Finally, he turned and looked directly at me. Were it not for the distinctive profile, I should never have known it was Holmes. His face was covered with soot. His tousled hair seemed matted and dirty, and he hadn’t shaved since we had parted. He was dressed like a vagrant in the most disreputable clothes I have ever seen. The trousers were patched and dirty, the shirt might have been white at some point in the distant past, and the coat was torn and frayed in several places.
He looked at me for a long time as if gauging the effect of his appearance upon me and then he smiled and said, “It is so good to see you, Watson.”
“You look far worse than when we left London, Holmes, if that’s possible.”
Holmes laughed, “I have been plying my trade, and I can assure you that it is not the neatest of professions. In the past three days, I must have cleaned at least 20 chimneys. Thus the state of my attire.”
“Have you learned anything?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied, “before you start to clean a chimney, it is always best to learn how long since it was last swept. Otherwise, you proceed at your own risk – a fact that I learned much to my chagrin.”
“Holmes, you are impossible,” I said.
“Oh, you meant, have I learned anything about the stone! Actually, I’ve had some small degree of success. It’s amazing the things that people will say in front of someone they regard as insignificant. And more important are the things they utter when they simply forget that you are around, whether it be in the next room or up on the roof.
“I now know that there is a very strong chapter of the Irish Republican Brotherhood in Clonakilty, some 30 miles south of here. It’s a small village, probably fewer than 1,000 people. It’s located right near the tidal Clonakilty Bay, and the village is surrounded by hilly country, much of which is used by the local dairy farmers.
“While one stranger making his way into such a place would surely be noticed,” Holmes said, “two would have the eyes of the entire town upon them.”
“In this whole country,” I asked, “what on Earth makes you think the stone is in such an out-of-the-way hamlet?”
“Because Mrs. O’Brien kept complaining to both Mrs. Sherwood and Mrs. Costello how her husband had to travel to Clonakilty every time the Brotherhood needed him. More important for our purposes, however, is the fact that Mr. O’Brien is a carpenter by trade, and you will recall that I surmised that one of the men who helped steal the stone is a carpenter. By the way, he’s quite a good craftsman, I must say.”
“How did you learn all that?” I asked.
“I began by inquiring about carpenters in Cork. Mrs. O’Brien was the fifth carpenter’s wife I visited. As luck would have it, I arrived at the O’Brien house late in the afternoon. As I had with my other customers, I offered to clean her chimney and promised that if she were not completely satisfied with my work, she would not have to pay me.
“While I was cleaning the flu in the living room, Mrs. O’Brien was in the kitchen with Mrs. Sherwood. I distinctly heard her mention the Brotherhood, which was followed by a litany of complaints. As I worked, I listened and I made certain that I was unable to finish that day.
“I told her how desperately dirty her chimneys were and showed her the handle of my borer, which I had deliberately broken myself.
“I’ll get a new handle first thing in the morning,” I said, “and then I’ll come back and finish the bedroom and kitchen.
“She told me to leave the handle with her. She said her husband was a carpenter, and he could fashion me a new one without any trouble.
“When I returned the next morning, a new handle was waiting for me. After I did the bedroom fireplace, I was working in the kitchen when Mrs. Costello came to call.
“As they sat in the living room, I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation. And you know what was even more interesting than the fact that her husband is a carpenter? He was in England recently, helping a friend transport his dead sister home.
“I have been an idiot, Watson! They didn’t put it in a trunk, they hid it in a coffin.”
“My word!” I exclaimed.
“Oh Watson, these are some devious rascals that we are dealing with.”
“I’m beginning to appreciate that Holmes,” I said, “So what will you do next?”
“I’m to Clonakilty,” he replied, “plying my trade along the way. The more homes I service, the more my reputation spreads, and the safer I become because I’m not so much a stranger anymore, having cleaned Mrs. So-and-So’s chimney.
You see how it works?”
“And what am I to do?” I asked.
“You are to go to Shannonvale, a tiny village about four miles from Clonakilty and rent a small cottage if you can. I shall try to do the same thing near Darrara, another nearby town. I hope to make one of the cottages our base of operations, and we can meet there in the evenings, if circumstances permit – but only after I am certain that neither of us has been followed.
“During the day, you can look for work if you like. Try to keep to yourself, and if anyone should ask, you can tell them that your people came from Ireland, and after living and working in London, having been brought there as a child, you tired of England and decided to return home and spend your days in the land of your birth.
“Also, I instructed Mycroft to send any information that might come his way to the Ashe Street Post Office in Clonakilty to the attention of George Ward. So every other day, you must make the trek from Shannonvale to Clonakilty – although it’s really not that far – to check for wires from Mycroft.
“But that need not happen for another few days. As I said, I must work my way to Clonakilty. In the meantime, you can stay in this cottage and enjoy the sights of Cork. Might I suggest a day at Blarney Castle where you can kiss the Blarney Stone?”
“Really, Holmes,” I sniffed.
“I’m serious, Watson. There is one legend that holds that the Blarney Stone is actually a piece of the Stone of Scone, the very stone we seek.”
