“Behold, Watson! Our first discovery! What do you see?”
I followed the direction of his pointed whip and blinked. “I see a dry stone wall next to this road, if one could call such a trail a road. There is a gate leading into a meadow holding a small flock of sheep. Beyond that there is another wall and then rising ground that ends in a high hill. Silhouetted against the clear sky on the top of the hill is a thick growth of trees. What is so remarkable about that, Holmes?”
“Man, it is as plain as the nose on your face! On the side of that hill, just to the left of those big boulders! Do you see it now?”
“I see what appears to be a cave.”
“Yes! And there, just past that crooked tree is another. There are three “Xs” marked on this road and I have no doubt that if we go down a little further we will find the third cave.” He stirred the horse into action and in a few moments we could see the third cave set into the hillside, somewhat separated from its fellows.
“So every “X” on this map represents a cave,” I remarked.
“That may be so, but we have uncovered too small a sample to confirm it as a theory. I counted twenty-seven “Xs” on the map. We must continue to check out these other marks.” With that Holmes slapped the reins and we turned onto another road.
We drove for hours, back and forth across the countryside, following every line on the old map that had even one “X” marked on it. Every “X” corresponded to another cave. The sun was dipping past its zenith when we finally turned toward Dyrebury after pairing up the last cave with the last “X” drawn on the rough chart. Holmes had been content to locate the caves visually and never bothered to even ask me to leave the dog-cart and climb up to investigate them in person.
“It would be of no use, Watson,” he said as we neared the village. “Every one of those caves has already been searched by bands of determined men looking for the treasure the Dyrebury Danger hid over two hundred years ago. Remember that Lord Sessamy told us that after Jarvis Sessamy’s death every neighbourhood cave was scrutinized for the gold and the jewels stolen from the pilgrim travellers bound for St. Galena’s spring. I would not be surprised to learn that every adventurous local youth for generations has spent his summers rummaging about in those caves looking for that cache.”
I was tired and hungry and looking forward to a late lunch when we turned into the courtyard of the “Lamb and Lion”. Again I admired the large coaching inn with its two stories of open galleries, so rare in the bustling world of the late 19th century in which we lived. Much of the building was original in pale native limestone. Parts of it had been converted to small shops at the north end, but the rest of the structure was devoted to the age-old sale of food and liquor and the renting of rooms to travellers. The cobblestones of the wide courtyard showed heavy wear, but the windows were open and we could hear voices from inside. Cheerful red curtains fluttered from the casements and the inn’s sign overhead gleamed with a coat of new paint.
Sherlock Holmes handed over the horse and cart to a young lad who led the weary animal off to a water trough to one side. We stepped out of the fall sunshine into a low-beamed, smoky, interior room that featured a long bar crowded with men well furnished with mugs of ale. Behind it stood the landlord, a wiry man of about thirty with blond hair and a cleft in his chin. He was kept busy as he filled the orders of the men lined up along the bar. An elderly barman assisted him. Along the opposite wall was a large space dotted with tables and chairs at which several parties were eating. I went to the bar and ordered beers and sandwiches while Holmes found an empty table and sat down.
I brought the beers to the table, sat, and took a long, refreshing drink. Holmes sipped at his and eyed our surroundings curiously. The most notable item in the place hung on a peg over the bar, over the rows of bottles, near a door that led to the back of the pub. It was a very old tri-corne hat, decorated with drooping ostrich plumes of a faded, dusty red. The rest of the room was made up of plastered walls, a planked floor, and two large, aged settles on either side of an enormous stone fireplace on the far wall. The tables and chairs available for customers were a mix of styles and ages, with Windsor chairs and gate-legged tables predominating. The clientele appeared to be mostly townspeople and locals, with a sprinkling of travellers visiting St. Galena’s well. Soon a middle-aged woman in a long white apron brought us our sandwiches and Holmes thanked her.
“You seem to have a prosperous business here,” he remarked. Holmes dropped a half crown by his plate. She gave him an appraising glance, then scooped up the money and dropped it in her pocket.
