by Ashton, Hugh
Our research activities were broken into by Mrs Hudson, who attracted our attention with a knock on the door and a call of “Mr Holmes! Mr Holmes!”.
On my opening the door to enquire the reason for her knock, given that she usually directed his clients directly to Holmes’ rooms, the landlady appeared flustered. “Begging your pardon, sir,” she exclaimed. “I am now accustomed to the police tramping in and out of the house, but this is something else. I’m sure that everything is in order, but it’s not what I’m used to.”
“What is it, Mrs Hudson?” I enquired. “Is something wrong?”
“It’s these soldiers,” replied our worthy landlady. “There are three of them with a big box, and they are demanding to see Mr Holmes. There’s nothing wrong, is there?” she enquired anxiously.
“Nothing at all,” I reassured her. “Please send them up.”
The three servicemen, when they appeared at the head of the stairs, turned out to be Royal Marines rather than soldiers; a pardonable mistake from one not well acquainted with military matters. Two Marines carried a stout metal box between them, following their Sergeant, who introduced himself to Holmes.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but our orders were to stay in the room while you examined the originals of these documents we’ve brought with us. We are then to return them to the Admiralty, leaving you with the copies. Is that clear, sir? If so, sir, I will require your signature on this,” producing a sheet of paper.
“I understand, Sergeant,” replied Holmes, signing the paper placed before him. “Brother Mycroft seems to be a touch concerned about this business, would you not agree?” turning to me.
“It would seem he has more than a little justification for being so, if what we were told earlier is correct,” I replied.
The sergeant ceremoniously produced a key from an inside pocket of his tunic, and used it to unlock the box, which he then opened, revealing the promised documents. Holmes scrutinised both the letters and the envelopes in which they had been dispatched, holding them carefully by the edges, and peering at them through a powerful magnifying lens. “Little of interest,” he said, with an air of resignation, “at least, as far as the actual paper is concerned. All of these are the same paper and envelope. The writing is likewise consistently from the same hand, and the same pen and ink have been used to write every one of these, including the address. There is one point in common, though, regarding the envelopes. I doubt very much whether Mycroft failed to remark the fact, but he omitted to mention it to us. Look here. These are the envelopes of these epistles, arranged in the order of their posting. Observe the postmarks.”
I accepted the glass from Holmes and bent over the papers in question. “These are all ports,” I remarked. “And the order would seem to indicate a slow trip from Portsmouth along the south coast towards the east of the country.”
“Indeed. And that indicates?”
“That the writer was on board a ship or a boat travelling to the last port mentioned, Gravesend, from which he might have travelled to the Continent, I guess.”
“I concur,” replied Holmes. “The ship in question was obviously taking its time. Indeed, if you look here,” and he pointed to a group of envelopes in the series, “the ship actually doubled back on its course at this point. Obviously it was in no hurry to reach its destination. However, it should be a simple matter to search the records of the ports along the coast, and discover those ships that entered and left harbour on these dates. I am certain that we can then make a unique identification of the ship in question. The question then arises in my mind as to why Mycroft has not informed us of the results of such an enquiry, assuming that such was carried out.”
“Maybe because he did not want to arouse suspicion as the result of an official investigation?” I suggested.
“That is possible,” conceded my friend. “In any event, I feel I have gained all that I can from these original documents, and they can be returned to the Admiralty.”
The Marines returned the documents to the box in which they had been transported, and locked it.
“And now,” said Holmes, as the box’s escorts made their way noisily down the stairs, and found their way to the street, “we travel to Portsmouth.”
-oOo-
Holmes was silent during the journey to Portsmouth, and I likewise refrained from making conversation, occupying my time by studying the copies of the documents that had been entrusted to us by Mycroft.
The report of the Colossus officer was much as Mycroft Holmes had described, and I could gain nothing fresh from its study. The content of the letters was unremarkable, verging on the trivial. They provided little information, and indeed were almost childish in their composition. Indeed, it was hard to see why they had been written, other than to provide a kind of reassurance as to the writer’s very existence. As Mycroft had observed, each letter contained a reference to a topical event, which I assumed had been reported in the national press only on the day when the letter was posted.
The first letter began as follows, “Read this, and know that I am well, though living under strange conditions that I am not at liberty to disclose.” It continued in the same vein for a mere two or three sentences, referring to a speech made in the House of Commons late the previous evening, and I turned to the next epistle.
“As I mentioned in my last letter, I am still in good health. I am unaware of my current whereabouts, but may assure you that I continue well.” Again, the same trite style, with a reference to recent Parliamentary affairs. I sighed, and turned to the next.
This started, “My health continues to be good, and I am in comfortable surroundings.” By this time I had almost given up any hope of making any sense of them, and in the last letter that I troubled myself to read, being the fourth of the series, I read, “Some may question the purpose of these letters, but I assure you that they are simply to provide the world with reassurances of my continued health and existence.”
Two or three times I was on the verge of asking Holmes for his opinion on the matter, but when I observed him to be apparently lost in deep contemplation, his eyes seemingly closed, I turned back to the documents without a word.
