by David Marcum
Our progress was slow because at each place where a number of roads branched off, Holmes had to get down and make a close inspection of the surface of the road. This occasionally prompted some coarse comments from bystanders. After two hours, we and the horse needed refreshment, and so we repaired to an inn about four miles to the east of Woolwich, near Plumstead. The White Swan was far from white. It was typical of so many public houses. The interior, even the saloon bar, was in need of some paint. The furnishings were dedicated more to the consumption of ale and spirits, rather than the physical comfort of weary travellers.
I commented, “Did you read that article in one of the newspapers that compared our inns most unfavourably with their equivalent on the Continent?”
“Yes, I did,” replied Holmes, “and I agreed with every word. We have stayed in some dreadful places.”
As we sat eating bread and cheese and drinking the local ale, we heard the sound of a railway engine’s whistle. It came from a level crossing further down the road. This prompted my friend to say, “Watson, I am finding it increasingly difficult to find clear indications of the progress of the pantechnicon. Reluctantly, I shall have to make what I trust is an informed guess.”
“I know that that is a step you usually avoid.”
“I am going to assume,” he said, “that the villains have gone onto the marshes on the other side of the railway. The crossing keeper may be able to provide some useful information.”
After we had finished our rather unsatisfactory meal, we drove toward the crossing. As the keeper appeared from his hut, Holmes said, “Good morning. Do many people come this way?”
“Since the brick works over there closed, not many,” was the reply. “There ain’t not much out on the marsh. Any rate, most uses the road from Abbey Wood station, just down the line.”
“Most helpful,” said Holmes. “Now we are going to take a walk out on the marsh. There could be some interesting birds to see. We’ll leave the horse and trap with you. I hope you do not mind? Here’s a florin for your trouble.”
“Thank you very much, sir. I’ll watch ‘em for you.”
We set off, trusting that we gave the impression of being ornithologists.
“Did you observe the damage to the gate post of the crossing?” said Holmes. “That could have been struck by the pantechnicon.”
“We cannot be certain of that,” said I. “It could have been made at any time recently.”
“Come, come, my friend. Surely, in the interest of safety, the railway company would have had the gate post mended as soon as possible. That damage was done this morning.”
“Holmes,” said I, “you know I am not up to too much walking. Slow down a bit please.
“Sorry, old chap. Forgot. Your leg of course.”
“Why did we leave the trap?” I asked.
“We could not take the trap, as it would alert the villains of our approach. That is, if we are still on their trail. We may find ourselves standing on the bank of the Thames and having to retrace our steps, and start looking for the trail again.”
As so often happened, a day that had started out as a bright summer morning was now overcast with lowering dark clouds scudding across the sky. Neither of us was dressed to resist the heavy driving rain that suddenly assailed us. My protestations at having to proceed in such dreadful weather were answered by Holmes. “This rain will hide our approach, but it is also washing away the tracks of the pantechnicon.”
On each side stretched the marshes and numerous drainage ditches. As we progressed, an old fortress and a prison hulk loomed ahead. The latter still retained some features from the time when it had been one of Nelson’s ships at Trafalgar. It lay listing to one side on its muddy bed. Its one remaining mast pointed to the sky as if it were an accusing finger for the dreadful life in chains of those who had been confined there, before being sent onward to Australia. The hulk reminded me of the start of Dickens’ Great Expectations, a battered copy of whose words had provided some relief when I was recovering after being wounded in the Afghan campaign.
My thoughts were interrupted by my friend saying, “That’s most interesting. The crossing keeper never mentioned the fort and the hulk. I wonder why?”
“Holmes, do you think we will find the machine in the hulk?”
“No, most unlikely. If it is as big as we have been told, the rotten timbers of the old ship would have collapsed under the weight. If it is here, then it would be in the old fort.”
Holmes suddenly said, “Watson, listen, can you hear what I hear? It’s the horses and the furniture van. They are going back along another road across the marsh.”
“We’ll never catch them now,” said I. “By the time we get back to the trap they will be long gone.”
“Ah, but listen at the speed with which those horses are being driven. That strongly suggests that the van is empty. The machine must have been unloaded inside the fort.”
Peering through the driving rain, we studied the remains of the fort. It stood on the only stretch of firm ground at the side of the river. There was only one opening in the wall wide enough to admit a large van. Indicating that I should not speak, Holmes moved into the fort. I followed with my hand on the butt of the pistol in my pocket. I wanted to say, “Holmes, hold on. What are we doing? This is for the police.” But then I remembered the injunction at the start of our quest that the fewer privy to the matter, the better.
Holmes grasped my arm and pointed to one side, to indicate I should take the passage on my left. He left me and went to search further into the centre of the fort. I felt my way along in the gloom of what light came from the sky above the roofless fort. The only sounds were the wind and the rain beating against the old stone walls. I could hear no voices until I heard a shout. “Stop or we’ll shoot! Drop your stick!” The shout made me jump. I could hear voices coming from the direction which Holmes had taken. I assumed that he had encountered the criminals, but, perhaps, to my dismay, they had seized him.
