Sherlock Holmes and the Folk Tale Mysteries - Volume 2

by Puhl, Gayle Lange

  “Just that, a summons to the “Ingbong Bell” to examine the remains,” he said. “I…”

  “Don’t even think about involving yourself in this case, Holmes,” I said forcefully. “You have only been out of bed a few days. In fact, I was just about to suggest that you lie down before dinnertime, to conserve your strength.”

  Sherlock Holmes let the paper flutter to the ground at his feet. “You are correct, friend Watson,” he replied. “Very well. I dare say that Dr. Barnes will be able to fill us in on all the details when he returns.” Without uttering another word Holmes allowed me to escort him upstairs to his room as our host drove through the front gate and clattered down the hill towards town.

  The lamps had been lit and we were wondering if we should sit down to eat when Galen Barnes walked in the back door after leaving his horse with the stable boy.

  “I have kept you waiting long enough, gentlemen,” he said as he hung up his hat. “Please go in to the dining room and I will be with you in a moment.”

  We had just been served the soup when our host, hastily washed and brushed, took his seat at the head of the table.

  With my sharp medical eye upon him, Sherlock Holmes made a great show of merely casual interest when Barnes mentioned, during the joint, about his errand to the “Ingbong Bell”. “We don’t have much excitement around here, Mr. Holmes. Fletcherford is much quieter than London. When the news first broke of little Kitty Cymric’s disappearance, I thought it best not to say anything to you.”

  “You don’t need any new excitement,” I said. Holmes smiled.

  “Well, friend Watson, the cat is out of the bag now. Watson will tell you, Dr. Barnes, once I get the scent there’s no keeping this old hound out of the hunt.” I knew then my cause was lost. I decided to be grateful for the days of rest Holmes had already had and accept the inevitable.

  “You may as well tell all,” I sighed, “or there will be no living with him.”

  The plates were taken away and cheese and fruit were placed on the table. Dr. Barnes offered cigars and port before he began to recall the events of his visit to the old public house.

  “The “Ingbong Bell” was built on the foundation stones of a small Catholic abbey torn down by Henry VIII’s order. The abbey was noted for the clarity of its bell, which was cast in the field nearby. St. Bartholomew’s was built as Church of England. It got the bell for its tower during Elizabeth’s time, but the name went to the public house.

  “For the past twenty years the landlord has been Nathan Nebelung. He has two sons, who help him with the business. His wife, a local girl named Cora, minds the kitchen, and their daughter is barmaid. Mrs. Nebelung is the sister of Fletcherford’s most successful merchant, the haberdasher Birman Manx. The Nebelungs also employ a young kitchen maid at the “Bell”. The maid was Kitty Cymric, an orphan girl of fourteen summers, who had been there for nearly a year.

  “From all reports, the girl was ordered about and worked long hours, but she had a sweet and accommodating nature. Kathleen Nebelung, the daughter, and her Manx cousin were particularly fond of her. The two girls made a kind of pet of her. Then two weeks ago Kitty and Kathleen had a falling out. Kitty grew quiet. While she did her work as faithfully as before, she took to disappearing during odd hours and refusing to tell anyone where she had been. Finally, two nights ago, she walked out of the kitchen after the last batch of dishes were washed and never came back.

  “They missed her the next morning. At first Nebelung thought she had run away. But a search of her room showed at all her possessions, including her Sunday dress and a little hoard of coins, totalling 1 shilling, thruppence, had been left behind. That was when the alarm was given. The area was searched and today her body was found at the bottom of an old well forgotten in the woods at the edge of the abbey grounds.

  “The remains had been taken to a shed in the mews behind the pub. Chartreux met me at the door. The shed had no windows and the only light came from the lantern he held up and the open doors. The body, clad in her work dress, stockings and shoes, was laid out on planks set on two trestles in the centre of the room.

  “She had died of a broken neck, doubtlessly from the fall. The well had been dry. There was evidence of a wooden cover, which had long since rotted away. In fact, knowledge of the well had been lost to the local residents. It must have served the old abbey. After the abbey’s destruction it been hidden by a stand of trees and brush that grew up around it. Thomas Stout’s dog had been barking at the trees. When Stout went to see the reason he nearly fell into it himself.”