“Bless your soul, sir; I don’t own th’ “Lamb and Lion”. I just do some of th’ cookin’ and work out front a bit. The Bonifaces have owned this place for generations an’ made a good living at it, too. Mind you, they’ve had their problems, what with ol’ Orion Boniface dyin’ last year an’ his son young Linus havin’ t’ pay death duties to keep th’ inn goin’. He shook out ever’ sack and dug into ever’ drawer t’ find th’ money t’ satisfy th’ tax man an’ now he goes about with a sharp eye on th’ costs ever’ day. More than once he’s come into th’ kitchen an’ questioned th’ cook, who’s been here for nearly his entire lifetime, about th’ price she paid for th’ eggs or what th’ apples cost, when she never got a peep from th’ ol’ man. He knew she was doin’ her best, but th’ young master is that nervous an’ picky about things now, he’s nigh on t’ drivin’ us all crazy.”
“What can you tell me about that old hat hanging over the bar?”
“That’s hung there since at least my great-granddad’s time. I don’t know why, but old Boniface was very proud of it.”
“Well, if the food here is as delightful as the help, our lunch should be a real treat.” Holmes dropped another coin on the table and in an instant both the second half crown and the waitress disappeared with a friendly wink.
The sandwiches were good and I enjoyed mine. Holmes barely touched his, his mind obviously not on the food. He stared at the old hat for the entire meal, then seeing that I had finished, drained his beer and got up to leave. Just as I turned toward the door, he gave a start. I turned quickly to see what had surprised him. I caught a glimpse of a shadow flitting across the wall behind the bar door that led deeper into the building. I instinctively took a step toward the apparition but Holmes caught me by my arm and steered me, instead, out the front door and over to our waiting dog-cart.
He urged me in and took up the reins, guiding the horse and cart out of the courtyard and back to the Castle. He didn’t speak and the look on his face precluded my asking any questions. In silence he strode into the Castle as I handed the rig over to the stable boy. When I followed him, I found the door to the library firmly shut and at my query a familiar voice asked me to leave him alone. “I have to think, Watson,” he said through the door and I heard nothing more.
Sherlock Holmes remained locked in the library all through dinner. Even when Lord Sessamy, confused by his guest’s behaviour and not reassured by my explanations, asked him if he was feeling all right, he received no reply. We left him there and finally retired. Lord Sessamy gave directions to the staff that if Holmes requested anything, anything at all, he was to be given whatever help the Castle could supply.
It was long after the breakfast buffet had been cleared away the next morning when Holmes finally opened the library door. He refused food. Instead he accepted a cup of coffee and declared that he had solved the riddle of the map.
“What is the solution?” asked the Baron eagerly. Holmes motioned us to be seated and filled his pipe from a pouch he brought out of his pocket. He indicated the hand-drawn map, spread out on the table.
“It has already been established that this is an old map, created by an amateur artist who was not trained as a cartographer. The map dates roughly from the early 1700s, as I established last night through a study of the paper and the ink. It cove
rs the area around Dyrebury and Cliffdale Castle. Twenty-seven caves are marked on it. Landmarks like the “Forest”, the “Lamb and Lion” and the “Bridge” are marked on the map. All these places are important points in the story of the Dyrebury Danger and Jarvis Sessamy. It was that story that was written in the early 1700s by the young author Berengaria. There is evidence that the map was drawn by young Berengaria. Berengaria’s book was the only item missing after the violent death of Garrett Aydin, the librarian who wrote his brother that he might have enough money to invest in his brother’s business and that he looks forward to the same happiness that would come to his brother as a married man.
“How could Mr. Aydin, a man who earned only a librarian’s salary, look forward to coming into a great deal of money? He had no rich relations from whom he might inherit. Who was the mysterious woman Mr. Aydin mentioned to his brother, the woman who could be persuaded to marry him if his “discovery proves correct”? She is the woman who would accept him only if he comes into a large sum of money. Where would Garrett Aydin find such riches? If it is connected to the legend of the Dyrebury Danger, where has it been hidden so long? What was the final step of the search for the money that Berengaria missed and Mr. Aydin discovered? Most importantly, who killed the librarian and why?”
