The Secret Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by June Thomson

  He waited, deliberately I suspected, until Holmes had climbed back into the trap and had taken up the reins before he added, ‘I’ll tell ’e somethin’ else though. ’Is ’orse is allus fresh. Bain’t come more’n two or three miles at most.’

  ‘My dear sir, you have my eternal gratitude!’ Holmes called over his shoulder as the trap moved off.

  As soon as we were out of earshot, he burst out laughing.

  ‘A cussed old devil but observant nonetheless, Watson. Two or three miles north of here! That should make the search easier.’

  As events were to prove, he was far too sanguine. It was growing dusk before we finally found the place after several weary hours of inquiring at farms and small-holdings and tramping through many muddy yards.

  My leg was causing me considerable discomfort when Holmes, who had turned down a narrow lane which appeared to lead nowhere, suddenly reined in the horse.

  ‘I believe we have found it, Watson!’ he said softly, his eyes glittering in the glow of the side lamps.

  We had halted at a gate leading to a rutted track at the far end of which we could dimly observe in the fading light the roof and chimneys of a house, partly obscured by the surrounding trees. A board nailed to the gate-post announced in peeling white letters the name ‘Bedlow’s Farm’.

  ‘But why this one?’ I inquired.

  To me it looked no more likely than several other farms which we had passed on the road and which Holmes had dismissed out of hand.

  ‘Observe the heavy chain and padlock on the gate, both of them new,’ Holmes replied. ‘Note also the fresh pieces of straw caught upon the hedge. I am convinced we have found the Pied Piper’s lair. It is too late to make a reconnaissance tonight but we shall return tomorrow at first light.’

  He was as good as his word. At six o’ clock the following morning, Holmes, already dressed, shook me awake and at a quarter before seven, having breakfasted on bread and bacon, we set off once more in the trap, Holmes with his field-glasses on their strap about his neck, I with my service revolver in my pocket.

  We approached Bedlow’s Farm circumspectly on foot, first leaving the trap in a little copse about half a mile from our destination, well hidden from the lane. From there, we took a circuitous route across the fields which led us eventually to a sloping meadow behind the farm and its outbuildings which we had only glimpsed the night before.

  From the vantage point of this rising land and hidden behind a hedge, we had a clear view down the slope towards our objective.

  The house itself was a mean building of brick and slate which appeared unoccupied although a wisp of smoke from one of its chimneys suggested someone was in residence.

  Facing it across the yard was a long, low barn with a pair of closed doors painted black, beside which stood a large dog kennel.

  I was able to discern these details through Holmes’ field-glasses which he lent me once he himself had studied the place. But I had barely focused on the kennel and its occupant, a huge, brindled mastiff, when he plucked urgently at my sleeve and requested that I return the glasses to him.

  Even at that distance, his keen eyesight had picked out some movement in the yard.

  Whatever it was, he watched it in silence for several moments before he said softly, ‘Two men have just entered the barn; our quarries, Watson, for they answer the descriptions we have been given of the Pied Piper and his confederate. While they are still inside the building, I suggest we withdraw while our presence is still undetected. I must also alert Inspector Unwin and his men without any delay.’

  We returned by the same route by which we had come and, having retrieved the trap, set off immediately for Wellerby where Holmes dispatched a telegram to Inspector Unwin in London.

  It was a long message which I read over his shoulder as he penned it. It read:

  SHOOTING PARTY ARRANGED FOR LATER TODAY WITH PIPER STOP WILL MEET YOU AND YOUR FRIENDS OFF THE 4 27 TRAIN FROM CHARING CROSS AT WELLERBY STOP PLEASE BRING FISHING LINE STOP HOLMES

  ‘A fishing line, Holmes?’ I inquired. ‘What on earth do you want that for?’

  ‘You shall find out later tonight, Watson,’ said he with an enigmatic smile.

  II

  Inspector Unwin seemed as puzzled as I by the request for the fishing line although he had complied with Holmes’ request and, when we met him and his colleagues at Wellerby station, he produced it from his pocket.

  ‘Although it beats me what you need it for, Mr Holmes,’ he said.