However, as we left the station and proceeded towards the naval harbour, Holmes turned to me, and remarked, “I believe you are correct, Watson. Those letters would seem to have no purpose except to let the recipients know of the continued existence of Lord Haughton.”
“How in the world did you know that was the subject of my puzzlement?” I asked, as always amazed by Holmes’ apparent ability to read my mind.
He smiled. “It was somewhat obvious, Watson, from my study of your face and actions as you perused those letters. And yet I believe there is something more to them than meets the eye. Naturally, we may assume that they were written under a certain level of duress, at the orders of his captors, but even so... I thank you, by the way, for your continued silence throughout the journey. There are few companions to whom such a gift is given. We will, I think, make straight for the Colossus.”
“Do you know she is in port?”
“I read in Monday’s newspaper that having returned from a patrol in the Bay of Biscay, she had been experiencing boiler trouble and accordingly was expected to be under repair for a week or so.”
On attempting to enter the dockyard, a sentry guarding the gates stopped us and demanded to know our business. Upon Holmes producing the document from the Admiralty requesting all whom it might concern to give us all possible assistance, the sentry drew himself up to attention and saluted smartly. I half-started to return the salute before I remembered that I no longer wore the Queen’s uniform. Holmes appeared to take the matter in his stride, and demanded of the sentry the route we should follow in order to reach the Colossus.
On being directed, we passed through the mass of machinery and supplies needed to maintain the ships defending our nation, losing our way and asking for directions several times as we did so. Eventually we found ourselves at the ba
se of the gangway leading to the Colossus, guarded by a Marine sentry, who passed a message to the battleship’s Captain when we displayed our Admiralty pass and explained that we wished to interview Sub-Lieutenant Fortescue, who had reported seeing Lord Haughton before his disappearance.
Within a few minutes, we were greeted by a young officer who came down the gangway to meet us.
“The Captain’s compliments,” he announced, “and he would like to welcome you both on board, gentlemen. Please have the goodness to follow me. Take care as you move around the ship, as some of the spaces are rather low.” He led the way through a complex mass of steep ladders and narrow corridors until we reached a stout mahogany door, at which our guide knocked.
We were welcomed into the cabin of Captain Frederick Glover, the very epitome of the bluff weather-beaten English sea-dog, who smiled as he extended a welcoming hand and waved us into chairs by his desk. “The celebrated Sherlock Holmes, upon my life,” he greeted my friend. “We have no murders on this ship, you know. I fear your talents will find no outlet here. And Doctor Watson himself. Delighted to make your acquaintance. Now, I was told that you wished to speak with Sub-Lieutenant Fortescue, and you bear important papers from my lords and masters in Whitehall?”
Holmes passed over the document in question, and Captain Glover scanned it in silence. “May I ask whether this is in connection with the disappearance of Lord Haughton?” he asked.
Holmes frowned. “I had been given to understand that this was a confidential matter, sir.”
“There are few secrets on board ship, Mr Holmes. I can assure you, though, that outside this ship’s wardroom, nothing is known of this matter. It would seem to be a matter of serious concern, then?”
“Indeed so,” said Holmes, but would say no more, despite the obvious wish of Captain Glover to know more of the business.
“Very good,” replied the officer, after about a minute’s silence. “There are obviously wheels within wheels here of which I am not permitted to be aware.” His tone was stiff. “I take it you will want to see Lieutenant Fortescue now in private?”
“If you would be so kind as to arrange that,” replied Holmes. “I do apologise for the secrecy, but I am sure you comprehend the delicate nature of the situation.”
“To be sure,” answered the Captain, but to my eye he appeared unconvinced. “I will order the Sub-Lieutenant here, and I am sure that we can arrange suitable privacy for your interview.” His tone was still frosty.
As he went to the door to pass along the order for the officer, I leaned over to Holmes and whispered softly to him. “Holmes, I am aware that you dislike this matter of fame and notoriety, but it would behoove you to take the Captain here under your wing, as it were. He has obviously heard of you and your abilities, and he seems excited to have you on board ship as a guest. I am sure he could be of service to us in our investigation were you to attempt to build up a friendship with the Captain. I strongly advise you to flatter the man, and feed his sense of importance. He is, after all, a senior officer in the Service, and can undoubtedly do us a good turn if he is well-disposed towards us.”
“Hah!” exclaimed Holmes, almost silently. “You may have hit upon something there.” He seemed to relax somewhat in his chair as Captain Glover returned to us. “Captain,” he addressed the skipper, “you mentioned that of course you have no murders aboard the ship. My profession has taken me to many places, but I confess this is my first time aboard one of Her Majesty’s ships. I would be obliged if you could enlighten me regarding the crimes that you actually do encounter about this floating village. I am always anxious to extend my knowledge and experience, and who could be better placed to assist me in these matters than yourself?” There could be no-one more charming and ingratiating than Sherlock Holmes when he chose to be so, and he was now at his best as regards these qualities.
“With pleasure,” remarked the Captain, and Glover launched with gusto into a series of tales of petty theft, drunkenness, and occasional assault. He concluded with, “But these must be nothing compared to what you have experienced in London, Mr Holmes?”
