“What did you tell him?” I asked.
“That I never knew my father. That I was born in the Dublin Magdalen Asylum in Lower Leeson Street and raised by my mother in the workhouse at Portumna. I said that she had died when I was 10, and then I ran away. I told him that I learned my craft from an old man who had befriended me, and I have been living on the streets ever since. He can investigate all he likes Watson. The record-keeping at such places is notoriously poor.”
I am always amazed at the detail which Holmes brings to bear on such situations.
“Nesbitt seemed to believe my story,” Holmes continued. “Now, we must wait and see how it fares with his cohorts.
“By the way, Watson, you should know that you have attracted your fair share of attention, so you must keep up your inquiries for the foreseeable future. I have no doubt that if you can occupy their attention for just a day or two more, I may be able to make some serious inroads.”
“I shall do my best,” I promised.
“And now let us talk of other things while we eat,” he said. “I am afraid that when we are finished, I have some grave matters to discuss with you.”
Chapter 25 – Killarney, Feb. 18
Lyons stepped down from the train in Killarney. The new Clonakilty junction of the Cork, Bandon and South Coast Railway had made the journey much faster. Although the only heat in the cars was provided by foot-warmers, it was just an hour’s journey from Clonakilty to Bantry where he then followed the Prince of Wales Route to Killarney.
“The world is changing,” thought Lyons, “and we must certainly change with it.”
Although he was fairly certain that he had not been followed, he wouldn’t know with absolute certainty until a bit later. He strolled around the town, looking more like a tourist than a man on a mission.
Keeping careful track of the time, he let an hour pass, and then he purchased some flowers from a street vendor and headed for the cemetery. The road was deserted, and the wind was gusting. He was glad that he had worn an extra sweater.
Turning into the churchyard, he found the grave he sought and placed the flowers near the headstone. He crossed himself and said a few prayers.
From where he was standing, he could see the marker that he and his men had placed over the Coronation Stone. It looked undisturbed, and the thought filled him with relief. As long as the four of them kept their mouths closed, there was no way that anyone could ever find out where the Stone of Destiny had been concealed.
As he made his way back to the train station, he wondered what King Edward would do. As far as Lyons could tell, the King had but three options. He could be crowned without the stone – and break with centuries of tradition. He could try to pass the imitation stone that they had left in Westminster off as the original – a plan fraught with peril, for they would alert the press on both sides of the Irish Sea if the monarch should ever attempt such a maneuver.
The best of all the options would be for the King to grant Ireland its freedom.
And then a fourth possibility occurred to him. Just as they had done, the King could create his own Stone of Destiny, be crowned on it and scotch all their plans.
I can only hope His Majesty is not that devious, thought Lyons, but then he paused. “If I thought of that option, certainly someone else will suggest it to the King. How can we forestall the possibility?” he wondered.
He continued mulling over the problem all the way to the train station. As he waited, he studied a map of the tracks, and he realized there was no way the monarchy could attempt to create a new stone. The iron rings, centuries old, could not be duplicated. Certainly, they could acquire ancient rings from some other monument, but any cuts made to a stone, to insert the rings would be easily detected by even an amateur geologist. The same applied to any effort to mimic the cross that had been crudely inscribed on one side of the stone. The cuts would give them away. All they would have to do would be to alert the press that a fraud of royal proportions was being perpetrated on the citizens of Great Britain.
No, he decided, a second stone was not really a viable option for the Crown.
So once again, we arrive at an impasse. We will simply bide our time. King Edward will bide his, and eventually, he must assume the throne without the stone or free Ireland.
As he boarded the train, he took a seat at one end of the car. Except for two women, who were traveling with an infant, he had the entire carriage to himself. He was rather enjoying the scenery when his reveries were interrupted as Santry lowered himself into the seat across from him.
“And must we do this three times a week?” asked Santry.
“It’s a precaution,” said Lyons. “There are two strangers in our village that we know of, and perhaps others of whom we are ignorant. Any or all of them might be there on behalf of King Edward.
“Should any of them take the train and follow me to
Killarney, we will have our man.”
“But why lead them to the churchyard?” asked Santry.
“I am known in Killarney. My parents are buried there, and my presence there, especially as a dutiful son come to pray for his parents, will arouse no suspicion.”
“I think it’s an unnecessary risk,” said Santry.
“We are taking a chance, I grant you that. However, if it helps to preserve our secret, then I think it is a gamble that we must take.”
“And if we see a stranger following you from Clonakilty to Killarney?” asked Santry.
“Well then, we can only hope that whoever it is didn’t waste his money on a round-trip ticket,” said Lyons, without the least bit of irony in his voice.
Chapter 26 – Shannonvale, Feb. 17–18
When we had finished, we both began to smoke. After a bit, I said, “Holmes, I believe you said you had some serious matters to discuss with me.”
“No,” said Holmes smiling, “I believe the word I used was ‘grave’.”
“So it was,” I said. “What of it?”
