The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II
Page 29
“By all means. We look forward to an illuminating conversation.”
The little professional whistled up a waggonette. “The Candlebat Inn,” Lestrade instructed. To us he muttered: “Abraham Quantock is possibly failing in his senses. He is obsessed with getting full value of damages from the theft that we believe Stapleton committed upon him, but his notion of reparation is...” He glanced about him, though by now there was no one to hear. “It was you who first suspected he was behind the Folkestone Court murder and theft.”
“I still do.”
“Well, Sir Henry agrees, and it should be a simple case of collecting the testimony of the damages incurred by Stapleton. But here Mr. Quantock wants the damages of the page’s death to go to him, not the grieving family! He claims that as the page - Artie Baldwin - was in his employ, thus he is the one with reparations, as he had to do without a page thanks to Stapleton.”
Lestrade rested his chin on his hand and we could see for the first time the hours of sleepless duty upon his face. “He refuses reason, Holmes, and swears if he is not satisfied he will sell and move to London, and the very thought has panicked the people. Quantock is the lifeblood of these people.” Oddly as he said this, his eye fell upon a watching herder and he frowned.
“Does he own the cattle?” I asked.
“He rents the land for the cattle and the land is vital for the milk that makes their famous butter. The dairies need the wild grazing. Everything here is bound to the cows! It is the only reason why the train even stops here on the way to Coombe Tracey.”
“This is indeed a problem. What of the page’s family?”
Lestrade groaned. “The father is Charlie Baldwin, a retired seaman and an outsider, but well-liked for all of that. His mother’s needlework at Court got Artie the post. They relied on his small income as a page, but upon his death the pressure is on to bow to let Quantock have all of the restitution... even though they are close to being evicted for their struggle to pay rent, because it was all on their head to pay for Young Artie’s funeral!”
“Perhaps you could explain Sir Henry’s instructions.”
“The baronet is leery of Quantock. He will pay full value to Folkestone Court all damages proven wrought by that wretched Stapleton, which is estimated at £3,000 and no more. He is content to pay for the glazier’s time in the repair of the cut window used to gain entrance, you see, but not for the glass itself, which Quantock picked up and threw to the floor in his rage. Mr. Mortimer is the one who sewed him up when the shard caught his cheek.”
“Forever charming.” Holmes murmured. Although the news was sensational, I could not understand why he was in deep thought. Clearly there were facets of this case that escaped me, and I could only wait for the outcome. “Is Mortimer available?”
“He is at a dig on Lewis. I could try to contact him for you.”
“Perhaps later. Would it be difficult to see this scene of old crime?”
“Quantock is expecting a final meeting of the scene tomorrow morning. And here we are.”
We could now see the inn. It was a large cube built alongside a skeleton-thin road that by neglect had worn down to little more than ribbons in the grass. A broad man with a wooden peg-leg scattered barley for a flock of hens beneath a large painted sign of white moths before a lantern - the “candlebats” of the Inn.
“It looks pleasant.” I offered.
“Be careful outside it. There are many ears.” Lestrade murmured. His gaze, we saw, had never completely left off from watching the solitary herder in the fields.
Holmes left for a walk. My old wounds had drained me, so I spent the time jotting down my impressions and the facts of the case as I knew them. A stately country dame brought a tea tray, and even the skimmed milk held lumps of butter. Stories of the White Cattle were not exaggerated.
It was a pleasant place, not unlike Coombe Tracy. The thick Dartmoor mists were but weak wisps, easily taken by the fresh sunlight and the touch of the sea-breeze from the south. Instead of wild ponies and crags, I saw tame bovine and stone crosses. I knew Holmes saw the countryside as silent wells of horror, but here it was hard to imagine anything more violent than the inn’s moths flying into the lantern.
Lestrade and Holmes returned and fell upon their portions. Afterwards, Holmes settled back upon the bed with his knees drawn to his chest, unconscious of anything but his pipe and the occasional question. I opened the window, and Lestrade filled me in on pertinent details that I would not have found without weeks of gossip: Quantock’s anxiety over money, he assured me, was rooted in his purse.
“It isn’t cheap to own a monster like the Court,” he said over his own buttery coffee. “All that history means freezing rooms and tons of coal burning nonstop to keep the frost off the floor. It smokes like London year-round! Why, I’m certain he has a full staff just to keep down the mold. The Quantock fortune is bound up in legal knots, and he can’t get at it or raise any rents.”
“We are alone now. What else do you know about the Baldwins?”
“They rent this inn, and they are afraid to be seen talking to anyone,” Lestrade said into his cup. By his actions, my friend had as much proclaimed his loyalty to the Baldwins. “Charlie is joked about as Folkestone’s last Catholic. He met and married Miss Fern Runston when he was reduced from ferrying Onion Johnnies from Brittany into becoming one himself. Artie was their only son, but another has arrived since. Injuries keep Charlie from putting in a full day, but he is clever and makes string bags to sell to the dairies to carry the small tubs of butter. His style of stringing has become part of the signature of the area, and they would all grieve if the family had to leave.”
