Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #3

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  “Warm in here,” muttered Mrs Neel.

  “M’m,” agreed Strode. “Let’s finish the tea and get out into the fresh air.” They did so and Strode scattered coins on the table when the waitress failed to respond to calls.

  The air outside felt warm and oppressive. “Should have drunk black coffee,” Strode commented.

  “I suppose that’s appropriate, too,” said Mrs Neel.

  The museum was on the next corner and a sign said OPEN. The front was unprepossessing, but the two suits of armour inside the entrance stood like guards, swords at the ready. Strode and Mrs Neel walked in past the unattended ticket booth.

  “St Margaret Mede sent men to the Crusades,” said a printed panel and maps showed their route. Rusty weapons hung on the walls, and a Crusader banner, tattered and dirty, hung limply. They walked on, past 1400 and 1500.

  “After 1600,” said the panel, “village life was influenced by religious differences. Witch trials had been conducted and the guilty condemned. Some had been drowned in the village pond and some had been stoned to death in the stocks.”

  Mrs Neel and John Strode exchanged looks. “Stocks!” they said in unison. Strode passed a hand over his brow. “I feel—faint,” he whispered. Mrs Neel flashed a look of surprise at him, but her step faltered and she gasped, “So do I. That tea…”

  * * * *

  It was dark and only a few moonbeams slanted in through high windows. The silence was intense. It was broken by the village church bell tolling six o’clock. A bird chirped, the kind of early morning chirpiness that can be really irritating.

  Strode’s uncertain voice asked, “Mrs Neel, are you all right?”

  “Just going to ask you that. Can you move your hands and arms?”

  “No,” came after a moment of heavy breathing.

  The moonbeams tilted closer and reflected off a shield on the wall, one of the few items to enjoy the advantage of polish. Both saw their predicament at once.

  “We’re in the stocks.”

  There was a moment of assessment by both agents.

  “Think we’re going to be stoned?” asked Strode.

  “No,” said Mrs Neel. “These people—whoever they are—seem to be more efficient than that. They disposed of Rosemary in the pond. Hector—they took care of him— he went all to pieces…”

  “Hector’s Tarot should have warned him not to listen to old saws,” said Strode.

  “While poor Annabella didn’t fall from the church steeple—”

  “She was pushed.”

  Silence prevailed while both reviewed their training.

  “I don’t remember a session on escaping from stocks,” Mrs Neel grumbled.

  The streams of light moved on from the shield. It was now on the wall almost over their heads. Strode was straining his neck to look over his shoulder.

  “See that large executioner’s axe up there?”

  “Yes, massive thing. You could cleave an ox with that axe.”

  “It’s only suspended by one bit of rope.”

  Mrs Neel twisted her neck further. “You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking, are you?’

  “Have a better idea?”

  “I have a thin bladed knife strapped high on my thigh.”

  “Oh, my!”

  Mrs Neel ignored the innuendo—if that’s what it was.

  “If I can squirm around—just a—” There was rustling and scraping in the darkness.

  “Keep me informed,” said Strode.

  A gasp of frustration came. “No. Can’t reach up there.”

  “Perhaps if I edge closer, I can—”

  “I don’t think so,” Mrs Neel said coldly. “You’re in a different stock—or is it stocks?”

  “That’s it, then. We’re back to the axe. We have to dislodge it. If we shake hard, we might rock these stocks. The action might loosen the axe.”

  “And the axe might fall and knock off my block,” said Mrs Neel.

  “It’s our only chance. I’m willing to risk it—bravely.”

  “Stout fellow,” said Mrs Neel dourly and began to rock.

  “Hey, wait a minute! I meant both at the same—” Strode joined her hastily.

  The creaking and groaning grew louder, some of it coming from the stocks that seemed older than they looked.

  “More!” gasped Strode.

  “Look out!” called Mrs Neel, “it’s falling!”

  An almighty crash followed and a sound of splintering wood. Then came a crunch and a splitting noise.

  “Strode! Are you still alive?”

  “Yes,” he answered faintly, “I’m just in two halves.”

  The moon, hitherto obliging, had gone, but in its place was the first light of dawn. It revealed Strode lying on his side, struggling to free himself from shattered wooden remnants.

  For a moment, he paused, exhausted. “Listen,” said Ella Neel. Noises came from afar. “Someone’s coming in!”

  Strode renewed his efforts and at last an arm was free. He pulled away pieces of wood from the other arm and stood. “Me next,” said Mrs Neel and he used the axe to lever the imprisoning wood blocks loose.

  * * * *

  When the lights flickered on in the museum, two men and a woman came in. They crossed the room, passed the Iron Maiden and the Court Executioner. They stopped, staring at the litter of wood pieces on the floor.

  “Where are they?” asked the woman. “You fools! You should have taken care of them last night!”

  The three came forward hesitantly.

  “Find them!” the woman snapped. The two men went past the rack and the thumbscrews, past the black-hooded cluster of the Spanish Inquisition and paused. The door of the Iron Maiden swung open with a clang, and Mrs Neel sprang out and swung a high kick at the nearest man. The toe of her shoe connected satisfyingly under his chin and there was a sound like crushing a coconut.

