Four weeks had passed, and he had heard nothing.
“My interest, Watson,” he said through clenched teeth, “in that young woman was a result only of my admiration for her having made her way in this world all on her own, without any help from family, and for her courage in accepting a potentially dangerous posting. She is a very sensible and logical individual and uses her severe reasoning rather than her emotions to make her decisions. I would have the same feelings of respect toward any woman, of any age or appearance, or any man for that matter, who presented themselves in a similar manner. Your insinuations are utterly incorrect and I request that I hear no more of them.”
I had obviously touched a bit of a sore spot. Having endured his unkind words about my literary shortcomings, I could not resist rubbing just a bit of salt into it.
“If you say so, Holmes. I suppose that accounts for your not having bothered to open the note from her that arrived in this morning’s post.” I had retrieved the large pile of letters that had arrived an hour ago and deposited them on a side table and had noticed one with a return address outside Winchester. Holmes, lost in his pipes and contemplations, had yet to look at it. He turned quickly, as if startled, and looked at the batch of letters.
He recovered immediately and, with forced nonchalance, replied, “Was there a letter? Very well, as you can see, Watson, my one hand is occupied with my pipe and my other with a brandy, so might you be so kind as to open it and read it to us?”
I gave a pass to suggesting that he could easily put one or both of his items down and indulged him. I took up and opened the letter in question. It was no more than a short note and it ran:
Dear Mr. Holmes:
I beseech you, sir. I implore you. Please come immediately to help me. I am at my wits end and in unholy fear. The child I agreed to give nursing care to is obviously demon-possessed. This place is haunted by zombies and hellish apparitions and I fear for my life. Please sir, I am free of my duties on Sunday when I normally attend the Eucharist Service at the Cathedral. If you care at all for me, please meet me at the Black Swan Inn at half-past ten. My life is in your hands.
I remain, yours faithfully, and depending on you,
VIOLET HUNTER
I put the letter down and remarked. “Ah yes, as you say Holmes, quite the logical, sensible young woman. Very scientifically inclined, I must say. Using her brain, she is, indeed. And what shall I do with this letter from such an admirable young woman?”
He said nothing and did not even look at me. He merely held out his hand toward me, beckoning the letter. I placed it on his palm and waited whilst he looked intently at it for several minutes. He then replied, looking not at me but at the letter.
“If, my friend, you could manage to suppress your schaudenfreude, could you kindly accompany me tomorrow to Winchester? Irrespective of any feelings I might have had for Miss Hunter, or your teasing me concerning them, it is unquestionably clear that she left this room as a sensible and logical young woman and is now irrationally terrified. Something must have caused that change, and I expect that she is in considerable danger. Might I count on your assistance, and I do believe that it would be a good idea if you were to bring your service revolver with you.”
Chapter Two
The Bitches at the Beeches
THE TIME FOR PLAYING TIT FOR TAT with each other had clearly passed. I knew that Holmes was deadly serious and determined to act. I confess that I was privately thrilled to see the change come over him, and honored, as I always was, to be of some assistance.
“Certainly Holmes, I shall do that. Might I suggest, however, that since it is not yet noon hour, we could catch a late train today, and you would have several hours to investigate the location before your meeting?”
“Thank you, my friend. A very thoughtful suggestion. We will leave here at two o’clock.”
The Great Western Railway offered a direct run from Waterloo Station southwest to Winchester and on from there to the port of Southampton. I consulted my Bradshaw and saw that we could catch the 3:15 pm departure, which would deliver us to the great cathedral town by 4:30 pm. It was not often that I was able to escape the fogs of Baker Street and the congestion of busy life in London, and I had looked forward to a pleasant journey through the lovely pastoral settings of Hampshire. That was not to be. A much-too-friendly-for-an-Englishman chap was in the same cabin with us and, to our dismay, recognized Sherlock Holmes. In spite of our best efforts to ignore his endless prattle and questions, he nattered on about recent crimes, and asked Holmes a dozen or more times why he was coming to old English capital. Finally, Holmes leaned toward him and, sotto voce, said, “The longest nave in Europe shelters many knaves and, if I were to tell you more, you might not be alive by this time tomorrow.” That shut him up. I had no doubt that by the following day the entire town would be rife with rumors about nefarious activities in the chancel.
At the Winchester station we were met by the hotel’s omnibus and driven the few blocks through the dun-colored houses to the High Street and the Black Swan Hotel, a decent inn of repute wherein we engaged two comfortable rooms. From my window I could see the top of the tower of the cathedral and hoped that, if time permitted, I would have an opportunity to stand at the back of the longest nave in Europe and exult in the splendor of the architecture. I longed to spend a few minutes paying homage at the final resting place of one of the greatest writers in the English language—she who gave us the immortal phrase: It is a truth universally acknowledged…
Holmes, as was his wont, had other plans.