Once again, Holmes had entered a trap. I thought, “Surely I am not going to have to go through the experience of the Noble Affair again?”
For what seemed an eternity, I stood still, listening to the threats being hurled at Holmes. I concluded that there must be at least ten men into whose arms my friend had fallen. My first thought was, “To spring at them with my revolver?” But then the realisation that I might endanger the life of my friend prompted caution. I retraced my steps as quietly as I could. I left the fort. I was intent on reaching the railway and persuading the crossing keeper to let me send a telegram to Mycroft.
My old wounds ached and pained me more than ever as I forced myself to half run back along the road. At any minute, I expected a shot to whistle past my ear, or send me sprawling with a wound or, even worse, to be killed. When I reached the crossing, the keeper helped me to a chair. I was exhausted. My first words were, “I must summon help. Please, you must send a message for me over the telegraphic apparatus.”
“Sorry, sir, ain’t no telegraph. This ain’t a proper signal box. I’ve only got them indicators that tells me if a train’s a-coming.”
At that, I struggled to my feet, and with his help, I climbed into the trap and whipped up the horse. I had to get to Plumstead Station telegraph office as soon as possible. I urged the horse onward. Suddenly, part of the harness gave way. I managed to stop the horse and got down to see what was wrong. I soon discovered that one of the buckles had not been fastened properly. I was quickly on my way again.
At Plumstead, I telegraphed, “They’ve got Holmes. We must rescue him. At least ten villains in old fort on Plumstead Marshes.”
I waited anxiously at the station. An hour later, Mycroft and some of the gentlemen from the Arsenal arrived in two hired cabs. Immediately we set off for the fort. I was relieved to see my companions’ revolvers being loaded in anticipation
of trouble.
There was no dramatic attack on the fort, no securing of the criminals, and no rescue of Sherlock Holmes. When we entered, we could find neither the machine, nor Holmes. I thought, “Have the birds flown and taken the machine with them?” But then I remembered Holmes deciding that the speed with which the horses had been moving along the other road indicated that the pantechnicon was empty. The machine must have still been in the fort.
With dusk about to make it too difficult to continue searching, we returned to London, leaving a pair of guards in place. As we travelled back, my thoughts became a battle between great concern for the well-being of Holmes and my expectation that, despite all difficulties, as in previous cases, he would survive by some means or other.
The next morning Mrs. Hudson brought up a letter that had been delivered by hand.
“Doctor, this was on the mat when I went down to pick up the papers. Is Mr. Holmes all right? His bed has not been slept in.”
“I trust so, Mrs. Hudson.”
I tore open the letter. It was in Holmes’s handwriting. I had an immediate sense of relief, but then a sense of trepidation as I read the letter. He said that he was in good health but his life was in danger unless £10,000 in gold was handed over to his captors. They would tell me how and where it had to be paid over later in the day.
I was relieved when Superintendent Shershay, of Scotland Yard’s Criminal Investigation Department, and Mycroft Holmes arrived soon after. The latter explained that he had been able to persuade the gentlemen we had met at the Arsenal that the wellbeing of the country’s foremost scientific detective was of more value, or at least equal, to that of their machine. Therefore, it had been agreed that Scotland Yard had to be told about it. We discussed what had to be done, or rather what might be done, to effect a rescue of my friend and the recovery of the machine. I told them about the letter I had received.
“You say that yesterday’s search,” said Shershay, “found neither Mr. Holmes nor the machine, and no trace of the thieves. Let me see the letter please, Doctor.”
I took it out of my pocket, and as I did so, the envelope that had been with it fell to the floor. As I stooped to pick it up, my eye caught the address that I had ignored when I first received it because I was more concerned with its contents. There, staring me in the face, was a possible clue to Holmes’s whereabouts. It read: “Dr. John Livorno Watson, Private and Confidential, 221b Baker Street”. As with the Noble Affair, I had been given a name I did not possess. “Livorno. What could that mean?” I thought.
When I pointed out the addition to my name Mycroft said, “Livorno? Surely that’s in Italy!”
We debated what had to be done next, and why Holmes had chosen “Livorno” to guide us to where he was being held captive.
“All the same,” I replied, “we must make another search of the fort. We will have the advantage of a bright day.”
In the sunlight, the old fort looked less forbidding. It was reported that no one had returned during the night. I was determined, as I am sure the Superintendent was, to apply the methods used by Holmes to reveal clues. We examined all the walls, in anticipation that there might be a concealed door or opening. Eventually, we came to a large space, along one side of which were three large hinged iron doors. I thought, “Holmes would advise us to study the floor before anything else.”
“Does not look as if anyone has been here,” said Shershay. “There are no marks or footprints.”
“Superintendent,” said I, “the stone floor is covered with earth that appears to have been recently put down. It’s too fresh looking. These marks suggest that any footprints were swept away.”
I made a furrow in the dirt that covered the floor and said, “I think this shows that there is something in this chamber that the villains want to hide. Let us have a closer look. Don’t you agree?”
