“ . . . him whom I shall ever regard as the best and wisest man whom I have ever known.”
I laid down my pen and stared at my obituary to Sherlock Holmes, consumed by memories of hansom rides through night-time London or some remote village, en route to some mysterious, often dangerous encounter, filled with the excitement I thought I had left behind in Afghanistan when I had alighted from the ship into the teeming multitudes of the Great City, so many years ago. There were adventures as yet unrecorded, which Holmes had felt should be saved for later for so many reasons. Would I be able to write them when the time came? I could not do so now, though I was recalling one.
It began with a warning from someone named Porlock, a spy in the ranks of someone Holmes refused to name beyond calling him “a shifty and evasive personality.” Porlock was attempting to prevent the murder of one John Douglas; but he was too late. Inspector Alec MacDonald of the Yard informed us Douglas had died of a shotgun blast to the face at his estate in Birlstone. Holmes seemed to have some idea of who was behind it, and dismissed me so that he might speak to the inspector alone. He rarely treated me thus.
My friend never told me who was behind the strange events that had begun in a part of the United States called Vermissa Valley or, as I was to come to think of it, the Valley of Fear; but as I paced my office, I had no doubt of that mastermind’s identity.
What recalled the episode to my mind was a village we passed through on the way to Birlstone. It seemed a cosy little place in the Sussex hills, with its shops and pubs on either side of a cobblestone street, the few great secluded houses atop those hills, and a lake where one could sink one’s lure, lean back, and forget all cares. Was this the spot to relieve, if only slightly, my grief, or would it remind me of the thrills we had shared among such scenes?
I was still contemplating this over breakfast, which I am almost certain was excellent, as was most of what our cook prepared, though I cannot recall what it was. I tried to hide my mood from Mary, whose health had begun to bother me; but I could tell by her eyes that I could keep nothing from her.
I was reading The Times and she was sewing that evening when she looked up. “It’s no good, John.”
“What?”
“He haunts your every step—you know who I mean. I loved him, too, not the least for bringing us together; but I see every day how you are suffering. I must believe your practice is suffering.”
“And you and I?”
She smiled wanly. Too many of her smiles were wan these days. “Nothing this side of the grave could harm that. There are several men who could see to your practice while you took a brief leave to put some of this behind you. It hurts to say the game will never be afoot again; but if you do not remove yourself from all this, the Reichenbach may claim a third victim.”
I laid aside The Times. “As a matter of fact, I was thinking only this morning of a place that might serve, the village of Dickencroft. We could be there—”
“Not we, John—you. You must be alone with your thoughts.”
I found myself at Paddington Station the following morning. Mary was there to see me off. I was glad of that. Holmes and I had begun so many adventures from this place, and I could not bear to be alone.
I shall not weary my readers with the thoughts that occupied me on that journey, so reminiscent of those I had taken with Holmes, or how much Dickencroft reminded me of the scenes of those adventures, save that I dismissed the first curious incident there as my musings working on my imagination. I was wandering the main street, trying to lose myself in the mood such hamlets often produce in me, when I saw a man across the street. He had a small moustache and a goatee on his jutting chin. His eyes projected strength, or so it seemed at that distance.
I was convinced I had seen him somewhere before. This impression was strengthened when he saw me and those eyes widened. He hurried his pace and, as I watched him, occasionally glanced back at me. I had no doubt I had just encountered someone I had met before in Holmes’s company. He had recognized me, and was not happy about the encounter.
I had no desire to investigate. Those days were over.
I was dining at The Laughing Friar when something similar happened. I was washing down an excellent shepherd’s pie with stout when I noticed a man at a table along the opposite wall of the pub. He was also bearded, though his was black and much fuller, as were his slick head of hair and the heavy brows that made him seem all the more sinister. He was dressed in grey, and his wardrobe was obviously expensive. I tried to convince myself I was again imagining something, that the light was too dim to be sure; but there was no mistaking those narrow eyes staring at me.
Holmes had often recalled cases before our association when something had reminded him of them; but as we had passed through Dickencroft on the way to Birlstone, he had made no mention of anything that might have happened here.
I was awakened the following morning by the proprietor’s plump wife, who held out a folded piece of paper. “Gentleman told me to give you this, doctor. He’s waiting for a reply.” It was a note written, it seemed to me, in a fine, flowing hand from which Holmes might have deduced much:
Doctor:
I understand you were the companion of the late Sherlock Holmes. I am holding a soirée this evening at my home, Maple Meadow. I should be delighted if you would attend. Please inform my man if he might call for you at 7:30.
Sir Cecil Dandridge
“Tell him I shall be delighted.”
It did not occur to me to wonder why she seemed apprehensive. “Very well, Doctor.”
I spent the rest of the morning strolling the streets and even venturing into the countryside, trying to enjoy the simple beauty of the area beneath a cloudless late spring sky. It was no use. There seemed an invisible wall between myself and all this; and it had little to do with Holmes. How had Sir Cecil Dandridge learned of my presence when, as far as I knew, we had never met? Only now did it occur to me how uneasy the proprietor’s wife had seemed. She knew of Sir Cecil; and, for some reason, she did not like him.