“Well, tell us, Mr. Holmes!” cried Lord Sessamy.
Sherlock Holmes shook his head. “I must do a bit of final investigation before all can be revealed,” replied the detective. “I need an old suit of clothes and a pair of shabby boots. My face has been seen in Dyrebury, but now it is necessary to create a disguise to tie up the final last facts that will solve this case once and for all.”
Bewildered, Lord Sessamy called Handy, whom Holmes swore to secrecy. In a few minutes the trusty butler supplied the necessary garments from his own cupboard. He even produced a disgraceful slouch hat. Owen Sessamy and I watched as a transformed Holmes, wearing the ill-fitting clothes, slipped away from the Castle toward Dyrebury, cutting across the fields and disappearing into the Forest that once sheltered Jarvis Sessamy.
We heard nothing more of him for the rest of the day. Under strict orders not to discuss his departure with anyone, Handy returned to his duties. Lord Sessamy and I, not having the luxury of required chores, remained in the library, pouring over the map and wondering about Holmes’ movements and motives. We spoke in low tones, in order not to be overheard, and finally, bursting with curiosity and frustration, Lord Sessamy suggested that we take a gallop over the estate after lunch. I agreed and we spent a vigorous afternoon exploring the surrounding fields.
At sunset we returned to the Castle using the same route that had carried Jarvis Sessamy back home for the last time over two hundred years ago. There was no sign of Holmes. After dinner Lord Sessamy and I sat in silence over brandy and cigars in the library.
The clock sounded ten o’clock. I looked up to find Sherlock Holmes at the doorway. He had shed his disguise and stood clad in his own garments. He was holding an unlit dark lantern. Behind him Handy stood carrying our hats and coats. The butler stepped forward and offered them to us.
Holmes greeted us both in a cheerful manner.
“Good evening, gentlemen! It is past ten and most honest men have gone to bed. Would either of you like to accompany me to see the conclusion of this mystery of death and treasure?”
Lord Sessamy and I looked at each other. “Mr. Holmes!” the Baron cried. “Have you really solved the puzzle of how poor Mr. Aydin died?”
“I have every hope in bringing the entire affair to a head tonight, my lord. Here are your hats and coats. Thank you, Handy. Watson, have you your service revolver in your pocket? Good man! Here is the Baron’s carriage ready for us and here is Constable Relyonn ready in the box. Forward, Constable!”
With a creaking of springs and a jangle of harness, the carriage rolled out of the Castle courtyard and down the drive toward Dyrebury with us three inside and the figure of a stolid Yorkshire policeman up high handling the reins.
“I made the constable’s acquaintance this afternoon when he caught me lurking outside the back of the “Lamb and Lion”,” Holmes remarked. “We had a long talk back at the station and came to a meeting of the minds. He was troubled by Garrett Aydin’s death too, but the decision of “death by misadventure” from his superiors effectively closed his mouth. Now he has consented to help me test my theory based on the map, the book, and the letter.”
“Where are we going, Holmes” I asked.
“We are on our way to the one spot that is the center of all the stories about the Dyrebury Danger, the reason Dyrebury is famous throughout the land and the one spot that is not on the old map; St. Galena’s spring.”
The horses drawing the carriage clip-clopped quietly through town, past darkened windows and closed businesses. All we could hear were the calls of a few night birds and the distant barking of some farm dogs. The residences we passed were invisible in the darkness of the night with only an occasional streetlight to shed a glimmer on the cobblestones to indicate the street’s existence. Rural communities like Dyrebury are accustomed to closing their doors earlier than the great cities, for farmers must rise early to care for their stock and properties. The moon was low in the black sky and few stars were visible. The only signs of life were lights gleaming behind the red curtains of the old coaching inn and the faint sounds of revelry that issued from within it, indicating that not all had yet gone to bed, despite the lateness of the hour.