“Something puzzles me... Mortimer knows Quantock?”
“He knows the Court’s collection.” Lestrade shuddered. “Simply all sorts of dead things on every wall - bones, skulls, feathers, stuffed and mounted beasts. The late Oriana was like most Quantocks and collected. Lichens and insects. Before the murder, her frames took up the entire library wall! The servants say Abraham is not a collector, unless one counts coins.”
“If there are bones, Mortimer would visit. It sounds like a museum.”
“It is! Do you remember when Ellen Terry played Lady Macbeth at the Lyceum back in ‘88?”
I said that was six years ago, but no one who had seen the fire-haired Queen of Theatre could forget her in her glittering green dress of a thousand wings of the Jewel Beetle.
“Miss Oriana was consulted for the dress design because she knew beetles so well. Discreetly of course - her people wouldn’t like any connexion with actresses living arrears.”
“How did you learn this?”
“Miss Oriana was the consultant, but Mrs. Baldwin’s needle made the samples.”
“I see.”
“Miss Oriana hoped to make the Court a private museum. Folkestone approved because it would encourage the sort they like - moneyed temporary visitors who gad about with their nets and jars, breeze in and breeze out. The subscriptions would have modernized the Court and, of course, the butter would be sold on-site without the added expense of shipping it off to the city. But now it is all going to go to waste.” Lestrade morosely toyed with his gloves. “And suddenly... Mr. Quantock has recently claimed the only that thing will satisfy this affair is the deed to Merripit House.”
Sherlock Holmes had been calmly smoking, but at this news he sat bolt upright. “That is very odd, Lestrade!” His grey eyes glittered with a feverish excitement that I did not understand.
“The house is an eyesore, but would improve with a grazier, and the orchard comes with twenty hives of black bees. Lastly, the well has never dried up, and you know how valuable that is. Sir Henry may easily profit after a little work on it.”
“There is something about this that tastes bad.” I ventured. “I cannot quite put my finger on it.”
“You are out of your depth, Lestrade. You should have summoned me.”
“I am being watched.” Lestrade said with grave dignity. “Poor folk, desperate and afraid to see the end of their livelihoods. I hold them no grudge, but I wish for restitution of my own.”
“I daresay you will get your wish. And you will see Quantock tomorrow?”
“Early on.”
“Sir Henry?”
“He said it is a low thing to be predictable to one’s enemies. He has authorized me with full powers of decision if I must.” Lestrade produced the necessary letter from the baronet.
“Sir Henry is a cunning fox.” Holmes admired. “Very well. The three of us will venture out and gird this cave-lion in his draughty den.”
“You should not mention the smuggling, Watson. It would not be in the best interests of the people in your sensationalist writings.”
I set down my pen. “And I will not, I assure you.”
“You practically have, my good Watson. A lantern painted on the Inn-sign! The proximity to Plymouth! The use of Bretons! The stone manse!”
“I did not mention the old shipwreck’s lookout, or the unanswered questions about the root cause of the Quantock’s original wealth, Holmes. I could not mention any of these things without being forced to comment on the local’s surreptitious form of income.”
“We are in agreement.” Holmes riposted pettishly. Being feverish never helped his temper, and I ignored it. It was better to encourage him to health. “And do not put Lestrade in the ending.”
“I would not dream of it.”
“Do not be overly descriptive of Quantock. Put him down as the world’s scrawniest toad and leave it at that.”
“I am not sure that is possible, Holmes. There is no such thing as a lean toad.”
“I was referring to his complexion.”
“Holmes, you may read this for yourself when I am finished.”
“Must I?”
Abraham Quantock allowed us entrance to his private study that was so poorly lit it gave him the impression of a lean toad. His flat, moist blue eyes glimmered at Holmes, who was the only one tall enough to meet his gaze, and he spared Lestrade an icy glare. Myself he dismissed as irrelevant.
Holmes found a corner by the window and puffed on the pipe he had carried with him on our journey to the Court. Every inch of his lanky form exuded the boredom of a man who must be present for the sake of appearances but nothing more. As I watched, Lestrade struggled more and more for calm as Quantock’s ugly amusement grew at Lestrade’s expense.
For my part, I knew Holmes was often unfathomable, but there was no sense in trying to draw him out. He would speak when ready and not before, and Lestrade knew this as well as I. But the little professional was baffled at the seeming loss of his ally.
“My terms are clear.” Quantock said coldly. “Sir Henry cannot disagree that it is against restitution if I am left the poorer from it. I only wish Merripit House.”
“You wish to own it in its original condition,” Lestrade countered doggedly. “That is not to put too fine of a point on it. The house needs work. Stapleton was more interested in netting butterflies than keeping it up. You could have purchased it at any time, but you waited until after Sir Henry bought it.”
“My reasons are my own.”
“And my duty is clear. I will accept your statement and personally deliver it to Sir Henry, but I cannot give you the guarantee that you desire.”
