Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Cold-Served Revenge

by Petr Macek

  “I recall how you used to urge me to take more exercise,” he said when we had a chance to rest for a moment.

  We treaded water side by side and tried not to notice the dead pigeon that bobbed nearby.

  “Really?”

  “As I now feel another coronary coming on it was no doubt sound advice,” he smiled.

  I was grateful to him for attempting to cheer me up.

  Suddenly we heard a splash in the dark, like waves lapping against the hull of a boat.

  We lowered our voices for fear that we were being followed, but from the dark emerged the silhouette of our dear friend Paolo. We could not have been happier to see anyone at that moment. He shone a lamp on us and helped us out of the water. I was the first to scramble aboard and Holmes passed me the bundle of clothes which he had protected from the water. Thanks to this effort we were able to shed our wet shirts and put on dry ones.

  “You were very fortunate,” said Paolo.

  He told us that the clamour had started when the gatekeeper had been awoken by the noise of a cat stepping on a branch. Paolo explained apologetically that he had been unable to warn us, because it would have led to his discovery, which would have been of no help to us.

  We waited in his boat for a few more minutes until the confusion on the island subsided and the light of the watchmen searching the harbour disappeared, and returned for our things. They were still hidden in the bush where Holmes had left them.

  Paolo then took us via the Grand Canal to our hotel. Tired and cold we finally climbed into our beds just before dawn. In my pocket, however, was the metal fragment, which would no doubt provide many answers.

  ***

  Holmes was the first to rise. His mind could not rest when it swarmed with so many questions. Nor did he let me sleep. I woke up after a mere four hours of rest and dragged myself to the dining room for breakfast. Holmes was devouring his food. My stomach, on the other hand, was still turning after the night’s adventures and I was unable to swallow more than a cup of tea.

  Upon returning to the room I too resembled a dead body.

  “Pull yourself together, Watson,” Holmes admonished. “We will have plenty of time to rest later. Now we must work for the future of our country!”

  “I am no doubt suffering from a lack of adrenaline, which fuels the brain.”

  “Indeed, and yesterday it seemed that we gave you a little too much.”

  “Please do not remind me,” I said, preferring to concentrate on the facts that the detective requested.

  I pondered, returning in my mind to Minutti’s tomb, and began itemising the details.

  “During the autopsy, short as it was, I arrived at a number of significant facts. You were right in calling it indispensable.”

  The detective bid me describe what I had in mind.

  “As far as I know, in the official materials from Paolo the autopsy was described too briefly. It was limited to the conclusion that the bullet was not discovered in the victim’s body, and thus the matter was closed.”

  “Precisely.”

  “That is why I was surprised by what I found when I opened the body. Some of the organs - the heart, lungs, stomach, intestines - were badly torn, which is what caused Minutti’s death. I am surprised that the court doctor did not mention this.”

  “It does not surprise me at all,” said Holmes, shrugging. “We continue to uncover facts that suggest someone has been thwarting the investigation. Could this damage to the organs have been caused in the course of the autopsy?”

  “No doctor, regardless of whether he had been bribed, would treat a dead body this way.”

  “How could one bullet cause the injuries that you describe?” the detective asked. “According to the initial examination he was shot only once.”

  “It could not,” I replied. “Certainly no ordinary bullet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The way in which the organs were perforated is very specific. I have seen it before, during my military service.[15] It is as though something exploded inside him. The internal damage corresponds to that caused by shrapnel from an explosive.”

  I of course realised how absurd it sounded.

  “Minutti could not have been killed by a grenade, his body would be in another state entirely!” said Holmes, pacing. “Are you certain?”

  “Completely. Anyone who has seen internal organs ripped apart by a grenade never forgets.”

  “Forgive me, my friend; I did not mean to doubt your conclusions.It is quite far-fetched. But it does explain the absence of a bullet and the fragment.”

  “As a doctor I can suggest one explanation,” I said. “The bullet entered the body, shattered inside, exploded and its shards caused the destructive whirlwind. Of course it then could not be found in the body, for it no longer existed. And nobody noticed those tiny shards, as they were not looking for them.”

  Holmes stopped pacing the room and looked at me with surprise.

  “Watson, it seems that you have hit the nail on the head!” he cried, his face brightening.

  I was glad that I could help him and that for once I did not have to play the role of baffled simpleton.

  I settled contentedly into an armchair and savoured the feeling.

  “You are definitely right,” said Holmes, developing my theory further. “That would mean, of course, that Minutti was shot with a hitherto unknown type of firearm. I have never in my life heard of the type of shrapnel projectile that you describe.”

  Neither had I. But the detective certainly had a fair notion of who would know more about such advancements in weaponry.

  It thus had come time to fulfil a promise.

  ***

  Minutti’s factories were spread throughout northern Italy, but the most important one, the arms factory, was near Venice. We headed there at the invitation of Luigi Pascuale, the family secretary, who had behaved so suspiciously when we visited Minutti’s widow.

