“There were many incidents in which George was involved that sent John into a rage. The one I was close to took place on the fourth of April in 1903, the last year of the war. One of the young mothers, who we knew was gaining extra rations on the side, sent a message to my friend, Major John, and said she was ready to tell him all about the terrible misdeeds of George Burnwell. An appointment was set up for the next day. Well that night, around two o’clock in the morning, an alarm goes up from the far perimeter of the camp. Several of us went running over there on the double and with our torches we see Lieutenant Burnwell standing over the body of a young woman. She was trying to escape, he says. When I tried to stop her, he says, she came at me with a knife in one hand and a grenade in the other. I did the only thing I could and used my bayonet to defend myself, he says. Well now, in the light of a couple of torches we can see that the woman is holding a knife and a grenade, and so no one can say that George is lying. So, the woman’s body is taken to the medical tent and the medic there does his examination and files his report informing us that she died from a stab wound to her chest. And, you might have guessed, doctor, the woman is the one who was due to meet with Major John the next day.
“Well John and I take the medic aside and cross question him very closely and he tells us that the cause of death was the wound to her chest that cut into her heart. But she had other wounds as well. There were shallow stab wounds to her breasts and burns there as well that were of the type made by a lit cigarette. And there were also bayonet wounds to her abdomen and to her private parts. Her wrists bore scars as if she had been tied up. The medic said that in his opinion she had been tortured before she died.
“Well, John knows that he is sitting on a powder keg and so he writes it all up and grabs me to come along and we tear down to Pretoria to meet with Kitchener himself. His Lordship is already living with the report of Mrs. Hophouse, and the British press is calling him a butcher, and that Mr. Lloyd George has stood in the House of Commons and compared him to King Herod, who slaughtered the innocents. The last thing he needs is another story of one of his officers gone evil on him. So, he reads the reports, says that all that can be known for certain is that the woman was outside the boundaries, had a knife and a grenade in her hands, and any other marks on her body could have come from anywhere. And we have the word of an Englishman that he fought her off in self-defense, and so he tells John to let it slide. The war will soon be over anyway, and we will be able to put all of this behind us.
“Well now, John is one tough soldier who believes in living by the rules, and in protecting the honor of his regiment and the good name of the British Empire. And he explodes on Lord Kitchener and uses some strong language and calls him a bloody coward and a toady to the toffs in Westminster, and such like and so forth. Well now, Kitchener will have none of that and he has my friend thrown out of the BEF’s Headquarters, and for good measure, he relieves him of his command, discharges him with a severe reprimand and cuts his pension. And two months later the war is over and we all come home. Now London may be the most populous city on earth but once you move into the ranks of former military officers, especially those whose families have some means, then it becomes a rather small village and everybody knows everybody. So, John comes home and he puts the word out about George Burnwell and quietly lets anyone who will listen hear his story about the incident at the camp. So, the word goes around and George Burnwell finds that, suave and charming though he may be, he is offered no position in any firm and not invited to all the best parties, and not even particularly welcome around here, his old regiment.
“Well now, that is what I know about George Burnwell. I had no idea what had become of him until a year ago when I am in the office of Alexander Holder and I see the two Holder brothers and with them is George Burnwell. I asked Alex what he was doing there, and he says that he gave Burnwell, at the request of his sons, a minor position with the bank, but says no more.
“So, Doctor Watson, that is what you can now go and tell Mr. Sherlock Holmes. And you can add to it that, even if neither John nor I could ever prove anything against George Burnwell, he is a man who should be deeply distrusted. I would never trust him. Never.”
With that he struck the table with his now empty beer glass, shattering it. He stared at the shards for a few seconds, and then rose and started to walk away from me. I had been scribbling notes as he spoke and reached out and grabbed his wrist before he departed.
“Please, Major. Just one piece I am wanting, and I am certain that Sherlock Holmes would not forgive me for missing it. Your friend, your fellow major, that fellow John. What was his family name?”