  He was a heavily built, round-faced, cheerful man, dressed appropriately for the occasion in tweeds as were his fellow officers, two of whom were carrying large leather cases which I later discovered contained rifles.

  But Holmes was no more forthcoming about the purpose of the fishing line than he had been with me, apart from remarking, ‘It will have its uses.’

  While waiting for the arrival of Unwin and his party Holmes and I had taken luncheon at the Maltby Arms. Leaving me at the hotel to rest my leg which was causing me considerable discomfort, he then departed on some mysterious errand of his own from which he returned with the pockets of his ulster bulging with parcels, the contents of which he declined to reveal.

  Having met Unwin and his colleagues off the train, we again retired to the Maltby Arms where, over dinner at a corner table and out of hearing of the other guests, Holmes gave them a brief account of our inquiries which had led us to Lower Bagnell and to the Pied Piper’s secret hideaway at Bedlow’s Farm. Then, tearing a page from his note book, he quickly made a sketch of the farmhouse and its outbuildings as well as any surrounding trees and bushes which would give us cover, circumstances which I myself had taken no heed of but which he, with his remarkable powers of memory, had noted exactly.

  In low voices we discussed what stratagem should be employed until, by the time coffee was served, our plans were perfected and each man among us knew exactly what part he had to play in the coming ambuscade.

  We set off at half-past nine, Holmes and I in the trap, Unwin and his men in the hotel’s dog-cart which Holmes had taken the precaution of retaining earlier in the afternoon.

  It was a chilly night with a waning moon which cast sufficient light for us to see by but which, or so I fervently hoped, would obscure our own movements from any hostile observers.

  I must confess that my heart was beating high at the prospect of the adventure to come and, as I sat beside Holmes in the trap, both of us silent, I was reminded of the time in Afghanistan before the battle of Maiwand in 1880 when I had again experienced that same sensation of fearful but excited anticipation. In the fever of the moment, I even forgot the pain in my leg which had troubled me during the afternoon as the muscles grew tired and which the rest had not quite remedied.

  We left the trap and the dog-cart in the same copse which Holmes and I had used but we took a different route from the one we had followed that morning. It brought us to a small neglected orchard, close to the rear of the farm, where the trees offered us plenty of cover and from where we could see ahead of us the house and its outbuildings. Although the barn was in darkness, one window on the ground floor of the house was bright with the yellow glow of an oil lamp.

  Here, at a signal from Holmes, we halted and all watched mystified as he removed the several small packets from his pocket and laid their contents on the grass. They were a piece of prime steak, a penknife, a ball of thin twine and two small phials of liquid. Using a convenient flat stone as a cutting board, he proceeded to slice a long, thin portion from the steak which he sprinkled liberally with the contents of the phials. In the night air, I caught the unmistakable odours of aniseed and chloral hydrate. Then, rolling up the meat into a shape not unlike a beef olive, he tied it up with a piece of the twine before attaching it to one end of the fishing line.

  ‘The lure,’ he whispered, the faint moonlight gleaming in his eyes and making them glitter like stars.

  Then, with the fishing line looped up in one hand, the baited end of it swin
ging free, he set off alone, crouching low, towards the farmhouse while we waited under the trees.

  The silence was so intense that even the smallest noise which broke it seemed magnified beyond normal. I could hear the night breeze stirring the branches above my head and the clear sound of running water although I knew that the nearest stream was two fields away. Even my own heartbeats seemed to thunder out like the regular tattoo upon a drum. Only Holmes was silent, nothing more than a dark shadow moving noiselessly across the grass, his stooped silhouette almost invisible against the tangled foliage and the looming bulk of Bedlow’s Farm.

  As he reached the low fence which separated the orchard from the yard, I saw him pause and slowly draw himself upright.

  Whether it was this movement or some slight sound inaudible to us which disturbed the dog, I cannot say. But there came the sudden rattle of its chain which to my ears sounded as loud as a fusillade of shots while its deep growl seemed to echo across to us like the low rumble of an approaching storm.