Our pilgrimage’s end was located halfway up a tall hill a half-mile from the last house outside Dyrebury on the far west side of the village. Behind a thick stand of trees was a little gully where the policeman left the carriage. We disembarked and, after Lord Sessamy introduced me to Constable Relyonn, we trudged around the rocks and brush of the hillside until we came to the front of the shrine. It was a pool of spring water surrounded by rocks and sheltered by an overhang of the cave behind it. Lord Sessamy murmured that the land on which the spring was located had been owned by an ancient family, now defunct. When the last owner died in his grandfather’s time, the spring was acquired by the Sessamy family to keep control of the property within the district. Holmes lit the dark lantern and flashed its beam on the pool.
The circle of light from the dark lantern slid over the spring, barely the size of a large wash tub. Within, water bubbled up from beneath the surface, always in motion yet never overflowing the edge. There must have been a channel running away under the surface. Steps and an iron railing led down into the spring for the ease of the sick to bath their limbs. A few dead leaves floated on the surface. Holmes’ light illuminated the stacks and piles of small stones and pebbles inside the cave left by centuries of pilgrims to show their faith and gratitude to St. Galena. On one side of the cave’s mouth was placed a time-worn statue of the saint, bent over a suffering man as she offered him a drink from a chalice. Except for the burbling of the spring, all was silent.
Holmes pulled out his watch from his waistcoat pocket and held it up to the light from his lantern.
“Our travel here took longer than I calculated. I expect developments soon. Please find hiding place behind those boulders over there. We must be prepared to wait. Regrettably I don’t believe it safe to smoke.”
We took up our positions as directed and Sherlock Holmes slid the shutter closed on the lantern. That plunged us into the blackness of the surrounding night and left only the smell of hot metal behind.
Lord Sessamy and I were bursting with questions, but Holmes’ statement effectively shut our mouths. The four of us huddled in the darkness. It was quiet except for the sound of our breathing. I couldn’t check my watch, but we sat there long enough that I grew weary of the inactivity. I had just dared to stretch out my leg to relieve a cramp when we all heard scraping noises from the direction of the spring.
It was the sound of footsteps climbing up the hill, using the irregula
r limestone outcroppings as stairs to the pool. A bobbing lantern showed two figures labouring up toward us. They were the figures of a man and a woman. They reached the mouth of the cave by the water and the man dropped a shovel on the rocky ground. The woman placed the lantern next to the shovel and sat down on a large stone. He bent over her. His face was lit by the glow from the lantern. It was Linus Boniface.
We all strained to hear their conversation.
“It’s a long climb up here,” said the man. “You rest a while and then we’ll go to work. My family has waited over two hundred years to claim their inheritance from Jarvis Sessamy and a few more minutes won’t matter.”
“It’s no longer than the trip from the kitchen to the fifth floor of the Castle,” replied the woman. I recognized her voice as that of Abigail the maid. “I’ve walked that often enough and for less reason than this. Oh, Linus, you have no idea how hard I’ve worked for this! Ever since Mr. Aydin took a shine to me and told me about his “great discovery” I’ve been trying to figure it out so you and I could get the treasure and finally be together!”
“You’ve been a clever girl and no mistake,” said Linus Boniface. “What you put up with from that old man!”
“I had to encourage him in order to get his secret. It wasn’t nice for me, you know. Every time he touched me I thought about you.”
“I wish he had never put his hands on you. You know, when you lured him down to the library that night and he finally showed you the book that held the key, I was glad to smash in his head with that cosh. It gave me a lot of satisfaction to see him dying on the floor, with the blood running out, and know he’d never bother you again.”
“I had him convinced that I’d marry him if he had enough money,” said Abigail, with a low laugh. “Now I’ve spent a week reading that highwayman story and I know I’ve solved the puzzle. Just think, Linus, all that money your ancestor stole and was going to give to Bess Boniface! We’ll dig up it up and be half-way to Edinburgh before sunrise. Oh, Linus, do you love me?”
Sherlock Holmes and the Folk Tale Mysteries - Volume 2 Page 4