“I meant ‘grave’ in quite a literal sense, Watson. We know that whoever took the stone smuggled it out of England in a coffin. What better way to hide the stone than by burying it in that same coffin?”
“Brilliant Holmes. There is only one problem,” I said.
“Yes, yes, I know,” he replied, “Ireland is filled with churchyards and cemeteries. There must be hundreds of graveyards and thousands upon thousands of grave markers. However, it falls to us to locate the needle in the haystack. After all, even if we were to confront the men who took the stone, I rather doubt they would oblige us with its location.”
“So what’s to be done?” I asked.
“Well, you have ready access to the local graveyards in your search for the elusive Bridget O’Sullivan. Be on the lookout for any newly dug graves. Should you spot one, try in your own circumspect manner to make certain that the individual buried there is the same person whose name appears on the tombstone – if there is one.
“I don’t expect you will have much luck. I think these men are smart enough to bury it far away from their own town, which only leaves us a large portion of the rest of the country to worry about.”
“If you think I am on a fool’s errand, then why don’t I pursue another line of inquiry?”
“This is one case, where we really must leave no stone unturned,” chuckled Holmes.
In spite of myself, I found myself laughing at my friend’s bon mot.
“Well done Holmes,” I exclaimed.
After we had discussed a few more items, Holmes said, “Now, you must head back to your rooming house. I shall meet you in the same place in three days’ time, and if you should see me on the street?”
“I know. I’m to ignore you. What will you be doing?” I asked.
“Sweeping and listening,” said Holmes,
and “praying that neither of us wears out our welcome.
“However, I do need you to send a wire to Mycroft for me. You will send it to Mr. James O’Connell in Dublin – he is one of Mycroft’s agents there. He will forward it to Mycroft and when he receives a reply, he will send a wire to Mr. Ward at the Ashe Street Post Office.”
“What is it you need to know?” I asked.
“Here is the cable,” said Holmes, and he handed me a piece of paper.
I read it over, but since it was in code, I could not make total sense of it; however, I did find several words rather suggestive. At any rate, for those readers enamored of puzzles, here is the text:
“How many machines? Stop. It is a serious concern. Stop. Are we missing any pieces? Stop. Eagerly awaiting reply. Stop”
I returned to the Morton household, and after sending the cable the next day, I proceeded about my business. Since I had called upon half of the O’Sullivans in Clonakilty, I was growing fearful that I might exhaust all of the possibilities before we had made any significant progress.
At one point the following day, I did see Holmes from a distance, pushing a cart filled with the tools of his trade and looking like the world’s grimiest sweep. I rather doubt that he saw me, although if he had, he didn’t give even the slightest indication.
I was headed back to my room late that afternoon when I spotted another familiar face on the other side of Clogheen Road. There was no mistaking that lustrous red hair and that dazzling smile. Coming out of a dressmaker’s shop was the woman whom Holmes and I had visited at Madame Tussaud’s in London. She had called herself Kathleen McMahon, but I now believed that to be her nom de guerre.
I was trying to figure out how I might learn her real name when the shopkeeper threw open the door and shouted after her, “Kathleen!”
The woman turned and the shopkeeper held up a bag, saying, “Don’t forget this bonnet. You promised you’d have it ready for me tomorrow.”
I thought, “So Kathleen is her real Christian name, but what might her surname be?”
I couldn’t hear what she said to the woman, but I determined to follow her. Staying far back, I watched her walk out of town and then she turned onto O’Rahilly Street. After about five minutes, she entered the front yard of a well-kept cottage. As she opened the door, I could hear her say, “I’m home.”
I thought this is real progress. So I waited for another ten minutes and finally a young boy came along. “Excuse me, my lad. Is that the O’Sullivan house?” I said pointing at the cottage.
“No sir,” he replied, “the Donnellys live there.”
“Are there any O’Sullivans around here?” I asked.
He stopped and thought, and finally he said, “The only ones I know live on Casement Street.” And he proceeded to give me directions. I gave the lad a copper for his troubles, and felt that I had accomplished a great deal.
As I made my way back to Shannonvale, I couldn’t decide whether I was more excited about my discovery or the prospect of seeing Holmes the next afternoon.
I also wondered how much longer we would have to carry on this charade. I longed to shave regularly, and wash my hands thoroughly and pull that irritating lift out of my boot.
And I wanted my moustache back. Sometimes Holmes’ suggestions work a little too well.
The next day seemed to last forever. I checked at the Ashe Street station around noon and found a cable waiting for me. I knew there was no point in reading it, since it would make sense only to Holmes, so I stuffed it in my pocket.
Finally, I found myself on Old Timoleague Road at four o’clock. Every time someone would approach, I would slip into the woods until eventually, in the distance, I saw Holmes pulling his cart.
I knew that he had spotted me, so I quickened my pace and headed directly for his cottage so that we might not be seen together.
I slipped inside and a few minutes later, Holmes entered.