  I recall thinking with an inward groan that all was lost. At any moment, we would hear the farmhouse door burst open as Van Breughel and his accomplice came running out to challenge us. In the ensuing confrontation, we should be forced out into the open to meet them in a headlong charge in which, although outnumbered, they would have the advantage of knowing the terrain as well as access to all available cover offered by the house and its outbuildings.

  It was similar to the situation I had experienced in Afghanistan where, as Assistant Surgeon, I was only too familiar with the appalling consequences of such an encounter.

  But even as these thoughts clamoured in my mind, I was aware of a stillness about me, as if all movement, the motion of the breeze among the trees as well as the distant stream, had been suspended.

  The figure of Holmes was likewise motionless, standing upright now, his right arm raised above his head. Then, as I watched, I saw the arm whirl suddenly into action. A dark missile flew silently from his hand to be followed shortly afterwards by the faint, dull sound of something soft hitting the ground. The chain clinked once more but gently this time as if the great mastiff had stirred only a pace or two from its kennel and then there came to us clearly on the night air an eager, slavering sound.

  The lure had been taken.

  We waited for several more minutes in this state of breathless inanimation until Holmes’ tall silhouette once more dropped out of sight and we heard the rustle of the grass as he came creeping back towards us.

  ‘A lucky cast,’ he announced in an exultant whisper. ‘The drugged meat fell almost at the creature’s feet and it snapped it up at once. No dog can resist the smell of aniseed. You see now, Inspector, why I asked for the fishing line? All the other ingredients for my lure were available in the local town but not the means to deliver it.’ He consulted his pocket-watch. ‘We shall wait for another five minutes for the sleeping draught to have its full effect and then we shall make our move.’

  ‘Holmes,’ I said in a low voice, struck by a discrepancy in his account, ‘how were you able to acquire chloral hydrate without a doctor’s prescription?’

  He gave a quiet chuckle.

  ‘I have a confession to make, Watson. I took a sheet of your writing paper some time ago in case of need which I have been carrying in my pocket-book ever since. It was a simple matter of forging your signature, an easy enough task as your handwriting is so deplorable that a mere scribble sufficed.* But in a good cause, I knew you would not object.’

  ‘Of course not, Holmes,’ I replied. Under the circumstances, there was little else I could say.

  While we had been speaking, the light in the downstairs window of the house had been extinguished and two others had appeared in the upper storey, gleaming like two yellow eyes in the darkness. It seemed the occupants of Bedlow’s Farm were preparing to retire.

  Holmes rose to his feet. It was time to go.

  Using the trees as cover, we moved as silently as we could across the grass, keeping low so that we would not be visible against the sky-line, should either Van Breughel or his confederate happen to glance out of the upstairs windows. In this manner, we gained the low fence which separated the orchard from the farmyard. Here we paused to take stock of the situation at closer quarters.

  The house lay over to our left, silent although the lamps still gleamed in its façade. Facing it was the barn with the kennel standing guard beside the closed doors, the huge mastiff stretched out on the cobbles before it in so deep a drugged sleep that not a muscle twitched in its massive frame as, climbing the fence, we stealthily approached.

  It had been agreed that we should surround the building, taking advantage of whatever cover the yard and its outbuildings offered, using Holmes’ plan as a guide. Now, with a wave of his hand, Inspector Unwin gestured us to our assigned positions. Two of his men stole round the side of the building to guard the rear while the rest of us slipped as silently as shadows into our places of concealment. Mine was behind a large rain-barrel, close to where Holmes was crouching under the protection of a log-pile.

  As I took out my revolver, I glanced across at him. His figure was barely discernible in the darkness although I could just make out his lean form, tense and eager, every muscle strained for action like a tiger waiting to spring.

  The signal came shortly afterwards.

  There was a loud thud as Inspector Unwin lobbed a stone against the front door of the house, followed immediately afterwards by the sound of his voice, ringing out across the yard.

  ‘Van Breughel!’ he shouted. ‘Can you hear me? Give yourself up. We are armed police officers and we have the place surrounded. If you and your accomplice come out with your hands up, no harm will come to you. You have my word on that.’