We managed to push aside some of the earth.
“Look at this,” said I. “The floor has been covered to hide these scratches in the stone. They look clean and sharp. Could they have been made by the effort needed to move the parts of the machine?”
“Ah, I see what you mean, Doctor,” responded the Superintendent. “You have been most observant. We may find the machine in one of what may have been powder magazines, and, possibly, I hope, Mr. Holmes.”
Each door was held shut by a long iron or steel bar set into a socket and secured by a padlock. All parts of the doors, including the padlocks, were covered in red rust and gave no indication that they had been disturbed for many years.
Shershay and Mycroft were examining closely each of the rusty padlocks. The latter began to brush away the rust on one of them.
“Look at this,” said Mycroft. “It is a new padlock. They’ve disguised it with this mixture, I presume, of rust and clay.”
“We are going to need a locksmith,” said I. “If I had Holmes’s set of special tools I might be able to open it. The other day he instructed me in how to use them. An activity, Superintendent, which I suppose I should not admit in front of an officer of the law.”
Shershay said, “We’ll have to force the lock somehow. We must look for an iron rod or bar. There must be something lying around. Don’t suggest that I shoot it off. That idea is only to be found in a Penny Dreadful story. If I used my gun, the bullet could bounce off and injure one of us. Anyway, it will take more than a revolver bullet.”
Despite the debris and rubbish that abounded in the fort, it took some time before we came upon a suitable length of iron rod. It took the combined effort of three of us to force the padlock open. Despite the gloomy interior of the magazine, we could clearly see a large black shape having many wheels and levers. But, no sign of my friend.
“That must be what we are looking for,” said Mycroft.
I could not bring myself to join in the examination of the strange looking machine. I was too concerned about what might have happened to Holmes. “Livorno, Livorno?” continued to whirl around my brain. Then for some unaccountable reason, it came to me that Livorno, the city in Tuscany, has a breed of hen named after it. And the Livorno Hen in England is called a Leghorn.
“Gentlemen,” said I, “Holmes may have indicated that he is being held in a place called Leghorn, somewhere in London. Is there such a place?”
“It is more than likely the name of a road,” responded Shershay.
“Superintendent, have you got a street directory with you?” I asked.
He produced a well-thumbed copy from his pocket and flicked through the pages. “Ah, here we have a Leghorn Road in Plumstead,” he said. “And, of course, there is also a Leghorn Road in Harlesden. I remember a case some years ago of a murder I had to investigate there. But I doubt they have taken Mr. Holmes that far.”
“I agree, the villains may not have gone as far as Harlesden,” said I. “It is more likely the one in Plumstead.”
At Plumstead police station, Shershay, with the authority of Scotland Yard, instructed the local superintendent to provide an inspector and six constables to accompany us to Leghorn Road. They were told nothing more than we were investigating a kidnapping of a prominent person.
When we arrived close to the road, we kept out of sight round the corner. It was decided that I should go along the road by myself, so as not to alert the criminals of an attempt to rescue Holmes. Leghorn Road had about thirty terraced houses: each not more than ten years old, and of the type favoured by shopkeepers and clerks.
“You will attract too much attention.” Shershay said to me. “You must disguise yourself.” Turning to the Inspector, he said, “let this gentleman borrow your scarf. Now let us make the hat look as if it has seen better days.” At that, he took my hat and proceeded to stamp on it. Although it was my best and not very old, I considered it was a small sacrifice if it enabled us to rescue Holmes.
“The gentleman just can’
t stroll along the road peerin at the ouses. He’ll look very suspicious,” opined the Inspector.
“What do you suggest?” asked Shershay.
As he spoke, a knife grinder came along, pushing his clumsy machine. The Inspector called him over. “Come er Stringer.”
“Come orf it, Inspector. I ain’t not done nothing.”
“This is Stringer,” said the Inspector. “I’ve many a times had im up for loitering with hintent, and more than once I’ve nearly nabbed im for nippin into ouses when doors as been left open.”
The outcome of this encounter was that Stringer, who had no choice, agreed that I should go along the street with him and pretend to be his mate. It would give me the opportunity to study each house as we went. I had to push the heavy grinding machine, and not appear to be other than what I pretended to be.
We moved slowly along with Stringer, calling out, “Knives, sharpen yer knives!” Without revealing my intent, I examined each house as we passed or stopped. Each of the houses presented a similar appearance: net curtains across the parlour windows, with an aspidistra just visible. For ten minutes or so, when a housewife came out with knives that needed sharpening, I leant against the machine and endeavoured to study the house to see if there were any clues as to what may be happening inside. I crossed off my mental list the house whose knives were being sharpened. I eliminated another three because I could not imagine that the criminals could suffer the appalling noise made by the numerous small children. However, I also thought I might be mistaken, because children could be the perfect distraction. Stringer continued to provide information about the inhabitants of another three: a teacher of music, a town hall clerk and a grocer. He knew all about them and told me that, to the best of his knowledge about criminal activity in that part of London, they were “straight”.