“I have news for you,” I exclaimed.
“Yes. I am certain that you do,” said Holmes. “Pray tell me what you’ve learned.”
I then proceeded to tell him about Kathleen Donnelly.
“You have done well, Watson. And did you know that whispers have her romantically linked to the schoolmaster, Denis Lyons?”
“How could you possibly know that?” I asked.
“Because I cleaned her mother’s chimney yesterday. Mrs. Donnelly is a charming woman in her own way, and she does enjoy her gossip. In fact, I would describe as a veritable font of information.”
I can only suppose that Holmes must have seen my crestfallen expression before I turned away. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Now, now, don’t be dispirited, Watson. I certainly had no intention of stealing your thunder – only to enhance it with a little lightning.”
His tone was so sincere, I could not remain angry. “And have you made any other progress?” I asked.
“Indeed,” he said, “I believe that now I know the culprit, but the location of the stone eludes me still.”
“You know who took the stone?”
“I believe I do, but in this case the who is not nearly so important as the where.”
He continued, “Since we first began this case, I have been asking myself incessantly: What would I do were I in their shoes? I can now trace their movements with uncanny accuracy up to a point, and then I lose the scent entirely.”
“What’s to be done?” I asked.
“We continue to persevere,” said Holmes.
“Oh, I had almost forgotten. I received a cable today.” I handed him the wire, and he proceeded to read it over.
When he had finished, he looked at me and said, “This is another step in the right direction. Now, how did you make out with your graveyard inspections?”
“Just as you predicted I would. There have been five burials in the past two weeks, and from talking with the various O’Sullivans, they either knew all the victims or were related to them in some way.
“I visited the cemetery and counted five new graves and no more,” I added.
“Excellent,” said Holmes.
“Now let us take stock of our progress thus far,” he continued. “We know that Queen Victoria was buried February 4. I believe that we can safely assume the stone was stolen early on the morning of the burial. If everything worked in their favor, they could have had it here the next night or at worst, the following morning.
“Since the trip to England lasted but five days and they were back with their families two days after the funeral, they must have buried the stone within a day’s ride of Clonakilty.
“You see, Watson, we are narrowing the hunt, little by little. We cannot see our quarry, but we know it is there.
“What gives me pause,” said Holmes, “is the possibility that our quarry is expecting us.
“Now, here is what you must do, old friend,” he said, and he then proceeded to outline a very detailed course of action for me.
When he had finished, I said, “Are you certain this is how you wish to proceed?”
“No, Watson. I am not certain at all, but at the moment, I can see no other way. Just remember one thing, while we are trying to run them to ground, they are doing everything possible to elude us – and if I am reading them correctly, they are also setting traps of their own.”
“So be on your guard, Watson. I am counting on you,” said Holmes.
At that moment, I vowed that I would not fail my friend, no matter what perils might present themselves to me.
Chapter 27 – Killarney and Clonakilty, Feb. 19–20
Denis Lyons made his second trip to the cemetery in Killarney without incident. He and Santry agreed that no one had followed him.
As they made their way home, Lyons said, “Is that sweep still in Clonakilty?”<
br />
“I believe he is,” replied Santry.
“I should very much like to meet with him, and then we will address the matter of Mr. Ward, who claims to be a distant relative of one of the O’Sullivans, if he is still among us. Odd, that his mother never told him more about her family, don’t you think.”
“Not so much,” replied Santry. “There’s plenty of women here who would like nothing more than to escape their fathers and brothers – and some with good reason. Consider how many gave up their children and how many others ended up in the workhouses.”
“You always did have a tender heart,” said Lyons.
“It’s not that,” said Santry, “I’m just trying to keep things in perspective. Sometimes you become so consumed with the cause that you lose sight of other things that might be equally important.”
“Nothing is as important as our freedom,” said Lyons.
“Not to you certainly. But I’m willing to bet there are plenty of others who don’t share our point of view. Sometimes, you seem almost overzealous in your passion. It can be a bit frightening.”
They sat in silence for quite the better part of an hour, and when the train pulled into the Clonakilty Junction station, Lyons clapped Santry on the back and said, “We must remain united, my friend. Now, I’m off to get my chimney cleaned.”
As Lyons walked home, he knew that he had to find a way to press the issue. Then it hit him. The British government had entrusted Sherlock Holmes with finding the stone, if we can frustrate their efforts either by capturing Holmes – or killing him if it should come to that – the King and Prime Minister might not remain so obdurate.
They would get their stone back and the highly regarded Holmes, if he were still alive, and Ireland would be free.
Now, all he had to do was make certain that neither the sweep nor the ubiquitous Mr. Ward was Holmes in disguise.
And then he could set about focusing on other possible targets.
Of the two, he thought Ward the more likely candidate. After all, he had an English accent and he was basically inviting himself into people’s homes – and perhaps their confidence – with his sad tale of seeking out his people.
The Stone of Destiny Page 10