I was returning to prepare for the evening when I noticed a figure astride a fine-looking chestnut on a nearby hill. I could not mistake that slim build or that black beard; and, once again, he seemed to be watching me.
I stopped at a tailor, as I had brought no formal wear.
A barouche pulled up to the door of The Laughing Friar shortly past the appointed time. The journey, chiefly along a country road, seemed roughly half an hour and ended at the cedar-lined drive leading to a great red-bricked, multi-gabled structure gleaming in the last rays of the sun.
A tall, gaunt butler with a few white hairs led me along the polished chequerboard floor of a wood-panelled hall to a grand ballroom, illuminated by a gigantic chandelier hanging from a frescoed ceiling. The men in their tailcoats and women in elaborate gowns might have overflowed some gatherings; but here, their numbers seemed sparse. A fat little fellow with wild copper hair played passages from Mozart’s The Magic Flute on a grand piano before one of the numerous picture windows.
The butler announced me; my host approached almost immediately. Sir Cecil was a big man in height and girth with dark brows and chiseled features that, before the wrinkles and slight double chin, must have cut quite a figure with the ladies. He had wavy black hair with streaks of gray.
“Dr. Watson, Dr. Watson,” said he, shaking my hand with almost frightening vigour, “what an honour, what a singular honour. I must introduce you immediately.”
I was terribly impressed with all the distinguished-looking folk towards whom he practically dragged me. I had been to several such gatherings in my profession and in the company of Holmes, but not since the tragedy at Reichenbach, and never as guest of honour.
I confess I recall only two of these people: Trevor Atkins, who frankly made me feel more comfortable than Sir Cecil, and Atkins’s charming companion.
Atkins was a short, trim man without a hair on his head or chin. His voice reminded me of a well-fe
d cat. “Ah, Dr. Watson.” His handshake was nearly as hearty as my host’s. “I was devastated, as all good Englishmen must be, to hear of your friend’s fate—England’s own Dupin.”
“Indeed.”
“And I should have liked to tell him so personally.”
“He would have been thrilled.” Why tell him Holmes’s actual low opinion of “by no means such a phenomenon as Poe seemed to imagine”?
“And this is Mlle. Marie L’Espanaye.”
The young woman had large, brown, child-like eyes. Her white ruffled gown hugged her slim figure and displayed her shoulders, over one of which hung her long, dark brown tresses. “Enchantée.”
Her smile and the way she took my hand both lacked enthusiasm. Was she wondering if she would meet anyone here her own age?
Atkins leaned towards me and lowered his voice. “I fear she speaks little English.”
“If you will excuse us,” said Sir Cecil, taking my arm, “I have something to discuss with Dr. Watson in the garden.”
He seemed less congenial as he preceded me along a path to a stone bench by a pond spanned by a wooden bridge, visible in the last vibrant light of day. He motioned me to sit, but remained standing.
“I did not invite you totally as a guest of honour.” There was no trace of cordiality in his voice or expression. “The fact is that when someone like Sherlock Holmes dies and there is no trace of a body, and when, furthermore, his dearest friend shows up in this area, I worry; and I think you know why.”
“Perhaps you would care to elucidate?”
“I do not think that is necessary.”
“Forgive me, Sir Cecil, but I have no idea to what you are referring.”
“Forgive me, doctor, but I do not believe you.”
I shot to my feet. “See here, sir, I am here precisely because Holmes is dead. There can be no mistake. I came to Dickencroft to contemplate what my future will be without him and those adventures, which so enriched my life. I came to this house to have one night to think of other things, to rest my mind, to be refreshed for—I don’t know. If you are some enemy of Holmes, and invited me here out of guilt and anxiety, how cruel. I have a good mind to go to the authorities. And don’t get any ideas. Your guests know we came out here together, so if anything happens to me—”
His laugh was so raucous I thought the man had lost his senses. “The authorities know far more than you; and they don’t know enough to make a case.” He turned and walked away. “I shall give you a chance to say your goodbyes, and then my driver will take you back to The Laughing Friar. If you are telling the truth, if you stay out of my way, you will find your little idyll to be all you expected. Dickencroft really is quite charming.”
I was standing there alone, pondering my next move, when I heard a heavily accented voice: “I should listen to him, monsieur le docteur.” He stepped out of the small forest I had barely noticed behind me—the bearded man I had twice noticed watching me. “I have read several of your accounts of the great Sherlock Holmes. I particularly recall how dangerous he felt rural areas to be, in many ways more dangerous than any metropolis. I assure you, his words could be no truer than when applied to innocent-looking Dickencroft. I should take the first train to London tomorrow.”
“I believe I can deal with Sir Cecil Dandridge. I survived Afghanistan, and you’ve read how well Holmes and I survived more formidable foes.”
“Forgive my insensitivity, monsieur le docteur; but your friend lies at the foot of the Reichenbach, and he always struck me as being more resourceful than yourself.”
I shrugged. The remark stung; I was not about to reveal it to this fellow.
“Two things you should consider, mon ami: first, I have my own way of dealing with Sir Cecil Dandridge—never mind how.”
