“It is Marseille, Watson. News from Gregson, he has managed to contact the captain of the ship in Flushing. He states, categorically, that no passengers are allowed on his ship. He transports building materials and fertilizer, has a spartan crew and confirms that he has no space above or below deck for any additional voyagers. In fact, now that he is aware of the situation, he has promised that he will detain anyone asking for passage and even return them to England for us, if requested.”
“Well, maybe he will do the job for us,” I said, hopefully.
“I fear Shiner is far too intelligent to fall into such a trap, however convenient it would be for us all. He would make discreet enquiries first and then head south as soon as he discovered that passage aboard this vessel was impossible.”
“So, either way, he will have a large head start on us,” I replied, glumly.
“Which is of little matter, as the ship, Le Hêtre Pourpre, will not leave Marseilles until ten tomorrow evening. Our paths will converge at that point and at that time, at the absolute latest,” Holmes corrected.
“But what then?” I demanded. “We cannot arrest him in France, we have no authority to detain him, let alone force him to return to England.”
Holmes did not reply, as he was furiously scribbling onto a sheet of paper. He opened the door and shouted for Mrs Hudson. When she appeared, he offered her the paper and instructed her to have it wired to Gregson, immediately. He then rushed to his room and stuffed a few items into his overnight bag.
“Come, Watson, we must be in Marseille as soon as we can.” He was smiling and his eyes shone like sunlight on polished metal.
“You have a plan, don’t you Holmes?” I barked, as we rushed out of the apartment.
“We may yet bring Shiner to justice in England, but now we must hurry,” was his short reply.
Chapter Ten - Across The Channel
We quickly found a cab, rushed across town and within an hour were comfortably ensconced in a South Eastern Railway first class carriage. Green fields and orchards slowly replaced the dark gloom of London as we sped through the aptly named ‘Garden of England’. Holmes was silent throughout the journey, which allowed the gently rocking carriage and the metronomic sounds produced by the rails to coalesce and ensure that I was soon in a deep sleep.
The early evening sun was still warm and the sky a deep blue as we arrived at Dover station. I yawned and followed Holmes out of the carriage. We made the steamer with minutes to spare and spent most of the crossing admiring the sun slowly sinking towards the diminishing white cliffs behind us. I found something to eat and washed it down with a swig from my hip flask. I offered the flask to Holmes, who shook his head silently. When he finally spoke, it was only to confirm our ongoing travel plans.
“We will arrive in time to catch the 9.30 train to Paris via Lille. I have wired ahead for rooms close to the station, but we will not be settled much before two in the morning. You would do well to get as much rest as you can, Watson, tomorrow will be a very long day.”
We arrived in the dull, grey port of Calais just after nine o’clock and walked the short distance to the station in the dying rays of the sun. We found an empty first class carriage and were soon underway on the Chemins de Fer du Nord, trundling through the darkening, nondescript, flat northern French countryside. I expected a repeat of the silence that had marked the entire journey so far, but suddenly and unexpectedly, Holmes began to speak.
“Watson, do you know the best time of day to burgle a house?” he asked, quite seriously.
“Well, I don’t know,” I stammered. “Perhaps midnight? No, later, maybe two or three, the early hours I would say.”
“Certainly the most common response, but quite wrong, of course. Why on earth would you try to gain entry to a property at the exact time when you can almost guarantee that the occupants would be present?” Holmes was clearly enjoying imparting this little lesson upon me.
“Well, yes, I see that now,” I admitted. “So, if I reason correctly, then sometime during the working day would be better. At least then the man of the house would likely be absent.”
“Much better, Watson. Mid-morning or mid-afternoon would be my choice. Those are the times when the staff are most likely to be running errands and also the times when deliveries are made and tradesmen tend to call.”
“The greatest house-breaker I ever knew,” continued Holmes, “was a man named Finch. He would arrive at his intended target in the middle of the day dressed as a common workman. He would carry a six-foot ladder and a bag full of tools. His genius was not in employing any great skill or knowledge, but in learning how to use regular, innocent-looking, everyday tools to gain access to his victim’s abodes. If questioned, he always appeared to be a genuine tradesman, no lock-picking tools, jemmies or such-like were ever to be found upon his person. He also limited his activities to maybe once per month so the regular authorities were never even close to ever apprehending him.”
“But, I take it, from your intimate knowledge of his methods, that you were the one to finally bring him to justice,” I responded, somewhat less than convincingly.
“Stow you cynicism, old chap,” Holmes smiled, most surprisingly. “I certainly confronted old Finch and indeed eventually convinced him to retire, but not until I had employed him in a capacity that earned him the greatest payday of his life, not to mention aiding in the recovery of the greatest piece of art ever created.”
“Why, that’s incredible Holmes,” I spluttered. “You have to tell me more,” I demanded, but I had already seen the change in his expression, he would elucidate no further, at least not on this day.
I settled back and tried to attempt some deduction of my own as I lit a small cigar. Holmes was already sucking on one of his awful pipes, this one so black, I could not even determine whether it was a briar or a clay.