  In the afternoon we boarded the train, crossed the bridge connecting Venice with the mainland, and headed to the industrial heart of the city. The journey took us about an hour, during which the detective advanced several of his theories. So far he had only tentatively connected bits of information and was attempting to find a connection between them. But there were so many unknowns that it was merely a mental exercise rather than a real attempt to solve the case.

  Soon we arrived in Valeri, a sleepy provincial town whose only attraction was the Minutti Fabbrica Di Armi. We announced ourselves to the guard at the gatehouse in the clay courtyard adjoining the factory. It consisted of the two brick wings of the production hall with a smokestack, warehouse and administrative building. Operations were in full swing; some one hundred workers were labouring and the gates of the factory presently opened to let out a lorry fully loaded with sealed crates.

  We waited for a long time outside; perhaps so that Mr Pascuale could make it clear to us that we were not worth hurrying for, despite the fact that we represented someone of importance.

  Pascuale’s assistant, a dour blonde with a rather masculine manner, whose stern expression and dull clothes did not at all correspond to her age, then led us to the highest floor of the administrative building where the secretary’s office neighboured the now empty office of Vito Minutti. Both could be entered from the hallway and the anteroom where the assistant had her desk.

  “Gentlemen, welcome to the factory,” said Pascuale from behind his desk as soon as we entered. “Please pardon the delay, but after this tragic event we naturally had to increase security measures.”

  He bade us sit down on a large leather sofa and ordered the assistant to bring refreshments. He waited for the woman to finish serving us and as soon as she left his expression changed.

  He stood up, took off his jacket, threw it ove
r the backrest of his chair and rolled up the sleeves of his silk shirt. I thought for a moment that he wanted to give us a thrashing, but he only sat down close to us, drank slowly and crossed one leg over the other.

  “Your visit surprised me,” he said, trying to confuse us with his superior manner, which only hid his nervousness. “We agreed that you would leave everything to me.”

  Remaining silent at the right moment can be much more effective than asking questions, so we did not react.

  “Was it a good decision?” asked Holmes.

  As expected, this released an avalanche.

  “Does his Lordship doubt me?” cried Pascuale, practically jumping off of the sofa. “He himself was clearly convinced that it is impossible to negotiate with the Minuttis! It did not work with the old man and it will not with Signora Teresa. His death - which I don’t want to know anything about - did not help you at all in this regard. Your visit yesterday only angered the Signora and strengthened her resolve. If you do not convince her to sell, I am your only key to the factory!”

  “We just want to ensure that they key does not get jammed in the lock.”

  “You need not worry about that. I am aware of how deep I have gone, as you must surely realise. In the meantime I will run the company according to the instructions as promised. The family trusts me completely; Sir Rupert can be certain of that.”

  We had caught the name, thrown into the air with the utmost carelessness. I noticed how Holmes’s ears pricked up. The young consigliere, however, probably for security reasons and according to instructions, did not utter his future employer’s surname.

  “All right,” said the detective. “All must continue as was agreed.”

  His relief was evident.

  “Gentlemen, I did not mean to be rude to you. After all, the three of us get our orders from the same boss. I just lost my nerve when I saw you in the palace. The lady is very excitable; it is always a struggle for me to get her to make the right decisions and any pressure could destroy my work.”

  “After Minutti’s death you became the helmsman of his empire.”

  “I could not put it better myself,” said Pascuale. “Do you have a cheque for me?”

  Holmes was taken aback.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “But you will receive it shortly.”

  “In the regular way?”

  “Of course,” said the detective. “And lest I forget, Sir Rupert also asked us to personally assure him that your plans regarding the secret investigation are safe and that nobody else can obtain them.”

  “You can assure him that they are in my safekeeping.”

  “May we see them?”

  Pascuale was taken aback momentarily, but then reluctantly stood up, returned to his desk and removed a key. He walked to the wall, which contained a steel safe, unlocked it, entered the combination and swung open the heavy door. From where we were seated we could see that the safe was divided into compartments full of documents. There was also money, laid out in neat stacks, and a cloth tube. Luigi removed it and brought it over to us.

  “Gentlemen, please convince yourselves that everything is in order,” he said, opening the tube and pulling out a roll of blueprints. “These are the specifications for a tracked vehicle for rugged terrain, samples for deadly chemical substances and explosive bullets for our special guns.”

  The detective quickly surveyed the plans. I knew that he was trying to remember as many details as possible.

  “Does Sir Rupert also have all of these plans?”

  “Of course, I sent them to him several months ago,” Pascuale confirmed.

  “Then everything is in order,” said Holmes, returning the roll to him. “Guard it carefully. This could mean a revolution in the arms industry, and if worse came to worst, it will help us win the war!”

  “Those were Sir Rupert’s words exactly,” said Pascuale, rolling up the plans and returning them to the tube.

  He sealed it and locked it back in the impregnable safe.