  Simultaneously, the Court Executioner came to life and his robes swirled as the axe that had played a major supporting rôle in the escape described a flashing arc. Strode used it in reverse—fortunately for its recipient—so that instead of severing his head, the flat surface thunked against the back of his cranium and stretched him out, unconscious at the very least.

  The elderly waitress from Ye Olde Tea Rooms no longer looked so old and certainly not infirm. The snarl might have intimidated others as she crouched into a martial arts stance and moved her hands as if she were molding invisible clay.

  “Ha!” she growled.

  Ella Neel made no reply to that. She simply did a treble cartwheel and made sure that the dazzling maneuver concluded with one elbow thrusting deep into the other’s throat. It had the impact of a steam hammer and was followed immediately by a powerful knee in the groin and a hammer punch to the carotid artery. The older woman, clearly incapacitated, collapsed like a sack of elderflowers.

  Strode looked on with disappointment clear on his face. “Aren’t these fights supposed to last longer?”

  “Probably,” said Mrs Neel negligently, “but she annoyed me—I mean, she did bring me the wrong tea.”

  * * * *

  The pockets of the prostrate trio yielded nothing of any value; and when Strode and Mrs Neel left the museum, three well-trussed bodies occupied wall niches in the mausoleum room. In the entry hall, though, were a few copies of the St Margaret Mede Newsletter, a free newspaper of a dozen pages. Among the exciting events being promoted were a spelling bee, a domino competition, and a show of quilts knitted by the members of the Ladies Institute. Ella Neel was about to toss it away after this perusal when she stopped. “Look at this, Strode!”

  She read aloud the item in the lower half of the third page that had caught her eye. “‘Our own Miss Joan Marble will cond
uct another of her instructional seminars in her cottage across from the Vicarage.’”

  She frowned. “Unfortunately, it was two days ago.”

  “Pity,” said Strode. “Still, we know where she lives. At least that means we won’t have to ask directions. I suspect that could be a very hazardous procedure in this environment.”

  “I’m hungry,” said Mrs Neel, “But I fear that seeking breakfast might be equally perilous. I have an idea, though—”

  “Fire away.”

  “There’ll be no service in Ye Olde Tea Rooms and Café—” Mrs Neel indicated the largest and oldest of the inert forms in the wall niches, “—so if we go there, we may have to cook our own.”

  “It may also be a good temporary hideout until we go to seek the help of the no doubt estimable Miss Marble. Good thinking, Mrs N—by the way, have you read any of her books?”

  “Yes, they’re quite clever, actually. Rural crime novels. The crimes are solved by a demure old lady called Amanda Crisbie.”

  “They take place in a village, I suppose?”

  “Yes, rather like this one. Oddly enough, no new books have appeared in print since Joan Marble’s disappearance and return.”

  * * * *

  The pantry of the Ye Olde Tea Rooms and Café contained various healthy potions such as acorn coffee and yerba mate. Ella Neel’s nose wrinkled in critical comment, but she brewed one cup of each. On dainty blue-and-white plates, she piled St John’s Wort rolls, Butcher’s Broom buns, and parsleyed oat cakes. A dish of alfalfa butter and some sunflower jam completed this original breakfast.

  Strode eyed the festive array with some skepticism. “I was rather looking forward to sausages and black pudding.”

  “I think I saw some wortleberry muffins—”

  “Never mind,” Strode said.

  “If we were nearer the sea, there’d be some seaweed scones—”

  “These will do,” Strode said, reaching for another bun.

  The absence of staff was clearly not noticed by any of the village inhabitants, because none of the latter appeared. Mrs Neel, who always liked to be tidy, cleaned the table and restored the jars and utensils to their places. They went out into the silent street where the sidewalks were empty.

  “Perhaps they’ve all been poisoned by health foods,” said Strode.

  “You’re just bad-tempered because you didn’t get your sausages. In this village, you might be better off without them. I mean, you’d never know who might be in them.”

  Across from the vicarage, Miss Marble’s cottage had roses round the door.

  The whitish stone doorstep had been recently scrubbed, the windows were clean, and the trim around them was freshly painted white.

  No one answered the bell.

  “Out doing her shopping?” pondered Mrs Neel.

  “Possible. I wonder if she locks the door when she goes…”

  Miss Marble did not. They went in to a parlour with flowered wallpaper, antimacassars, a high mantelpiece with Toby jugs, and a rag rug on the linoleum floor. Potted ferns and vases of cut roses vied for space with postcards from the seaside and faded photographs in tortoise-shell frames on shelves in the corners.

  Strode was inspecting the postcards. “One from the Caribbean,” he commented, “and this place looks familiar—ah, yes, it’s from Bertram’s Hotel; they hope she’ll return and they enjoyed her visit.” He picked up another that showed the Sphinx. “Taken from the Nile steamer,” he murmured, “and this one—h’m, Miss Crisbie has friends among the nobility—it’s from Lord Edgeware.” Mrs Neel came over to join him.