“Atherley. John Atherley,” he said and walked away.
Chapter Nine
Ride a Cock Horse
FOR A FEW SECONDS, I SAT, unable to move. Then I jumped to my feet, knocking my chair over behind me. I moved quickly to the bar, impatiently paid my tab, and ran out the door. I knew I had to get to Holmes with what I had just learned and do so immediately. He was hours away, camping somewhere in the Peak District. I knew that even with good connections it would take me at least five hours to get from North London to Stockport, and then I would have to track him down in the park. I stood, frozen, trying to decide what shall I do.
As I was standing there, two chaps drove up into our small parking area on their motorcycles. From my very limited knowledge, I could tell that the larger bike was a Norton Big Four, the same as Holmes’s. I hesitated for a moment, thinking to myself that I must have gone mad, and then strode over to the two of them as they were dismounting. I introduced myself to the fellow on the big Norton.
“Why sir,” he replied, pulling off his helmet and goggles. “Of course, we know who you are. We are all right proud to know that the famous author of all those stories about Sherlock Holmes was a member of our regiment. An honor to meet you, sir.” He removed his glove and pumped my hand.
“You look, sir, as if you’re in need of something. How can I help you?”
I decided to be forthright. “I am assisting Sherlock Holmes on a terrible case, the murder of that young girl in Belgravia. I have an immediate need for a fast motorcycle for the remainder of the weekend. I will pay you fifty pounds if you will loan me yours, but I must have it straightaway.”
He looked a little apprehensive, so I added. “And if your loan of it helps Sherlock Holmes solve this horrible crime then due credit will be given to you when the story appears in The Strand.”
“How could I refuse,” he said with a smile and handed me his key. “She’s full of petrol so just bring her back here to the club when you’re done. And godspeed. And by the by, my name is Tom Mulvaney. Captain Tom. But now I’m an electrician, so if anyone is looking for a good one, be sure to add that to your story.”
“I will give you my word on that,” I assured him. “But I must also ask you for the loan of your helmet, goggles, boots, and gloves.”
Again, he looked askance and gave me an eyeball. “Are you quite sure you remember how to ride one of these, doc?”
“I was on one just a few days back,” I said, looking a little miffed that he would dare to ask such a question.
“Good on you then, doc.”
He sat on the curb and pulled off his boots. I, in turn, pulled off my shoes, tossed them into the saddlebag, pulled on the boots and mounted the Big Four. As I rode away, I wondered what my patients would say if they could see me.
I made my way through the Saturday traffic up to Marylebone Road, headed west to Edgeware Road and struck out for the north. I had only driven on one road before in my life and, fortunately, this was it. At least, it was for the first twenty minutes. Once past Hemel Hempstead, I was in terra incognito and vacillated between my need for speed and a nagging common sense that reminded me that I would do no one any good as a crippled ball in a ditch. So, I gave full bore on those sections that were clear and straight, and more caution as I rounded corners and passed through villages.
Rid
e a cockhorse to Banbury Cross …
I passed through Aylesbury, then the cross at Banbury, and then took the road that allowed me to circumvent Birmingham. At Sudbury, I headed due north into the Peak District. The temperature fell somewhat as my altitude increased and my latitude declined. Occasionally, as I felt the wind racing past my face, and the sensation of power roaring underneath me, I allowed myself a moment of exhilaration and thought that this would be a splendid hobby to pursue on weekends. I even imagined my dear wife holding on behind me and shouting pleasant things into my ear. Then I came back to my senses and acknowledged that I was a fifty-nine-year-old doctor who had no business being on a horse or even a bicycle, let alone a powerful motorcycle. This outing to the Peaks was destined to be my first and last such venture.
When I reached Buxton, on the edge of the foothills of the Peaks, I stopped and asked about the invasion of motorcyclists that had passed the previous afternoon. The villagers knew exactly who I meant and assumed that I was a straggler belatedly catching up to my unit. They were all camped in a large private campground. Just keep going north, they told me, turn right at Chapel-en-le-Frith and then drive east to Hope. Cannot be missed, they assured me.