  There came an answering crash as one of the upper windows was flung back and a man’s head appeared in the opening, outlined against the glow of the room. From the glitter of the lamplight on the lenses of spectacles, I assumed it was Van Breughel.

  ‘Surrender? Never!’ he screamed out in a shrill voice which had in it all the overtones of madness as well as defiance. ‘You will have to come for me, Mr English policeman, but, by God, not before I take you and some of your men with me!’

  With that, raising a gun against his shoulder, he took aim and fired several wild shots into the darkness.

  As I tightened my finger on the trigger of my own weapon, I saw the flashes from his and heard the whine as one of the bullets passed harmlessly, thank God, over the log-pile where Holmes was concealed to bury itself in the wall of the barn.

  It was as much as I could do to restrain myself from returning the fire. Indeed, I had steadied my revolver against my arm and was looking down the barrel, the man clearly in my sights. As he stood there, silhouetted against the lighted window, I could have picked him off as easily as a sitting target. All my instincts urged me to pull the trigger. And yet I refrained. If my army experience had taught me anything it was not to act precipitately but to obey the orders of a superior officer, in this case Inspector Unwin, and he had given specific orders that no one was to open fire without his permission.

  So I held back which was the wisest action I could have taken for what happened shortly afterwards decided the issue without the need for any of us to participate.

  A second figure appeared at the window which, from its broad-shouldered outline, could only have been Van Breughel’s accomplice, the same man who had driven the van and purchased the straw from Armitage’s farm.

  A violent quarrel then broke out between the pair, the subject of which we could only guess at from their angry gestures and by the occasional words or phrases which were audible above the general fury of the altercation.

  Van Breughel’s companion appeared to be urging him away from the window, dragging him by one arm while with the other he struggled to gain possession of the rifle.

  I heard him shout, ‘Give in! It’s hopeless!’

  Whether the weapon was fired by accident
or with deliberate intent, there was no way of telling from our places of concealment.

  All we saw and heard was another flash and report as the gun went off followed by a dreadful scream and the broad-shouldered man fell backwards out of sight.

  Van Breughel appeared briefly at the window. I swear that he grinned down at us although Holmes later asserted that it was pure fancy on my part and that I could not, at that distance, have discerned any expression on the man’s features. However, there was no mistaking the jaunty wave of his hand, a last gesture of defiance, as he tossed an empty cartridge box into the yard before he stepped back and there came the sound of a final shot.

  There ensued several moments of absolute silence, made all the more intense by the noise and violence which had preceded it.

  It was broken by Inspector Unwin who rose to his feet and called to us to come forward. It was only then as I relaxed my grip on my revolver that I realized my palm was sore where its butt had bitten deep into my flesh.

  After we had burst down the front door, we found the two bodies in one of the bedrooms, Van Breughel’s just below the window, his head shattered by the bullet which had penetrated the skull. His features were unrecognizable although the steel-rimmed spectacles lying broken beside him identified the corpse as his. His companion was stretched out on the floor a little distance away, a large gaping wound in his chest just above his heart.

  I had no difficulty in pronouncing them both dead.

  Inspector Unwin stood gazing down at them, his hands behind his back and an expression of distaste as well as disappointment on his broad, ruddy features.

  ‘Well, gentlemen,’ said he, addressing all of us, ‘it is not the outcome I had looked for. I had hoped to take the pair of them into custody. However, there is no point in crying over it. The milk has been spilt and that’s an end to it.’

  ‘You will inform the local constabulary?’ Holmes inquired. ‘What account will you give them to explain away this affair?’

  ‘I shall keep pretty much to the story we’ve already prepared with just a change of ending,’ Unwin replied cheerfully. ‘Me and my men have been on the trail of these villains for the past few weeks on account of an armed raid on a post office in Marylebone. We traced them to this hide out where we found them dead. What do you suggest, Mr Holmes,’ he added with a twinkle. ‘A quarrel over the proceeds of the robbery? A falling out among thieves? I think that would explain their deaths most satisfactorily. But before I send one of my men to the police station in Wellerby, there is unfinished business we must attend to in the barn.’