  “Thought he was dead,” she said. They examined more cards.

  “Not presumably when this was written—”

  Strode was interrupted by a voice from behind him.

  “My dears, I’m so glad you’re making yourselves at home—”

  Joan Marble was the archtypical elderly spinster. She had white hair, a gentle voice, and placid, china-blue eyes.

  “The door was unlocked,” explained Strode, “so we decided to wait.”

  “I’m so glad you did. Please sit down, we have so much to talk about. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  They all sat. Strode and Mrs Neel exchanged brief glances. “Ah, no thank you,” Mrs Neel said. “We had one at Ye Olde Tea Rooms—”

  “—and Café,” contributed Strode. “Didn’t agree with us.”

  Miss Marble shook her white head sadly. “I’ve told Beatrice to be careful where she picks those hawthorn blossoms. There’s a plant called Devilweed, it grows in the churchyard and it looks just like hawthorn.”

  “It probably knocks people out,” Mrs Neel said cheerfully.

  “Why, yes. Do you know it?”

  “You could say that,” Mrs Neel agreed.

  “They say that a second cup has been known to kill people.”

  “Good thing we didn’t stay for seconds,” said Strode briskly. “Still writing about Amanda Crisbie, are you?”

  “Oh, yes.” Miss Marble beamed. “She’s very much a part of me, you know. Well, so much, in fact, that I seem to be a part of her.”

  “A very observant woman,” Mrs Neel said. “But then, so are you, I’m sure.”

  “One gets to know so much about human nature, living in a village,” said Miss Marble. “There is a great deal of wickedness in village life, you know. I hope you will never come to realize just how wicked.”

  “The lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dismal record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful English countryside,” intoned Strode and Mrs Neel shot him a surprised look. “Why, Strode, how observant of you!”

  “Not me. Sherlock Holmes said that.”

  “What a pity that nothing has appeared in print since your—er, disappearance.” Mrs Neel smiled brightly at Miss Marble.

  “It’s true I haven’t had anything new published—”

  “Busy with other endeavours, no doubt,” Strode nodded.

  Miss Marble’s appearance underwent a change, subtle but obvious to the trained eye of the Ministry agents. She was more alert, more formidable—and less the gentle old lady.

  “Tell me,” Strode went on in his genial manner, “these instructional seminars of yours. Cover a wide range of topics, do they?”

  “Indeed they do.” Miss Marble was still affable but with a stitched edge of caution. “The villagers say they benefit from them immensely.”

  “And not just the villagers.” said Mrs Neel. “You have many postcards from grateful clients all over the country.”

  “But not, I notice, from any of our prisons,” supplied Strode.

  “Prisons?” The question was toneless.

  “Yes, where many of your clients reside. Not enough, really, you train your people well. You’ve been training criminals in every aspect of criminality since you disposed of the real Miss Marble and then came here to take her place. You couldn’t write like her but you could teach criminals, and your own crew of cutthroats eliminated agent after agent who came here to find out why St Margaret Mede had more than its fair share of crime.”

  Miss Marble nodded softly. “I did get a little concerned that we were stretching the statistical net. Perhaps I should have been more restrictive.”

  “Hard to resist the lure of expanding a profitable business,” Mrs Neel said. “So now we must—”

  Miss Marble came out of the chair and crossed the room with an agility that astonished the two from the Ministry. She pulled open the door, swept through the gate and out on to the pavement where she put two fingers in her mouth and let out a shrill and most unladylike whistle.

  A familiar-looking black motorcycle came roaring down the street and screeched to a shuddering stop. Strode and Mrs Neel stared in amazement at Mi
ss Marble’s agility as she leaped on to the pillion seat and thumped a fist on the driver’s back. As the two hurried forward to intercept, the goggled and helmeted rider wrenched the throttle and swung the nose of the cycle in their direction. The front wheel lifted off the ground as the vehicle raced at them.

  Again, the training of the Ministry agents paid off and, separating swiftly, they received only glancing blows, which, nevertheless, sent them sprawling.

  The cycle, rocking and bouncing from the double impact, lost momentum temporarily, then its engine screamed as, swinging around, it came at them determined to complete its murderous task on the two agents laying on the pavement.

  Strode felt a jab of pain in his right elbow but it also served to remind him that his Ministry-equipment umbrella was still firmly clenched in that hand. As the cycle hurtled toward them, he rolled to one side and thrust the high-strength steel tip between the spokes of the rear wheel. The stalled engine protested with a banshee wail, and the bike slithered along on one side, flinging out a spray of sparks. The two riders were flung off like rag dolls, and the bike crashed into Miss Marble’s picket fence, erupting a fountain of white stakes.

  The Ministry agents climbed to their feet and each examined a body. They looked at each other and shook their heads.

  “Nemesis!” Mrs Neel called out. She ran to the cycle, righted it and jumped on, Strode immediately after her.

  Japanese engineering snarled triumphantly, and they thundered out of St Margaret Mede as a church bell pealed a farewell.

  CARTOON, by Whitney Darrow & John Betancourt