It was already dusk when I found the campground. At the entrance was a small shop and a pub. Outside of it was a new red telephone booth. It occurred to me that had I known that I could have just phoned and waited until the proprietor had gone and found Holmes and brought him to the phone. But it was too late for that.
The campground was full of men and women all eating and drinking and laughing. Some of the fellows had brought their wives; others, no doubt their mistresses; and those who had neither must have rented a substitute for the weekend. I drove up and down the lanes until I spotted the massive Brough 1200 that could only belong to Arthur Holder. I was quite confident that Holmes would pitch his tent not too far away. As I was very unlikely to be recognized beneath a leather helmet and goggles, I walked up to a small group of men and women who were standing around the large bike. Arthur Holder was proudly holding forth. I interrupted the briefing and said that I was on an urgent family matter and could they tell me where an older fellow, riding a Big Four, and sporting a handlebar mustache, might be found.
“Oh,” giggled on of the mildly intoxicated young women. “You must mean grandpa. We didn’t think he was going to make it, but he did. We asked him to join us for a few rounds, but he tottered off and pitched his tent and must have fallen asleep. His spot is about five down the lane.”
I thanked them and drove slowly. Again, I knew what I was looking for. I soon spotted it; a drooping tent, sloppily erected as if a lazy child, or, in this case, a weary middle-aged detective who by now was well into the realm of Morpheus. I recognized the pile of kit that I had loaned him and found the torch I had sent along. I dropped to my knees at the door of the tent and shone the light onto the face of the soundly sleeping Sherlock Holmes. I grabbed his foot and gave it a series of unkind shakes.
“Holmes!” I shouted. “Wake up. Wake up!”
He is usually a light sleeper when in the throes of working on a case, but this time, he was well beyond his afternoon nap. I shouted and tugged some more until a distraught and squinting Holmes looked into the torch light.
He was seriously confused for several seconds and then suddenly lurched upright, fully conscious and cognizant. “Watson? What in the name of all that is holy are you doing here?”
“Get up, Holmes. You must. Immediately. I put a flask of coffee into your kit bag. Get out of the tent and drink a cup and I will explain.”
I found the flask, poured a cup of what by now was stone cold coffee and handed it to Holmes as he emerged. As he gulped it back, I related what I had learned that morning. By the time I had finished Holmes was no longer looking sleepy-eyed. There was a touch of color upon his sallow cheeks. His eyes were bright and, even in the limited light from the torch, I could see the blazing intensity that I knew to be the mark of his steeled determination. He quietly noted that George Burnwell had now become his one and only suspect and had to be stopped.
“Where is he?” I demanded. “He is part of this club is he not? Did he not come with the Holders on this trip?”
“He did,” said Holmes. “He came with Mary Holder sitting behind him. But just as I was falling into my tent I saw the two of them drive down the lane toward the exit.”
I refused for a moment to accept the unthinkable. “Could she possibly be part of what took place? The theft? The murder of that girl?”
Holmes paused. “I would not have thought so, but I have seen enough to know that once the passions of the human heart take over the senses, all hell may happen. It is possible. Yes.”
“What,” I asked, “could they be doing up here in the North in the middle of the night? Have they gone back to London?”
For a few seconds, Holmes closed his eyes. Upon opening them, he said, “The scouts. They are camped a few miles away from here, on the far side of Kinder Scout. The only damage he could inflict tonight would be to them. We will have to find them and warn them.”
I said, “Lestrade sent some marines to protect them, did he not?”
“Yes,” said Holmes. “He did. But Burnwell does not know that, and it may not be sufficient if they are taken by surprise. Come, Watson, we have a job to do.”