“You shall remind your baronet those are my only terms.”
“I will, but it would go well with you if I had some reason for your decision.”
“No more than it was my Aunt’s dream to open Folkestone to naturalists and collectors like herself. Stapleton damaged her original collection and contributed to her untimely passing; it is fitting that her memory receive the benefit of his residence.” Quantock grew agitated with the force of his own words and rose up. “Merripit is ideal for the scientist with the desire to do more than take a pleasant stroll among the trout-streams. It is close to the wands planted for safe passage and one less burden I would have on my family’s name.”
“Not to mention your soul,” Lestrade said, in one of his rare examples of dry wit. “You would need to maintain the property, Mr. Quantock. Sir Henry would not let you beggar yourself. Can you afford such a thing?”
“I would own Merripit House only long enough to restore it to fine condition, and then offer it free and clear to the Baldwins, on the understanding that they would host any visitors who come to visit the Moor.”
Lestrade was as speechless as myself. He looked at Holmes, who continued smoking with a bored air, as though this were all a trivial affair. He looked back to Quantock and found his voice. “Is this your final word, sir?”
“It is.”
“Then I will explain your position to Sir Henry immediately, but it would help if you also wrote your wishes down on paper, which I and any of these gentlemen would be content to sign.”
“That we would,” I said firmly.
Holmes shrugged. “Oh, I suppose if it pleases you,” he drawled.
Quantock sniffed. “It will do.”
In short time, Quantock drafted a terse statement and we all signed it. Lestrade let no emotions escape his face, but I could tell he was simmering with rage under his calm mask. It was not until we were well outside shouting-distance from the Court that he finally opened his mouth.
“I’ve talked to brick walls with more sense!” he roared. “And if that man ever gave anything to anyone ‘free and clear’ it was a germ!”
Holmes was so overcome with hilarity he was unable to regain his composure for some minutes, during which he clapped the little Yarder on the back and leaned upon his shoulder. I thought it a rare sight, with long and lean Holmes bent over the small police detective.
“Be calm, Lestrade!” he cried. “Rest assured, you have done your duty. You saw my lackadaisical performance and responded beautifully to my rudeness, which delighted Quantock so well he assumed he had the upper hand in the debate. Now we shall make haste and inform Sir Henry of the latest development.”
Sir Henry’s promised electric lights perched like soldiers down the drive of Baskerville Hall, and the ragged greensward was neatened by the thrifty use of white-faced sheep. Small ponds cunningly crafted from the native stone dotted the landscape, shimmering like mirrors and populated by many gossiping birds.
What we took for a gardener proved to be Sir Henry himself, dressed for digging with a large straw hat. He grinned as he waved us over to the edge of a large, shallow circle sliced into the sod, barely more than two inches deep and filled to the brim with clear water.
“Just in time for dinner!” He laughed. “Come and see my dewpond - a real marvel, eh?” The Neolithic collection-pool was a testimony to the skill of Dartmoor’s early forbearers, and the convenience of sweet water lured the wild ponies from an early death in the Mire.
“That,
and my new mares,” the baronet told us. “I’ve been improving the bloodstock.” He turned to Lestrade with his hands on his hips. “I expect you have news for me. Come in and let’s talk over a drink.”
Lestrade sadly gave a summary as we walked inside the Hall. Stapleton’s impressive collection of butterflies hung on the walls, but even I could tell Sir Henry planned to move them out as soon as he could.
Sir Henry was startled. “I knew he was contrary, but... Mr. Holmes, can you riddle this?”
“Perhaps. A separate party hired me to facilitate an equitable solution for all involved. Can you add anything?”
The baronet shuddered. “I’ve dealt with enough snakes that I can’t help but respect them for being good at a job no-one else in Creation wants. But this...” He rose to serve a strong rye bourbon. “This out-Herods Herod, by thunder!” With a troubled air, the young baronet turned to Lestrade. “I thought I was giving you a straight job, not a wild goose chase.”
“Lestrade is capable of fulfilling his duty, Sir Henry,” Holmes assured them both. “And the matter can still be resolved cleanly.”
“I’ll believe you, Mr. Holmes, but I wouldn’t believe anyone else.” Lestrade rubbed at his brow.
“No-one need believe. Simply tell Quantock to come here tomorrow to sign the agreement. Watson is a splendid fellow in a pinch, and he can be trusted to add his signature of witness to the agreement, am I correct?”
“Indeed,” I said stoutly. “Although I have no more an idea of what you wish than Lestrade.”
“Or me.” Sir Henry lifted his hand like a boy in a schoolroom. “But I’ll be ready for anything!” He grinned. “And I’ll be glad to see this through!”
“Excellent!” And without further warning, Holmes turned and dashed down the Hall with the speed of a schoolboy, stopping by turns to peer up the walls and skipping down again. The three of us gaped, but at the very end we saw him grab something in the murk and run back with the object under his arm. It was the light-speckled moth next to the baronet’s elbow in the newspaper clipping.