  “There were no other marks on her?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

  “I found nothing suspicious. Her dress was snagged by thorns from a wild rosebush that grew at the edge of the well. There was a bruise on her forehead consistent with what she would have received by falling down the shaft. It must have knocked her unconscious. The broken neck was plain enough. The only other mark was one on her forearm. I couldn’t match it to anything caused by her fall. It almost looked like a set of fingers. But Mrs. Nebelung said she had slapped her arm the night she disappeared for some minor kitchen infraction. In fact, that’s why they thought she had run away. I told Constable Chartreux I had a pair of London gentlemen staying with me and he allowed me to bring back the depositions he took from the witnesses who saw her that last night.”

  “Thank you. I will read them later. So you found nothing else on the body?”

  “The only odd thing was what I discovered clutched in her right hand. It was a cloth wadded up into a tight ball. I unfolded it and found a lady’s kerchief, with the initial K on it. I showed it to the Nebelungs. They had never seen it before. I thought that odd, so I asked Chartreux if I could bring it along for you to see. He agreed to let you look at the thing, although he believes Kitty’s death was just an accident. She must have fallen down the well while walking in the moonlight that night. The coroner is away and the inquest has been planned for his return next week.”

  Sherlock Holmes took the proffered kerchief and smoothed it out on the table. “Observe, Watson. This handkerchief is made of fine linen and edged with lace. The letter K is hand-embroidered in pink silk floss. This scrap of finery didn’t belong to little Kitty Cymric. This is not the kerchief of a kitchen worker. The question becomes how did the kitchen maid come into possession of such a prize?”

  “Perhaps she bought it,” said I.

  “Such a thing would cost her three weeks’ wages. Remember the little stash of coins found in her room. Kitty was a saver, not a spender.”

  “She found it, then.”

  “That would be unlikely. It is still stiff with the commercial starch new handkerchiefs are treated with during the manufacturing process. This scrap of cloth has never been washed. There are no marks or stains on it. Who would throw away such a nice kerchief? No, she didn’t find it in a dustbin or along the road.”

  “A gift, then,” Barnes suggested.

  “Given to her by whom? There are no reports of a suitor. The people closest to her have never seen it before. Human nature would demand that a young servant would display such a prize to her friends.”

  “Then she must have stolen it,” I said.

  “Ah, there is that possibility,” replied Sherlock Holmes. “Was she known as a thief?”

  “No,” said Dr. Barnes. “Her employers spoke highly of her honesty. She once confessed to the breaking of a platter that Mrs. Nebelung had forgotten she owned and would never have known was missing.”

  Holmes folded the handkerchief. “It is too late to continue the investigation this evening. I propose that we call it a night and resume our quest after breakfast tomorrow. Where is the body?”

  “Constable Chartreux ordered a watch over the girl in the shed overnight while a coffin is readied for her funeral tomorrow afternoon. Due to the condition of the body it is thought prudent no
t to wait any longer than that. She will be interred in St. Bartholomew’s churchyard at three.”

  “Then we have several things to do before the service, gentlemen. I would point out one fact to the constable, Dr. Barnes. On the night of the accident there was no moon. Good night. I will see you at breakfast.”

  We arrived at the “Ingbong Bell” the next morning. The public house stood with a small courtyard in front of it in a street at the far edge of town. There were stables and sheds in a narrow mews behind it. Beyond that was a section of the woods and a fallow field. The brick and timber “Bell” was three stories tall with a line of dormers sticking out of the long thatched roof. Multi-paned windows flanked either side of a low entrance door in the centre. The courtyard was paved with flagstones laid down before Shakespeare was born. Dr. Barnes guided the carriage into the mews at the rear of the “Bell” where the stables and storage sheds were situated. The doctor pulled up in front of an outbuilding with a bicycle propped up by the door. He was greeted by a burly man in a police uniform. Our host introduced us to Constable Chartreux, a tall Cambridgeshire native with a large brown moustache. Sherlock Holmes wasted little time in conversation but moved to examine the body of the unfortunate girl. He motioned for Chartreux to pull back the sheet covering the still form.