He had hired a driver and a dog-cart and we struck out immediately for the area five miles beyond Winchester, just south of Highbridge, where, according to Miss Hunter, we would find the estate of her new employers, Mr. and Mrs. Jephro Rucastle. It was an old family property and a century ago had been given the name of The Copper Beeches. The driver explained that a portion of surrounding property was owned by the Rucastles, but had no lands attached to it that would deliver rents, as all of these were owned by Lord Southerton. The small estate was still a substantial size, perhaps up to ten acres and contained a fine pond, some woods that almost enclosed the house, and several fields, none of which were cultivated. A peculiar feature was the old ruined Norman church and adjacent graveyard that stood about a hundred yards from the house. The driver let us off at the edge of the property and agreed to wait for us to return. As we walked away, he shouted a warning.
“They let the dogs out at six o’clock. So, whatever you do, don’t be by yourselves on the grounds after that.” We waived our acknowledgement of his caution.
In the remaining light of the late afternoon, we hiked the perimeter of the property. The fencing was predominantly a quickset hedge of closely planted hawthorn trees and, except for a few locked gates, impenetrable. Occasionally we gained a partial view of the pond, the gardens, and the house. It was a large but unattractive old country house, stained and streaked with damp and bad weather. The windows, wreathed in faded yellow, had become dark and unpleasant blurs. The central section was four stories in height, with an additional turret on the southwest corner, extending another two stories.
The church, old and ruined, was surrounded by thick woods, except for a walled enclosure abutting it, which I took to be a graveyard, long abandoned. The estate entrance was delineated with a high spire fence and narrow gate. The finials on top were spearheads that appeared to be sharpened well beyond the necessity of normal ornamentation. Our frightened young client was well-protected from any assault originating from outside the property, but equally vulnerable from any attack from within. A cry for help would be heard only by the trees.
“Had this lady,” observed Holmes, “who appeals to us for help, gone to live in Winchester, I should never have had a fear for her. It is the five miles of country that makes the danger. It is not a situation in which I should like to see any sister of mine.”
We had completed our circuit and were standing outside the front gate.
The low faint growl I heard was my only warning. Suddenly an enormous mastiff, as large as a small cow, leapt from the bushes and up against the other side of the fence, no more than a few inches from where we stood. The barks were deafening and the open maw with hanging jowl, exposing a massive set of canine teeth and sputtering and foaming saliva, was terrifying. I instinctively leapt back in fright, felt my heart exploding within me, and gave an involuntary shout of fear. Holmes also jumped back. The barking of the hound did not let up. Had there been no fence between us I am quite sure that my throat would have been ripped out within seconds.
Holmes and I withdrew at least ten paces from the fence and the dog dropped its front paws from the fence back on to the ground. It stopped its barking but continued to fix its gaze on us and give deep throated and menacing growls. Behind the monster two other enormous dogs appeared and also looked at us intently, but not in a nasty way. In truth, they were two of the most utterly foolish looking beasts I had ever laid eyes on. The one was a crossbreed between a mastiff and a German shepherd, while the other was a rare mutated variety of mastiff commonly known in the kennel clubs as a Fluffy Mastiff. Unlike the hound that had terrified us, it had long hair, and that hair, likely as a result of grooming, extended out from the body so that the bitch was one giant ball of fluff, the apparent size of an average bear. What rendered them absurd was that someone had adorned them both with pink scarves around their necks, bows fastened to the tops of their heads, bells and ribbons circling each of their massive paws, and a ridiculous set of pink briefs that covered their hind quarters. Were it not for the snarling male of the set still giving me his minacious eyeball, I might have laughed at them.
“Merciful heavens,” I muttered, “that mastiff is enough to frighten any would-be intruder half to death.”
Holmes nodded. “That, I am sure, is the purpose for his being kept. His mates must be to provide comic relief.” He looked over all three of them for another minute and then turned to me.
“I suggest that we make a strategic retreat from the canines and plan our strategy for the morrow.”
We found our driver and headed back into Winchester. Holmes was deep into contemplation when I spontaneously broke out in a laugh. He looked at me, quite puzzled.
“Sorry Holmes, but it just occurred to me that we experienced a near run thing with the coiffured bitches of the Copper Beeches.” I laughed again at my own wit.
He said nothing and then muttered, “How very clever,” and then returned to his silence.
We returned to the townsite via the Southampton Highroad, secured a table in the dining room of the Black Swan, and waited for dinner. The room was busy with people who all seemed to know each other, and the two of us appeared to be the only patrons who were not familiar to the denizens of Winchester. A chap who had been sitting at the bar came over to our table just as the main course was being cleared away and said a few kind words of welcome. He was a pleasant looking fellow with grizzled hair and sideburns and I would have put him a year or two younger than Holmes or me.
“Down from London?” he began. “And welcome you are, gentlemen, to Winchester. Not many Londoners stay over here. Most just pass through on their way to Southampton and to the ships. So, we are pleased that you can spend some time with us. And we do hope that you will enjoy more than the great cathedral. We have some other fine points of interest to visiting gentlemen.”
I could tell by the stiffening of Holmes’s body that he had no interest in hearing about tourist attractions in Winchester, but the fellow was being affable so I responded accordingly.