“You aren’t serious,” I said.
“If you believe this particular story in lieu of the others, the Blarney Stone was presented to one Cormac McCarthy by Robert the Bruce in the early 14th century as a token of appreciation for McCarthy’s support at the Battle of Bannockburn. It was then installed at McCarthy’s castle of Blarney.”
“I am astounded,” I said.
“Don’t be,” said Holmes. “Other theories say that the Blarney Stone legend is only about 100 years old, and I know for a fact that the Blarney Stone is limestone while the Stone of Scone is a reddish sandstone. Remember Miss McMahon’s replica and the rather distinctive colors? Still, people do love their legends, and you never know what you might learn.”
“Holmes you are incorrigible,” I said.
“So I’ve been told,” he replied. “Now, in all seriousness, I have a big pot of Irish stew here that my last customer, Mrs. Donlevy, offered me as payment for my labors. I convinced her to throw in a loaf of bread, and I purchased a rather unimposing bottle of port. After all, looking as I do, I could hardly expect to be drinking anything better. Still, I tell you Watson, after a long day of sweeping, I find I’ve developed a ravenous appetite. I hope you are hungry as well, old man.”
Although the fare was simple but hearty, the companionship made it seem like a feast. As Holmes and I chatted, I enjoyed myself tremendously, little suspecting how long it would be before he and I would enjoy a similar meal together.
Chapter 20 – Cork, Feb. 12–15
For the next three days, I puttered around Cork, remembering always to keeps my hands grimy. Although as a medical man, I cannot tell you how much it pained me to follow my friend’s instructions.
I also remembered to change the lifts in my boot so that my limp would always be obvious.
; I did make my way to Blarney Castle the first day. I rode on the Cork and Muskerry Light Railway, which travels 18 miles from Cork to Blarney. Primarily used by tourists, the local farmers and dairymen also employed it to transport their produce.
I attracted no attention, as I might have been either a poor tourist or a simple laborer. Upon arriving, I walked to the castle, where, after a long climb up a very narrow spiral staircase to the castle’s battlements, I found two fellows who offered to sit on my legs so that I might lean out over the abyss and kiss this black rock known as the Blarney Stone.
Fortunately, I do not suffer from acrophobia, so I accepted their offer and gave them a few small coins when I had finished.
I felt no more eloquent after that exercise than I had before, and I now know more about the Blarney Stone than I care to admit. In retrospect, it seemed to me the perfect spot to commit murder and get away with it. After all, you merely had to sneeze and loosen your grip on the victim’s legs and gravity would do the rest. I do believe that the fall would almost certainly prove fatal.
The second day as I was walking through Cork, a man asked if I were looking for work. I considered my appearance and decided someone of my station could ill afford to pass up the opportunity to earn some extra money, so I told him I was.
I spent the rest of the day unloading lorries that arrived at his dry-goods emporium. At the end of the day, I was given 50 pence and told that I could earn as much tomorrow if I returned.
With nothing else to do, I went back the next day and worked again. The owner, Mr. Thomas Crumblin, was so satisfied with my labor that he offered me a position, should I desire one. I made my apologies and told him that I had to go to Shannonvale to take care of some business, but I might consider his offer upon my return.
“Shannonvale, you say,” said he, “I’ve people near there. If you need a place to stay, find the Crumblins, they have a dairy farm on the outskirts of Shannonvale, and tell them Tom sent you. No, better! I’ll write you a note to give them.”
I felt terrible about deceiving this good man, but I thought this might work to my advantage. Now, neither Holmes nor I would be total strangers in the village.
After he had finished, he put the paper in an envelope, sealed it and said, “You give this to me brother, Andrew, and he’ll do right by you Mr. Ward.”
I thanked him profusely and promised I would see him when I returned.
I slept well that night, and the next morning, I set out on foot for Shannonvale. I made my way along Dean Street to Gillabbey Street and then to College Road. A lorry driver, noticing my limp, asked where I was headed, when I told him, he said he would take me to Halfway and from there I could either walk – a distance of about 10 miles – or I might be lucky enough to find a farmer returning home.
We spent the morning talking about various subjects, and before I knew it, we had arrived at Halfway. I started on foot toward Shannonvale. Although it was January and the air was certainly crisp, it was a wonderfully clear day and the sun felt warm upon my face. I was comparing the beauty of the Gaelic countryside to the grubbiness of London, and wondering about the choices I had made in my life, when a voice interrupted my reverie.
“Where you headed stranger?” asked a man driving a wagon.
“Shannonvale,” I answered. “I’m hoping to meet
Andrew Crumblin. Do you know him?”
“I might,” replied the man. “What’s he look like?” “I’ve never met him,” I answered.
“Then why are you looking for him?”
“His brother, Thomas, told me to look him up.”
“How do you know Tom?”
“I did some work for him,” I answered.
“In the slaughterhouse?” he asked.
“No, in his dry-goods store. You ask an awful lot of questions,” I said.