I was glad to see my friend accept the proffered bait, and he regaled Captain Glover, to the other’s obvious pleasure, with a few details of some of our adventures, when a knock on the cabin door interrupted him.
“Enter!” bellowed Captain Glover, in a voice that appeared to have been forged in the days of sail, when it was necessary to call to men working the sails high up on the masts of the ships of that day. A young officer entered. “Sub-Lieutenant Fortescue,” the Captain said to him, thankfully in a more normal tone of voice, “these gentlemen here are Mr Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson, and they would like to ask you some questions in private.” He turned to us. “I will leave you in this cabin. Please pass the word for me when you are finished, and I hope that you will do me the honour of dining with me and some of my officers later in the day.” Obviously Holmes’ conversation had worked on him, and softened his mood.
“I hope we will be able to accept your offer,” Holmes responded. “Now, Sub-Lieutenant Fortescue,” he addressed he officer when the door had closed behind the Captain, “I am making enquiries regarding Lord Haughton. I understand that you believe you saw him, or someone very like him.”
“That’s true, sir,” replied the other, and proceeded to confirm the story that Mycroft Holmes had told us earlier, and the written statement of which we had received.
“You did not recognise the two men who accompanied Lord Haughton to the other boat, and returned without him?” asked Holmes.
“No, sir, I did not.”
“And how sure are you that the man you saw was Lord Haughton?”
“I am as sure as I can be, sir. The man certainly had his general appearance, and in addition, limped in a somewhat distinctive fashion, similar to the way in which I had observed Lord Haughton walking when he had visited the ship on previous occasions. He suffers from a curious dragging and twisting inwards of the left foot, only apparent when he walks fast. I have never observed anything similar.”
“Was he dressed for travelling, did you notice? Was he carrying any luggage?”
“No luggage, sir, and he was dressed in a frock coat and wearing a silk hat, as I had observed him wear on previous visits.”
“Can you describe the ship to which the three men were carried?”
“A coaster, a tramp steamer. Single funnel, black with a red band, flying a Dutch flag, sir. Her hull was,” and he closed his eyes as if in thought, “black, and the superstructure was yellow.”
“You cannot remember her name at all?” asked Holmes.
“Alas, I was unable to do so, as there was another ship in front of the Dutch ship’s bows, blocking the name which would have been painted there.”
“I would like you to draw a plan of where you saw this Dutch coaster, if you would,” Holmes requested, bringing out his notebook and proffering his pen.
“Let me see,” said the other, sketching in a plan of the harbour. “We were at anchor approximately here,” marking a point on the map, “and the ship to which he was taken was here,” marking another point.
“I see,” said my friend, taking the book, and examining the plan. “And you have no recollection of seeing the other two men before?”
“None, sir,” replied the young officer.
“Did he appear to be accompanying them voluntarily?” asked Holmes. “Or was there any appearance of coercion?”
“It would be impossible for me to say, sir, from that distance.”
“Do you know who invited him to dine on board? Captain Glover, perhaps?”
“That would be Senior Lieutenant Ramsey-Moffat. He had served with Lord Haughton on other ships and is a good personal friend, I believe, and he had invited him as a guest of the wardroom on several previous occasions. He was an excellent mimic, and had a very pleasant voice when he cared to sing.” For some reason, the young officer started to laugh quietly to himself, as if remem
bering some incident. “I apologise, sir,” he eventually managed to say. “Rather an amusing incident that took place on one occasion that he was with us. He was ready to sing some popular ditty, when a rat entered the wardroom through one of the ventilators. I have never seen such a reaction from a man in my life. He explained to us, when the rat had been removed by a rating, and he had been persuaded to come down from the table on which he was standing, that he had an irrational fear of mice and rats, which always had a similar effect on him. That notwithstanding, we were always happy when Lieutenant Ramsey-Moffat announced that he would be joining us in the wardroom. Although he had been a Captain in his days of active service, he was always ready to talk with any officer and offer advice and assistance. There was one time when Sub-Lieutenant Urquhart was about to be sued for breach of promise, and Lord Haughton was of great help in the matter. Why, he—”
“I think, maybe, we should have a brief word with this Senior Lieutenant,” remarked Holmes, choking off what promised to be a long and irrelevant excursion. “Is there anything else that pertains to the matter at hand that you would like to add before you leave us?”
There was nothing of that nature to add, and Holmes dispatched Sub-Lieutenant Fortescue with instructions to pass the word for Senior Lieutenant Ramsey-Moffat to join us. After about ten minutes, the officer in question was admitted to the cabin. He was a florid middle-aged man, somewhat more portly than I would have expected of a naval officer, and was breathing hard as he took his place facing us across the table.
“I am a busy man, Mr Holmes,” were his first words to us.
“So are we all,” replied Holmes, evenly. “I will not keep you from your duties for long, I expect. I merely wish to confirm a few facts about Lord Haughton.”
“Very well. By the way, I should mention that during the time that Lord Haughton was in the Service, he hardly ever used the courtesy title to which he had the right, and was always addressed by his family name, as Augustus Wilmott.”