  “I am particularly interested in the bruises on her arm,” he said. “In which hand did you find the kerchief, Dr. Barnes?”

  “In the right hand,” replied the doctor.

  “Then we may take as supposition that she was right-handed. Yes, the right palm and arm are slightly larger than the left. The hand has been exercised more; therefore the muscles are more developed.” He drew back the sleeve of her dress. “Ah, here are the bruises mentioned. Look at this, Watson, through my magnifying glass. The marks curve around the arm, the thumb on top and four fingers on the bottom. Now, friend Watson, hold out your arm. I slap you thus, as might a housewife if a child reaches for the sugar bowl. Observe that all the fingers strike you on the top of your forearm. None curl around the arm. It doesn’t matter from which angle the blow is made. The result is the same. The only way to explain these bruises is that the arm was gripped, and gripped hard, and held for a time.”

  “That is amazing, Holmes!” I said.

  “The bruises also show that the attacker was also right-handed, male and quite strong. Look at the size of the finger marks. They were made by a man’s hand. The colour of the bruises indicate the strength used. Someone wanted her to open her fingers and release the kerchief.”

  Dr. Barnes and Constable Chartreux watched in fascination at Holmes’ demonstration. When he was finished, Chartreux pulled up the sheet. Just then we were interrupted by a knock on the open door and the appearance of a young lady. Dr. Barnes introduced her as Kathleen Nebelung, daughter of the innkeeper and little Kitty Cymric’s former friend.

  She was a young woman of eighteen years, chocolate-box pretty, with rosy cheeks, blonde hair and blue eyes somewhat bedewed with tears. Her plumb figure was dressed in a green cotton gown and a little black bow rode the waves of her piled-up locks as her sign of mourning. A gold locket on a chain nestled on her bosom just below her smooth throat. She wore no rings, as befit a young woman who was required to squire tankards of beer to thirsty customers each day, and she stood in the doorway twisting a corner of her apron with her fingers.

  Sherlock Holmes questioned her gently, asking about Kitty’s early days in the pub and the way the friendship grew between the kitchen maid and the innkeeper’s daughter. In a short while he had gained Miss Nebelung’s trust and she relaxed under his eye.

  “I understand that a week before Kitty disappeared you and she had a falling-out,” said the detective. “Please tell me about that.”

  Tears welled up in the young woman’s eyes. She dabbed at them with the hem of her apron. “I began walking out with Johnny Flynn last spring. He works with his father on the Fletcher estate. He’s handsome and fun and treats me like a queen. Here is his picture.” She opened the locket and showed us an image of a curly-haired, cleft-chinned man with a broad smile.

  Holmes examined it gravely and asked how Kitty had reacted to the arrangement. “She was happy for us, but after months of seeing us together she began questioning everything he said and did. She told me he was not the man I thought he was, that he didn’t mean the little compliments he paid me and finally she told me he was keeping a secret from me. I lost my temper. I told her she was jealous of my happiness, and to never talk to me again unless she could prove her accusations. After that I avoided her as much as I could. Then mother started complaining that Kitty was becoming secretive and was never where she was supposed to be. It wasn’t until she went missing that I felt bad and wondered if it was my cold shoulder that drove her away.”

  “Will Johnny Flynn be with you at the funeral this afternoon?”

  “Yes.”

  Sherlock Holmes brought out the lace handkerchief and showed it to her. “Have you ever seen this before?”

  The young lady picked up the cloth and examined it. She shook her head and her curls bounced. “It’s very pretty, but it’s not mine.”

  “Did you ever see Kitty with this kerchief?”

  “Kitty? Where would she get such a nice thing? No, Kitty Cymric never owned a kerchief like this. She had an old piece of calico she carried in her pocket. Now she’s dead and I’ll never have a chance to make up with her.” Kathleen Nebelung burst into tears and hastily excused herself.