  It occurred to me to ask whether there was a prototype of these things, in particular as the kind of gun that we had seen on the paper corresponded to what may have killed Minutti.

  My impetuous question almost gave us away. The secretary’s eyes

  narrowed with suspicion.

  “No,” he replied deliberately. “Signor Minutti refused to make these weapons as he considered them too barbarous. He did not even want to hear of them. But you must have known that, no?”

  I froze, not knowing what to say. But the detective saved the situation.

  “You did not understand the question, sir,” said Holmes calmly. “My colleague was simply wondering whether you personally have initiated steps towards their production.”

  Pascuale took offence and immediately forgot his suspicions.

  “I received no instruction. I assumed that his Lordship would take care of this in one of his other factories!”

  “Very well,” said Holmes, rising. “There is no reason for concern. Continue working according to the original instructions, as though we were not here.”

  “If this was meant to be a surprise inspection I am happy that I have stood the test.”

  “You said it yourself,” said the detective, slapping him on the shoulder. We then bade him a hasty goodbye, saying that we were in a hurry to

  catch a train.

  The assistant escorted us out and we headed to Valeri station in order to make the connection to Venice.

  We settled on a bench on the platform, basking in the pleasant sunshine. Holmes for the second time that day attempted to piece together the various clues. After our visit to the factory many things had become clearer.

  “I now know without a shadow of doubt that a certain Sir Rupert is behind Minutti’s death,” he said. “The given name corresponds to that of the man who issued the cheque for my death to Pastor Barlow. A concrete motive is also starting to form. Mycroft was right to fear the changing influence in the leadership of important European arms factories. His Lordship perhaps was not able to buy Minutti’s factory, but with secretary Pascuale in place and the police bought off, he does not need to. And he already has obtained their patents.”

  “But Pascuale himself did not murder him.”

  “No he did not,” agreed the detective. “Mr Pascuale may be capable of selling his own grandmother, but I do not believe he would kill his master in cold blood. Besides, he has a watertight alibi. He was abroad at the time of Minutti’s murder.”

  “Perhaps now with the help of your brother we will succeed in determining the full name of this scoundrel. And then we can put the screws on Pastor Barlow!”

  “Watson, where does this lust for revenge come from?” laughed Holmes. “Nevertheless, you are right; there is no longer a reason to protect him. As soon as we return to England we will pay him a visit. We must also find out who inherits the companies in the case of Lord Bollinger’s death and find this person’s connection to Sir Rupert. This will be the key to solving the case.”

  “Do you think Bollinger is dead?”

  “I hope not, but we must be prepared for the worst.”

  “What about those weapons?”

  “The explosive bullet assembled according to the secret plans of Minutti himself was designed to confuse investigators and act as an insurance policy if the bribes failed. But we still do not know who pulled the trigger. Our mysterious nobleman certainly did not sully his hands. Nevertheless, the circle of suspects has been narrowed.”

  “But what is the reason?” I asked. “So far it does not appear to be political.”

  “At this point nothing occurs to me besides industrial espionage, and of course money, the oldest motive in the world,” said Holmes. “In this day and age, when we are all engaged in war, whoever contro
ls the arms industry has the power to dictate terms.”

  “War: even the word itself clouds men’s minds,” I sighed.

  The detective said something else, but his words were lost in the whistling of the arriving locomotive.

  We returned to Venice and to our hotel. On the way we stopped at the drop off point to pick up a message from Paolo and leave him a reply.

  One that would cost the poor fellow his life.

  15 We know that Watson’s military career was less than brilliant. Upon gaining his medical degree he studied to be a military doctor and in 1879 he enlisted in this capacity with the Fifth Royal Northumberland Fusiliers in India. After transferring to the Berkshire regiment during the Second Anglo-Afghan War, however, he was wounded in action at the Battle of Maiwand on 28 July 1880. Recovering from severe intestinal disease he returned to England and in early January 1881 met Sherlock Holmes.

  VI: Death on the Canal

  The message from Paolo contained good and bad news. In it Mycroft told us that he had succeeded in obtaining a list of Silver Ghost owners, and wrote us the only name that corresponded with the letters in the signature which Holmes had deciphered. Rupert H. Darringford. Touché! We were one step closer. The secret service was already verifying it and promised quick results as long as it was not an alias. The other group, on the hunt for Lord Bollinger independently from us, so far had not reported any success.

  The second part of the letter did not cheer us. It revealed that we would not have the good fortune to interrogate Barlow. It seemed that the earth had swallowed up the wheezing churchman, who had disappeared with surprising speed and with all the money that he had managed to withdraw from the bank. Nor had he neglected to sweep up his tracks at the parish. According to Mycroft’s agents, this occurred soon after our departure from Fulworth and before the arrival of the men charged with tracking down the pastor.

  “As soon as we succeed in opening one door, another one closes in the draft,” Holmes complained. “Nevertheless, we must persist, my friend, we must persist!”