I thought for a long while, but having singularly failed to add anything to what we already knew, and still having no idea as to what Holmes was planning, I gave up and decided to simply enjoy my smoke. My mind drifted from the real remembered rooms and gardens of Bedhurst Hall to the imagined sun-bleached coast of Borundia. From the mixed collection of characters that we had interviewed, to the poor victims of this egregious affair.
The change at Gare du Lille was smooth and simple, despite the major construction work that was still underway at this time, and we were underway upon the second leg of our journey within half of an hour. Holmes had spent the intervening time in the telegraph office, writing furiously right up until the moment the train began to move. As the whistle blew, he rushed out of the little office, sprinted along the platform to the carriage, pulled at the door handle, opened it and jumped aboard in one fluid movement. Throughout this incredible display of agility, his face remained as calm and unmoving as ever, not a flicker of excitement or a bead of sweat crossed his stony visage. He sat down without a word, studying what appeared to be several telegrams, just a selection of those that he had somehow arranged to have delivered to various points along our journey.
Stuck for anything else to do, I spent the next three hours or so attempting to determine a method of capturing Shiner that would be both practical and above all, legal. I knew that Holmes had a plan, but I could not fathom what it might entail, or if we really had any chance of success in the twenty-two hours or so that we had left before the Hêtre Pourpre departed for Africa.
Thursday 12th June 1884
We pulled into Gare du Nord not long after one o’clock. We shuffled wearily off the train and along the deserted streets to our nearby hotel. It was a grand old building, but I had little interest in its aesthetics at that point. We headed swiftly to our rooms and once there I merely washed the accumulated grime of travelling from my hands and face before falling into bed and almost instantaneously into a much-needed sleep.
Holmes had calculated that the quickest
route to Marseilles would necessitate us catching the six o’clock train the following morning. This meant that I had slept for barely three hours when I was awoken by the knock of the liveried young man delivering my pre-arranged breakfast. I ate and dressed hurriedly, before settling the account and meeting Holmes outside, where he had already acquired a carriage for the three-mile journey across town to the Gare de Lyon.
While buying tickets, I also bought, rather on impulse, a guide to the French railways. I wanted something to read on the journey and, despite it being in French, I believed I could make at least some sense out of it with what little I knew of the language. Holmes was again sending and receiving messages right up until the guard’s whistle. Once aboard, we found a quiet carriage and settled down for the long journey to Marseilles. We would not arrive until after four in the afternoon but, being unable to act in the meantime, I could see no way that any plan of Holmes’, no matter how ingenious, had any chance of success. The man himself sat in silent contemplation, a state I was already beginning to find singularly annoying. His eyes were half-closed and I could now observe how dark and fatigued they appeared. His face was even paler than usual, clear evidence that he, as I had suspected, had not slept at all the previous night.
“Holmes, you look dreadful, try to get some sleep. We have a ten-hour journey ahead of us and you cannot affect events until we arrive. In addition, I am certain that some rest would actually improve your faculties and greatly improve your chances of solving this entire mystery.” I tried to make this last point as forcibly as I could, hoping to appeal to his sense of logic.
“In many ways you are indeed correct, old chap,” Holmes replied, in unexpected agreement. “I shall indeed attempt a short repose.”
He sat back, closed his eyes and folded his arms. Within a minute, he was breathing slowly and deeply and giving all the signs of being asleep.
I sighed, shook my head and picked up my guidebook. How he could simply switch off like that astonished me. I read for the next few hours, slowly working my way through what I could understand of the book. I knew that the French railways had begun rather slowly, a direct result of the aftermath of defeat in the Napoleonic Wars, but had grown exponentially over the next fifty years, until their scope rivalled the best of the rest of Europe. As I struggled to understand the current ownership structure of the various regions and routes, we sped past small villages, fields of wheat, grapes and livestock then, later, through forests that seemed to stretch for dozens of miles.
I learned that the railways south of Paris were now known as the PLM, the original name, ‘Chemins de fer de Paris à Lyon et à la Méditerranée’, having been deemed rather unmanageable. The line we were travelling on, Ligne de Paris-Lyon à Marseille-Saint-Charles, was the major artery south from Paris and, as such, was always busy, as was evidenced by the crowded lower class carriages, even on this early train.
I must have dozed off shortly after these rather insignificant revelations, and the book fell onto my lap. It might be of some interest to know that this very same guidebook was used on several further adventures over the following ten years or so, and became an essential item to take with us whenever we crossed the channel.
The train stopped for coal and water at Lyon, where many passengers disembarked, only to be replaced by a similar number of new travellers. The hustle and manic activity lasted for about half an hour, before we finally departed upon the last leg of our journey.
It was now afternoon and I could feel the temperature begin to rise steadily as we steamed south towards the Mediterranean. By three o’clock, it was so warm I had to remove my jacket and slide open a window to allow a cooling breeze to enter the stuffy cabin. It was only after I had let in the fresh air that Holmes finally stirred. He opened his steely grey eyes and stretched his back and arms.
“Watson, you were quite right. The rest has invigorated me and refreshed my mind,” he declared. I was not entirely convinced that he had actually slept at all, but at least he was resting.