“And the second?”
His eyes narrowed. “If you do not leave tomorrow, you may also have to deal with me.”
As he turned to leave, I said: “As I do not know your name, I have no idea of whether that is mere bluff.”
He smiled. “Ah, I know you; but you have not had the pleasure. I am Jean-Baptiste Thibadeau. You will forgive me for not shaking hands.”
I watched his retreating back until I saw him no more, then returned to the house. I scanned the room for my host, vowing to learn what all this was about, especially the mysterious M. Thibadeau.
“Doctor.” It was Atkins; and he was alone. “Dandridge seemed so grim when he invited you into the garden. I hope it was nothing serious.”
I was about to assure him there was not when something occurred to me. “Do you have reason, other than his manner, to think something might be serious?”
“I’m—afraid I don’t understand.”
“I never heard of Sir Cecil until I was invited to this gathering. He admitted it was due to my association with Sherlock Holmes. I have reason to suspect there is more than hero worship involved.”
“And what made you think that?”
“My question first.”
He considered. “I know he is mysterious. I am not the only one who has often seen him glancing about with obvious apprehension. I know he takes frequent trips, often to the Continent. He will tell us nothing of them; and from his manner, we have come to the conclusion it is not a good idea to ask.”
“Wait.” Something had occurred to me—an observation, I was proud to think, worthy of Holmes. “If he never told you anything about his trips, how do you know he went so often to the Continent?”
“Ah, there you touch upon one of his most interesting secrets. Several of his acquaintances have seen him in various parts of France, in the company of a certain gentleman. He swears they must have mistaken someone else for him, that he never knew anyone of this fellow’s description; and he seemed, as he made these denials, extremely uneasy.”
“Do you recall this fellow’s description?”
“Tall and slim, dark hair—brown or black, I’m not sure as they never saw him closely—expensively dressed, with a rather remarkable beard.”
“Ladies and gentlemen.” So shrill was the voice that the attention of all turned to the badly shaken butler, standing halfway up the elaborate staircase. “I have terrible news. Sir Cecil has just been murdered.”
I pushed through the crowd at the foot of the stairs, with apologies, to find myself blocked by the butler.
“I am a doctor.”
“There is nothing that can be done.”
“I should decide that.” I ascended to his bedchamber, where the servant told me he lay.
He was sprawled across a four-poster, his eyes staring at the ceiling in frozen horror. An ornate letter opener protruded from his chest. Blood stained the rose counterpane. I saw all this by the light of a single lamp on the table beside the bed. I felt for a pulse, though one look confirmed the butler’s statement.
I examined the room, finding nothing significant, uncertain what I hoped to find, possibly behaving out of habit from my years with Holmes. His absence was never more intensely felt than at this moment. How much he might have seen.
I returned to the ballroom to find an Inspector Thompson and a constable. The latter, a slim sandy-haired youth, never spoke, giving the impression of an avid student absorbed by his professor’s lesson.
The inspector approached, smiling, hand extended. “Dr. Watson.” He was a tall, athletically built man somewhere past fifty, with a bulbous nose and pale blond hair parted in the middle. “I did not have the honor of meeting Mr. Holmes, but meeting you . . . .” The smile broadened. “Naturally, any help you might give us, based on your experiences with him, would be most welcome.”
“I might accommodate you there sooner than you think.”
He raised a brow.
“There is a gentleman I have encountered three times since my arrival in Dickencroft. He was here tonight, though I am certain he was not invited. I do not think he was on good terms with Sir Cecil, though I have learned he—at least, a man of his description—was observed several
times with Sir Cecil on the Continent.”
“Perhaps you could give us this description?”
The young constable withdrew notebook and pencil from his uniform.
“I can do better than that. He gave me his name—or rather, a name: Jean-Baptiste Thibadeau.”
They stared at each other. They obviously found the name familiar and not at all pleasant.
“I should still,” said Thompson, “like a description.”
“Tall—about your height—dark hair, dark beard, prosperously dressed every time I saw him. English is most certainly not his first language.”
“That’s Thibadeau, all right.” His gaze seemed fixed on something behind me. “McGregor, give the doctor a copy of our address. I should like to see you at ten o’clock tomorrow—if that is convenient?”
“Who is this Thibadeau?”
“All in good time, doctor.” He turned and signaled McGregor to follow him. “All in good time.”
The constabulary was on Cherry Lane in the middle of Dickencroft. A stone wall surrounded it. I passed through an iron gate and along a short walk to the two-storey red brick structure.
The inspector looked up as I entered. “Dr. Watson.” He had lost some of his joviality. “Please be seated.”
I lowered myself into a dark hardwood chair.
“I do not enjoy what I am about to say.” He seemed to consider. “Several witnesses claim to have heard words between yourself and Sir Cecil Dandridge shortly before the tragedy. Is this correct?”
“It is. He seemed to feel my visit here was somehow connected to him, that I knew something that might not be to his benefit. Naturally, I denied this.”
The Adventure of the Plated Spoon and Other Tales of Sherlock Holmes Page 15