“We’re suspicious of strangers in these parts,” he said, “especially those with a British accent. But if Tommy Crumblin vouches for you, that’s good enough for me. Climb aboard, I’ll bring you to Andy’s house.”
After I had climbed up, he turned to me and extended his hand and said, “I’m Ray Carney, Andy’s brother-in-law. I married his sister, Helen.”
We talked about the weather and the countryside, and I kept waiting for the question to be asked.
Finally, I guess he could stand it no more, so Mr. Carney said, “I know you’re meeting Andy Crumblin, but what brings you to such an out-of-the-way village as Shannonvale.”
Since I had been expecting the question, I was ready with my answer. “My mother’s family was originally from the area around Shannonvale and Darrara, and I’m hoping that I can find some of my people.”
“And what would your mother’s name be,” he asked me.
“She was an O’Sullivan, before she married my father and moved to England with him.”
“An O’Sullivan, you say. Lord knows we’ve a number of them in County Cork. I believe that there are several families in Darrara and nearby Clonakilty, and I am certain there’s a passel of them in Shannonvale. Who knows Mr. Ward, you just may find that family after all.”
He had stopped the wagon, and pointed toward a farmhouse in the distance. “That’s the Crumblin place. Good luck, and I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again.”
I thanked him and waved to him as he drove off. Then I walked across the field and up to the front door. I knocked, and a man’s voice from within said, “I don’t know who you are or what you want, and I don’t care. You can just head back across that field and be quick about it, or you’ll be picking buckshot out of your backside for a week – if you live.”
Chapter 21 – Clonakilty, Feb. 16
Although Kathleen Donnelly was glad to be home, she soon found herself longing to return to London. She missed the work at Madame Tussaud’s, and she yearned for the return of her independence. She also wished that she could be free of Denis Lyons.
Perhaps there had been something there once. In retrospect, however, she supposed that it was nothing more than a deep friendship, reinforced by the common dream they shared of freedom for Ireland.
There were many things about Denis that she admired, including his intelligence, his passion and his eloquence. She knew, however, that her feelings would never match the ardor that he felt.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden banging. Startled, she realized that Denis was hitting the desk with a book in an effort to call the meeting to order.
Looking around, she was struck by the fact that she was the only female in the room. She knew the other eight men. All of them were decent, hardworking individuals, and she realized that were it not for Denis’s faith in her, there would have been a man sitting in her seat.
“Now that I have your attention,” Lyons began, “there are a few things we need to go over.”
“First, we are still waiting for the King and Mr. Gascoyne-Cecil to respond to our last communication.”
“Surely, Gascoyne-Cecil will be on our side,” said John Daly, an lawyer. “After all, he is responsible for the land reform, which has helped thousands of people here become property owners.”
“I think that was done because he feared the alternative,” said Lyons. “Let us not confuse political expediency with true friendship. No John, Mr. Gascoyne-Cecil may prove himself to be truly in our camp at some point, but I do not think he has done so yet.”
“We shall see,” was Daly’s only rejoinder.
“In that same vein,” continued Lyons, “we know that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has been brought in by the British government. We believe he has been commissioned to recover the stone.
“We know this because he visited Kathleen in her studio before she left London.”
Suddenly, Kathleen felt all eyes, turning to look at her, and she heard Denis saying, “Kathleen, what can
you tell us about Mr. Holmes?”
Standing, she said with a firm, clear voice, “I met him just the once. He pretended to be interested in papier-mâché, but his eyes darted everywhere, and he examined anything he could get his hands on quite carefully.”
She continued, “He is quite tall and extremely thin. He has dark hair and piercing gray eyes. He is not an easy man to describe, but once you have met him, you will never forget him.
“I don’t know how much help that is. The eyes are his most striking feature. They are quick and alert and they miss nothing.”
“Thank you, Kathleen,” said Lyons. “The good news here is that we think Kathleen may have sent Mr. Holmes to the north, but we cannot be certain. So I bring this to your attention because we must keep an eye out for strangers, especially those with an English accent.”
“But people are constantly passing through,” said Sean Dunhoy. “There are always peddlers, tradesmen and those preparing to leave Ireland for Scotland or America, coming from the west and heading for Cobh.”
“I am not concerned about those passing through, Sean. I want you boys to keep your eyes skinned for those that linger – the worker that hangs around for more than a day or two. Do you understand?”
“I had a new chimney sweep at my house today,” said Brian Barnewell, “and he’s coming back tomorrow to finish the job. Do you want to come take a look at him?”
“Let us give this sweep another day or two. Then, if he’s still here, we will consider paying him a visit.”
The meeting then continued as the men discussed upcoming events and the recruitment of new members.
As they were about to leave, Lyons cleared his throat to attract their attention. “One last thing,” he said, “and this is rather important. We all swore sacred oaths of secrecy when we joined the Brotherhood. Let us be mindful of that and be judicious with our speech – even around our families.”
As the men were departing, Kathleen turned to go with them when she heard Lyons say, “Kathleen, a word?”
The Stone of Destiny Page 8