“By the height of the sun and the growing heat, I would calculate that we are no more than an hour from Marseilles,” said Holmes, looking out of the window. “Now it is time to let you know exactly what each of us must do once we arrive.”
Chapter Eleven - Marseilles
We left the warm shade of the carriage and stepped out onto the platform into bright sunshine and a veritable wall of hot air. I loosened my collar and tie while Holmes appeared not to notice the heat at all. Once outside the station building there was at least a gentle sea breeze, which made the atmosphere more bearable. Holmes, yet again, headed for the nearby post office to send and receive his secretive correspondences. I was under strict orders to head for the port itself and find a restaurant or bar from which I could observe the ship upon which all of our hopes rested.
The Hêtre Pourpre was moored on the Quai du Port in the shadow of the Fort de St Jean and its massively imposing bastion walls. The stroll from the station in the late afternoon sun had left me sweating profusely and I was heartened to discover that locating a position to keep a watch on the ship would not be a problem. I was spoilt for choice, as there were dozens of bars, most with tables outside on the quay itself, lined up along the front of the harbour. I chose the least grubby-looking, about fifty yards from the ship herself. I ordered a tonic water, sat in the shade of the hostelry frontage and tried to cool myself down.
The Hêtre Pourpre was the second of three similar looking working ships, sturdy and simple three-masted barques that required the minimum number of crewmembers, making them the workhorses of the oceans. The ship to the rear of the three was currently unloading and there was much activity both on the quayside and on the boat itself. The two other ships were less frantic, but men were boarding and leaving both at regular intervals. I had to take great care not to become distracted by all of this activity lest I miss our quarry slipping quietly aboard. He knew that he was a wanted man so he may well have been taking precautions to avoid being too easily identified.
Despite my determination to concentrate on just the one subject, I could not avoid speculating about Holmes’ plan. To be entirely honest, I was rather disappointed by my friend’s scheme. I had expected something ingenious or elaborate, but his instructions had been simple. Watch the ship and observe Shiner embarking. Continue observing closely to ensure that he does not jump ship as part of some sort of ruse or blind, and await Holmes’ arrival.
I had almost finished my second tonic water, wishing dearly that I could have added to it something rather stronger, when I saw a figure approaching from the direction of the Hotel de Ville. His height and broad shoulders made him immediately prominent. Despite the heat, he wore a long coat and a wide-brimmed hat that hid most of his face. However, there was no doubt in my mind that this was the man that we had chased across half of Europe. He carried a large leather bag with his huge right hand and had another slung over his shoulder. He kept to the shade of the bastion wall as much as possible and, once level with the Hêtre Pourpre, he dashed towards the gangplank with a surprising turn of speed for one so large. In a few seconds, he was aboard and quickly vanished below deck.
I continued my vigil until the sun began to set. The solid harbour walls seemed to soften as the light took on a gentler, golden hue. I was certain that Shiner was still aboard, from my viewpoint nobody of his size could have left the ship unobserved. I stood up to stretch my arms and legs and, once seated again, I was shocked to see Sherlock Holmes seated in the chair directly to my right.
“I take it from your calm demeanour that Mr Shiner is safely stowed aboard and waiting below decks for his ship to sail to safety.”
He even had a drink before him and, to my great chagrin, his appeared to be have within it, a full complement of gin.
Holmes looked at my resentful expression and laughed. “Come on Watson, old man, you have done a grand job and you certainly deserve this
.”
He waved his hand and the gruff barman, who had been standing patiently in wait behind us, placed a drink, identical to Holmes’, before me.
I could not help but laugh along with his little joke, “Holmes, I will never entirely fathom you.”
I gratefully took up the glass and made a toast. “To success, and hopefully to justice.” Holmes raised his glass in acknowledgement.
“But, I have grave concerns, Holmes. He is aboard ship and will shortly be leaving, probably never to return,” I said, with a sigh. “What can we do from here?”
“From here?” He replied. “Nothing. But we will not be here for long, Watson, for we shall, shortly, also be on board the Hêtre Pourpre.”
Holmes smiled broadly at my shocked expression but refused to add any further information, despite my myriad questions. He simply sat back and sipped at his drink until the sun set below the western harbour wall and the crew of the Hêtre Pourpre began to cast off her ropes.
“Now, Watson.”
Holmes leapt up, picked up his bag and strode quickly towards the ship. I hurriedly followed and we just managed to slip aboard before they raised the gangplank and cast off the final moorings. I noticed a crewman nod, knowingly, to Holmes as we passed and I realised that this was also a part of his plan, but to what end? Were we to sail all the way to Africa in pursuit of our quarry?
Holmes held a finger to his lips to indicate silence as we entered the ship and passed through the quarterdeck. We slipped by several closed doors before descending a set of steep steps and continuing to the end of a narrow corridor. Holmes opened the grim looking door and we stepped into a very rough looking, and smelling, cabin. There were four bunks but, in the darkness, none looked comfortable or indeed particularly clean. Two small portholes on the left side might let in some light during the day but the cabin was now almost completely dark, only a small oil lamp hanging from the ceiling offered the dimmest of illumination.
Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Pigtail Twist Page 15
