearance would have challenged my long held view that soldiers and policemen have always made rather uncomfortable bedfellows. I must repeat however, that I was extremely impressed by both men, and the sentimentalist in me was warmed by how proud their family must be regarding their respective achievements and service to the local community.

  I climbed the stairs to Colonel Hulme’s first floor office, smiling to myself after my brief stint on the parade ground. “Good morning Lance Corporal,” I said addressing young Robins, who was sitting at his desk in the outer office.

  “Good morning Doctor,” he replied looking up. I sensed something was very wrong by the grave expression on his face and his rather sepulchral tone, “if you would go straight in sir, they are expecting you.”

  I knocked and entered. The sight that greeted me – and my instant realisation of what I was beholding – came like a hammer blow to the solar plexus, producing a feeling of numbness akin to the similar experience on that other appalling day over ten years earlier, when I stood on the precipice of those terrifying falls at Reichenbach, believing my friend to have fallen to his death.

  The Commanding Officer was sitting with his elbows on his desk and his linked fingers forming a single fist under his chin, while his face displayed a mixed expression of shame and disappointment. Holmes was standing, facing the other person in the room. The other person was slouching in a chair opposite Hulme’s desk, the very picture of guilt.

  Harry Vaughan!

  I was paralysed with disbelief as I stared at the scene before me.

  Holmes broke what appeared to be an endless silence. “Come in Watson, the case is at an end.”

  I could hardly recognise the figure slumped in his chair, a figure I had never seen without a straight back and proud military bearing.

  It was Holmes again; “After I left you last evening Watson, I visited Captain Vaughan and appraised him of my findings. When he learned of our successes he decided to do the honourable thing.”

  “Honourable?” mumbled Colonel Hulme to himself through his bristling moustache.

  “I cannot believe it!” I said, rather pathetically, “why?” Vaughan remained silent, unable to look me in the eye, ashamed and embarrassed by his apparent involvement in the theft.

  “I shall explain fully later Watson,” said Holmes.

  After he had gained some composure, Colonel Hulme instructed Robins to arrange for Vaughan to be placed under house arrest. Some moments later, a party came into the office and marched my former colleague out. This was to be the last time I would ever see my former friend, colleague and saviour.

  The colonel this time broke a further uncomfortable silence, “I have asked Inspector Armstrong to join us.” He was clearly trying his best to hide his anger and disappointment.

  Unknowingly, I moved across the office before my legs collapsed from under me and I slumped into the chair vacated by Vaughan some moments earlier. I sat there in abject disbelief, with the latter half of Holmes’s favourite phrase “… whatever remains, must be the truth,” ringing around the numb corridors of my mind. My feelings of giddy confusion were compounded by the noise of the regimental band, who continued their rehearsals outside. Far from the crisp, bright military melodies I found myself enjoying only minutes earlier, I now sat there in silence, only vaguely aware of the tuneless, muffled noise that emanated from the square below.

  Such was my disbelief that my imagination was clearly playing tricks on me; the one thing seemed so real that morning were the portraits of Colonel Hulme’s predecessors that adorned the walls of his office; their proud featur
es appeared to be scowling as they looked down on the shameful scene that befell them.

  Although I was aware of the presence of Holmes and Hulme, both of whom had been joined by Inspector Armstrong and Sergeant Smith during this period, I was clearly in no mental state to comprehend what was being said; their lips seemed to be out of synchronization with their voices, that, in my confusion, sounded like a gramophone record that needed winding up. I therefore had to rely on my friend to appraise me on what was said between the four, afterwards.

  Holmes told me that he ran through the series of events with the policemen and the C.O., recounting his trip to Silloth and the telegram from his brother Mycroft that confirmed his findings.

  “Had it not been for my brother’s connections, Colonel,” he said, “I am afraid your trophies may never have been recovered. Furthermore, I would not have been able to prove Vaughan’s involvement in their theft.”

  “I am immensely grateful to you and your brother Mr. Holmes,” replied the senior officer, and then reverted talking almost to himself, “I would never have believed Harry Vaughan would have been involved in such a crime. I trusted the man implicitly,” and then re-addressing Holmes, “I wonder what else he has been up to during his time with the regiment?”

  “I think we can safely say that Captain Vaughan thought long and hard about his actions. I do not believe he took the decision to participate in the theft lightly and you can rest assured that this was the only blemish on an otherwise flawless career.”

  “I think it was pretty obvious that it was an inside job,” said Sergeant Smith, much to the annoyance of his superior officer.

  “Be quiet boy!” rebuked the Inspector, “we would still have been looking for the drums by next Arroyo Day had Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson not taken over the investigation.” Then addressing my friend, Inspector Armstrong said, “I cannot thank you enough Mr. Holmes, not only for your involvement in the stolen drums, but your apprehension of the Adams gang and your assistance with Sir Henry’s visit last week. I feel the regular force has a lot to learn from you.” It was clear that Smith had not yet learned the humility and intelligence displayed by his Inspector.