He hurriedly dressed and we both mounted our motorcycles. As good fortune would have it, both were new bikes and were equipped with the very recently patented Pockley headlamps. It was now pitch dark along the road leading back toward the highway and we drove slowly, not risking outrunning the eerily lit zone in front of us. I kept waving the torchlight at every signpost until we entered the village of Hayfield and spotted the sign pointing to Kinder Scout. We turned east, but the road came to an end at the Royal Hotel. I dismounted and walked to the edge of the parking area and peered down the trail into the valley. It was entirely dark and the small beam of light from the torch disclosed a sharp descent along a trail. We could go no farther on the bikes or even on foot until first light. Holmes walked to the door of the hotel and knocked repeatedly until it was opened by a man in his nightclothes who must have been the innkeeper.
Holmes explained who he was. The fellow had heard of him and said he was happy to help in any way. Holmes asked if a man on a motorcycle, possibly accompanied by a young woman had passed by earlier.
“Aye, just a few hours back. A bit before it became dark. There was a fellow on a motorcycle, one of those with the sidecar attached. The woman was riding behind him. They asked about where the boys were camped and I told them that they were on the far side of Kinder Scout. It’s a good four hours hike from here. They thanked me and then didn’t they start down the trail into the valley on the motorcycle. You can do it if you have plenty of light and move slowly. And that, Mr. Holmes, was the last I saw of them. I would have seen them if they came back out, but they haven’t. As far as I know they are still down there, or else they found the Boy Scouts. I really cannot say any more, sir. You can follow them at daybreak if you want. Won’t be easy. You’re quite welcome to wait in our sitting room. It has a beautiful view of the valley. Of course, that won’t mean much in the middle of the night. But at daybreak, you will be able to see all the way to the top of Kinder Scout.”
He shuffled back through the hotel to a spacious room that was filled with several chairs and sofas. He turned on a lamp and led us to two comfortable chairs beside a large window.
“At dawn, you two chaps will have a pleasant from here.” He gestured toward the large window. His hand stopped moving in mid swipe and he walked until his face was directly against the window. Then he moved quickly back, turned off the lamp, and returned to the window. For several seconds, he stared out of it and then muttered. “What the devil? There’s a fire in the valley. The woods are on fire. Good heavens. The whole district is a tinder box. It will be an inferno in no time.”
He turned away and rushed out of the room. I heard him sh
outing to his wife and the help. Holmes and I looked down into the darkness and watched as a fire slowly moved in a nearly straight line along what I saw must be the floor of the valley. “What is that?” I said, totally confused. “Forest fires do not move in single straight lines.”
“They do when they are following a tract of petrol or some such fuel that has been laid down,” he replied. I could feel his grip on my arm as he spoke. “As soon as the sun comes up the wind will spread the fire up and over the high ground and down on the scouts camped on the far side. They will not have a chance. They will be burned alive.”
We turned and hurried out of the room to the front lobby of the hotel where the lights had now been turned on. The innkeeper, still in his nightshirt was shouting instructions. He turned to us, terror on his face. “I’ve sent my groom into the village to fetch the guides. They know the trail and can run it in the dark. If they can get in front of the fire, they can reach the scouts and get them moving before the fire traps them. They should be along in a few minutes.”
It was a full twenty minutes before we heard the running steps of several men approaching the hotel. The groom and three men came running into the courtyard. From the edge of the property, they looked down into the valley and could see the line of fire. It had already thickened and the front edge of it had inched its way up the rise that led to the top of Kinder Scout. Each of the guides was equipped with a powerful torch and they quickly descended the path into the darkness of the depths in front of us. For a few minutes we could see the glow from their torches, and then they vanished into the darkness.
For what seemed an eternity, although in reality not more than an hour, Holmes, the innkeeper, his wife and a few of his staff stood at the edge of the valley, looking down into it, hoping against hope that we would soon see lights from torches making their way back. I knew, however, that it would be several hours before the guides could reach the boys and their leaders and get them on the trail and to safety.
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Three: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition (Boxed Sets Book 3) Page 26