“Our time here is quite tight already, but what might you suggest that we enjoy?”
He listed off a number of local schools, parks, walks along the River Itchen, and some of the better shops on the High Street, and then added, “Mind you, the best way to enjoy them—capital, truly capital—would be to use the services of one of our very knowledgeable and friendly local guides.”
It dawned on me that what I had taken for local hospitality was no more than an effort by a tout to sell services, and I immediately tried to think of a polite but firm means of dismissing him. He, however, was not to be stopped and chatted on about the available guides.
“Our most popular guides are all quite refined and educated young ladies. All very knowledgeable and very much sought after, particularly by gentlemen who are either bachelors, or those who are married but traveling in glorious freedom from their wives and children. Why, some of them even begin the engagement of our guides’ services the evening before their tours. Is that the type of highly pleasant services that might interest either or both of you gentlemen? I can tell that both of you are men of the world with refined taste and I know just the lovely young women, delightful bits of jam they are, who are available within the hour to charm and look after your needs. All of your needs.” He gave us a sly wink.
Now it truly dawned on me that Holmes and I were being pandered to by a smooth-talking local criminal who was attempting to take us down a revolting side-alley of human experience. I was outraged and about to bellow at him and tell him to go to the devil when, under the table, I felt the firm grasp of Holmes’s hand on my wrist. Having shown no prior interest in the conversation he now took it over and appeared to be intrigued by the offer. Using euphemisms and allusive language only for what were obviously immoral activities, he inquired about various aspects of the arrangement. After several minutes of doing so, he terminated the conversation and said, “Your offer, my good man, is most attractive, and I do wish we could avail ourselves of it but, with regret, we have some very serious business to conduct first thing tomorrow morning and have no choice but to spend our evening in preparation. Business, as you know, must come before pleasure, and so we thank you for thinking about our needs, and you really must excuse us now so that we can return to our preparations. Another time, perhaps. Might you have a card that you could leave behind?” He stood as he uttered the last sentence and made it clear to our panderer that we wished to be left alone. The fellow stood and bid us good evening, offering his card and a handshake in parting. I pretended to look elsewhere and not to notice his extended appendage.
“Sherlock Holmes,” I said, horrified, as soon as the cad was out of earshot. “I am shocked, shocked that you spoke to him the way you did. You may be a bachelor, Holmes, but you are still a gentleman and what you were talking about has no place in the life of any man who has an ounce of self-respect.” I could not remember a time when I had been angrier or more outraged at his behavior.
“Oh, my dear Watson,” he replied, barely restraining his laughter. “Oh please, my friend. It is elementary, truly it is. I had no intention of engaging his services or those of his charming guides. The man, however, is obviously a member of the criminal class and, in a city as small as this one, all of the criminals know and are in league with each other. Usually I am pressed into days of slogging detective work to discern their network, but now one of them has come and introduced himself to me. I fully expect that once I begin to pull on his string an entire web will be attached. And so, I must thank our most recent contact, Mr. …”
He stopped to look at the card that had been left behind. “Mr. Percy Toller, Esquire …”
He stopped reading and stared at the card.
“What is it Holmes?” I asked. “You recognize the name?”
“Not the name. The address.”
He handed me the card.
Percy H. Toller, Esq.
The Copper Beeches, Southampton Road,
Highbridge, Winchester, Hampshire
Chapter Three
Demons and Zombies
ON SUNDAY MORNING HOLMES engaged a sitting room and we enjoyed an extended breakfast whilst listening to the famous bells of Winchester calling the faithful to the Eucharist. At half-past ten o’clock one of the hotel staff knocked on the door and announced, “Miss Violet Hunter, gentlemen.” We rose to welcome Holmes’s no-longer-lost client.
I was a
larmed at the change in the countenance of the young woman who entered the room. Her face was wan and strained, and a shade thinner than it was when she sat in our old rooms at Baker Street just four weeks ago. She looked briefly at Holmes and then ran and threw herself against him, encircling his upper torso with a desperate hug, pinning his upper arms against his body and leaving his lower arms flopping like a seal’s flippers. She buried her face in his chest and was overcome with sobbing. With a nearly useless lower right arm he patted the small of her back, looking as if he were trying to burp a baby.
“There, there, now, Miss Hunter. There, there.” His entire lack of experience with either crying children or distraught young women was painfully obvious. Relaxing her grip on him, she raised her face so that it was no more than a few inches away from his. He instinctively arched his back to add some distance. An unkind thought passed through my mind, and I debated just which one of them was now in greater emotional distress. It would be a close call.
“Oh, Mr. Holmes. Oh sir. Oh, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “Oh, thank you. Thank you for coming. I have been holding on for dear life waiting for you. I know no one in these parts. I am so in need of you, sir. Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you.”
Holmes managed to extricate his arms and, with a forced smile on his face, grasped her arms and, with gentle strength, lowered them to her side, and steered her to an adjacent chair. He slowly but firmly directed her backwards and into it.
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Three: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition (Boxed Sets Book 3) Page 29