The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Devil and the Four
Page 30
“Are you sure you feel well enough for this?” I asked.
“It is only fatigue, I believe.” He smiled at me. “As well as lungs corrupted by tobacco smoke! Let us resume.”
I glanced back behind us at Whitby divided in two by the River Esk which flowed into the sea, then resumed the steep climb. The stone steps wound round and upward. I vaguely remember hearing how coffins were carried up this way in the past for burial in the churchyard. What an unenviable task that would be! We reached the summit at last and turned away from the church to stare out at the sea. I felt the frigid pressure of the brisk incoming wind on my face. Great swaths of gray and yellow clouds washed over the sky, but the hidden, faintly glowing orb of the sun hung over the horizon. To the south, the sky was much darker, ominously so. The sea itself was a dark gray-green, flat but frigid-looking. Anyone who fell into those waters would be lost in minutes. A few small solitary fishing boats were headed back to port.
“I don’t like those clouds,” I said. “It is certainly cold enough for snow.”
It was a relief to turn away from the cold wind. We trudged around the left side of the church, which had a square crenellated tower with gaps more suitable for a castle and a squad of bowmen, and through the graveyard. Many of the tall tombstones thrust up above the sparse green grass had ornate curving tops, but their surfaces were stained black, so weathered and pitted by the elements, that one could not make out the names or dates.
Beyond, along a rise, stood the ruins of Whitby Abbey, curiously lit by that vast fading sky and masked sun. The sandstone, with all its hues of white, tan and brown, seemed faintly pinkish against the stark gray of the inland sky, and the long expanse of green lawn almost glowed. It was the various shades of the individual stones that made the structure so beautiful, the subtle mixtures of harmonious color, and it took decent light like this to distinguish them. Much later, and all would merge into a shadowy dirty gray. Tall columns topped with perfect Gothic arches marked the long nave, and on the left side of the structure, at the inverted V of one summit, was the stone framework of a circular rose window, its stained glass long gone.
Holmes raised his stick, pointing. “England has many ruined abbeys, but none I think is as splendid as this one.”
“I agree,” I said.
“There have been settlements here for centuries. The Romans had an outpost. The first monastery was in the sixth century. This one was built in the eleventh, but the beginning of the end was in the seventeenth century when Henry began his war against the Catholic Church. Now this magnificent structure has been left to ruin for a good two centuries.” He shook his head. “It is far easier to destroy than to create.”
“All the same,” I said, “think of how it stood in its full beauty for four or five hundred years. Generations of monks lived, labored, and died here. I wish I could have seen it then in all its splendor.”
Holmes nodded. “I, too. Let’s have a closer look.”
We wandered round the outskirts, then entered through one of the arches and walked along the nave, out of the biting wind. The roof overhead was mostly gone, the gray sky above framed by stone, and green turf had sprouted up inside. Only a sort of hallway off to the side still had a stone floor.
I shook my head. “These arches and columns always amaze me. It is hard to believe medieval men had the skill to create such intricate structures.”
“Yes.” He raised his stick. “Look at the layers in that arch there, and the columns within the columns, so to speak, building it outward from smaller units.” He glanced upward. “It’s getting darker.”
I shivered slightly. “I’m ready to sit by a warm fire and drink some of the local ale.”
We wandered back out onto the lawn and paused to look out at the sea. The dark bank of clouds had swept in from the south, casting a sort of sinister shadow out on the waters. Overhead the sky still had faint hints of color, yellow and perhaps pink. I blinked my eyes in disbelief, then felt an icy ping on my cheek. A few solitary white flakes came slowly tumbling down from that vast sky.
“Good Lord,” I said, “it’s starting to snow.”
Holmes stared upward, then out at the sea. I could not see his forehead, but I could tell he was frowning. His pale lips looked faintly pinched, his eyes uneasy, and the bowler somehow seemed to emphasize his beak of a nose.
I turned impatiently. “Shall we go?—please?”
He was still frowning. “It will not do, Henry. It will not do.”
“What will not do?”
“Winter comes soon enough. And you were right, I was right. A consulting detective must sometimes fail. All the same, I cannot simply abandon all those who may require my help. I have enjoyed my retirement while it lasted, but now it must come to an end.”
I smiled at him. “Are you serious?”
“Never more so.” His lips formed a characteristic sardonic smile. “After all, we cannot let le Diable gagne, can we?”
“Certainly not!” I exclaimed.
“Come, let’s get back to the inn.” We both started walking. The white flakes danced in the air all about us. “But first we must buy more train tickets.”
“To return to London, you mean?”
“Yes, and then on to Paris.”
“Paris?”
“Yes. We shall accept Violet’s suggestion of a few days’ holiday in Paris. Besides, I need to speak with her.”
“Speak with Violet? But you already had several days to speak with her.”
“I was preoccupied, as you may recall.”
And so, the next day, we began the same journey in reverse: an early train back to York amidst falling snow, then the express to London, followed by another train to Dover. We took an evening ferry to Calais, spent the night there, and were on the first train the next morning to Paris. We pulled into the Gare du Nord around one PM. We hailed a cab from among the throng of vehicles and people at the station and headed straight for Auteuil. I asked Holmes if we shouldn’t leave our luggage at the hotel, but he said that could wait. His face was faintly flushed, and I could tell that his spirits had completely altered.
Soon we reached the cobbled country lane leading to Violet’s house, the bustle, noise and crowds of the city left far behind. The carriage came to a stop. Holmes smiled at me, then quickly got out. “Attendez nous, monsieur, s’il vous plaît,” he said to the driver. He strode down the stone path to the front door, and I followed. The sun had broken through the clouds, and yellow light shone on the lush green grass. He rang the bell, waited a few seconds, then rang it again.
The door finally swung open, revealing Berthe. It was always something of a surprise to see a woman almost at my eye level. She smiled at us. “Ah, Monsieur Holmes, Dr. Vernier, bienvenue! Entrez, entrez.” He stepped inside, and I followed.
“Bonjour, madame. Est-ce que nous pouvons voir Madame Grace and Dr. Doudet Vernier?”
“Hélas, monsieur, elles ne sont pas içi. Elles sont parties en voyage.”
I frowned. “On a trip?” I muttered.
“J’ai quelque chose pour vous,” she said, “une télégramme. Attendezmoi une minute.”
I shook my head. “Where on earth can they have gone?”
Holmes appeared amused. “I have a premonition.”
“La voiçi.” Berthe handed him an envelope.
Holmes quickly tore it open, scanned the paper, gave a loud sharp laugh even as he let the hand holding the paper drop.
“What does it say?” I asked.
“It’s from Michelle. She and Violet are in Yorkshire, at the hotel in Whitby. She wants to know where we are. She sent a telegram here, to the Meurice, and to Baker Street. ‘Please advise,’ she concludes.” He folded the paper, put it back into the envelope and thrust it in his jacket pocket. “Merçi, madame, et au revoir,” he said to Berthe. “À la prochaine.” He whirled about and went back outside.
I followed, blinking briefly at the unaccustomed sunlight. “Where are we going?” I asked.
“To a telegraph office to send them a reply.”
“Saying what?”
He paused on the path and turned to me. His blue-gray eyes were aglow under the brim of his top hat, flecks of amber showing near the black pupils, and he smiled. “To meet us in London tomorrow evening—at 221B Baker Street.”
About the Author
Sam Siciliano is the author of several novels, including the Sherlock Holmes titles The Angel of the Opera, The Web Weaver, The Grimswell Curse, The White Worm and The Moonstone’s Curse. He lives in Vancouver, Washington.
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