  Sherlock Holmes let her go. He turned to Dr. Barnes and Constable Chartreux. “Have you heard of this Johnny Flynn?”

  The police officer nodded. “I’ve seen him about with Kathleen. He’s assistant groundskeeper with his dad over at the Fletcher estate. Baron Fletcher’s family has been at Fletcherford since before Richard II. Johnny is the only son and frankly, the family have pinned their hopes on him. He hangs out with a fast crowd, but he seems more settled since he began seeing Kathleen.”

  Dr. Barnes shook his head. “I have been the physician for the Fletcher estate for years, both the family and the servants. Johnny’s mother and his sisters idolized him since the day he was born. I consider him spoiled. Anything he ever wanted they managed to get him. I remember Joan, his oldest sister, spending all her pocket money to get him some candy he cried for when he was a child. I’m not surprised about his choice of friends. Johnny Flynn never met a bottle or a billiard cue that he didn’t like.”

  “Who is his closest friend?”

  “That would be Tim Purcey. I saw him in the courtyard when we came in.”

  Another knock sounded at the open door and two men came in, somberly dressed. Behind them I saw a coffin made of fresh pine boards resting on a cart. The older man removed his hat and said, “Excuse me, sirs. We’re from Murdstone and Marley. We’re here to pick up the deceased. There isn’t much time to get her ready for the services this afternoon and Mr. Murdstone is waiting back at the shop.”

  “Of course,” said Constable Chartreux. We left him and the undertaker’s men to their melancholy task and walked out into the mews.

  Dr. Barnes looked at his watch. “My surgery starts at 10 o’clock, so I must be going back. May I offer you gentlemen a ride?”

  “I believe I will walk, if Dr. Watson doesn’t object. I’d like to take this opportunity to explore Fletcherford while the good weather holds. Watson, you go with the doctor.”

  “I’d rather stay with you, Holmes.”

  “Nonsense, I’ll be perfectly fine. I’ll be back by luncheon.” Holmes insisted and finally I agreed. The last sight I had of Sherlock Holmes was as the tall, pale detective watched the undertaker’s men carried out the coffin from the shed toward the cart.

  There was a line of patients waiting for Galen Barnes at the surgery. I took up a medical periodical in his study and tried to read it. I admit the articles didn’t spark m
y interest and I spent most of the time watching out the front window for Holmes’ return. Finally, just as the last patient left and the butler struck the Chinese gong for lunch, I saw Sherlock Holmes come through the garden gate. He looked tired, but his eyes were bright and a smile was on his lips. My heart rose. He looked like his old self. I had to concede that involvement in this case had completed the cure I had begun.

  During the mid-day meal Holmes spoke of the local architecture and the general history of the region. When we finished Dr. Barnes pushed back from the table. He looked at the mantle clock and remarked, “The funeral is scheduled for three o’clock. I’ll order the carriage to be ready by a quarter to.”

  “I would like to arrive a little earlier,” Holmes said. “The churchyard is quite ancient and I would like to spend some time among the tombstones. One can find such interesting old epitaphs in these small burying-grounds.”

  “Then I’ll make it two-thirty,” Dr. Barnes said and thus it was agreed. Meanwhile Holmes and I retired to the long wooden bench with the London papers.

  At the appointed time we arrived at St. Bartholomew’s. A crowd had begun to gather, but Holmes led us off to the side, away from the freshly dug grave. We wandered through the cemetery, examining a few of the stones, until we fetched up behind the people massed around the newly arrived pine coffin.

  It was not a large group, consisting of about a dozen people and, standing off to one side, Constable Chartreux. A short man in robes, the vicar, was fussing with his prayer book. At Holmes’ request, Dr. Barnes pointed out the main mourners.

  “The round, chubby-cheeked man is Nathan Nebelung, and the woman with him is his wife, Cora. Her brother Birman and his wife stand next to her, and their daughter Katrina Manx is there with Kathleen. The young men at the back are the Nebelung sons. Those men in back of them are old-timers at the “Bell”. That young fellow who just arrived and joined the girls is Johnny Flynn.”