The Lost Files of Sherlock Holmes

by Paul D. Gilbert

  ‘Tell me, fellow,’ Holmes broke the tranquil silence by addressing our driver and tapping him on the shoulder, ‘have there been other recent visitors to the farm, perhaps expressing an interest in the vacant cottage?’

  The driver seemed reluctant to answer, but when he did, it was with a strong East End accent. ‘Nah, not as far as I know, suh, fings are pretty quiet ’ere abouts.’

  Holmes grunted, content that we were still one step ahead of our adversary, though we were certain the advertisement would bring him to us soon enough. We concluded our journey in silence. Despite the changes brought about by the seasonal differences, the green of the grass and the blossoms on the many trees, Graves’s landscape came to life as we approached and could see the farmhouse was indeed located two hundred yards, or so, from the cottages. Holmes asked the driver to wait for us and despatched me to the farmhouse to explain our intentions to the owner, while he began his inspection of the middle cottage.

  I felt quite jaunty as I started up the long driveway. The air was invigorating and we were nearing the satisfactory conclusion of our problem. I struck out at a brisk pace and only turned back briefly when I heard the impatient whinnying of the bay mare. To my great astonishment, standing directly behind me was the very man who had driven our trap from the station. His friendly demeanour of before was now contorted by an evil, malicious, grimace etched into his soot-soiled face. In his right hand he wielded a ferocious cudgel, which he then raised above his head, in readiness to bring down upon my own. My solitary, futile act of resistance was to raise my arms to protect my crown from the impending impact.

  Then, to my immense relief, I heard my army revolver being fired from a distance. For an agonizing moment, I feared that Holmes had missed his mark, for the man stood there still, his weapon poised above his head. However, I became aware of a deep red hole in the centre of his forehead, the cudgel fell from his lifeless grasp, and he slowly collapsed into the mud just yards away from the prize he had come so far to claim. To assure myself of the man’s lack of threat, I grabbed hold of the cudgel before bending down to examine him for signs of life. There were none.

  As I straightened up again I cast my gaze about me and saw Holmes running full pelt towards me from the direction of the centre cottage.

  Breathlessly he exclaimed, ‘Watson, my dear fellow! I trust you are unharmed?’

  I nodded with a smile of affirmation, still unsure of the true meaning of these recent dramatic events. Then, to my surprise, Holmes prised the cudgel from my hand and crashed it, repeatedly to the ground until it shattered into fragments.

  ‘I curse my natural conceit for allowing this creature and his abominable weapon to threaten your life. The consequences had my timing and aim been less sure, are unthinkable. I owe you my humblest of apologies and yet I could not have been assured of Tyler betraying himself, had I not drawn him out by our separating.’

  ‘You mean that you were aware of Tyler masquerading as our driver from the outset?’ I asked in disbelief, at Holmes’s flagrant abuse of me as his bait, once again.

  ‘In truth, Watson, I had not anticipated Tyler arriving at Borehamwood prior to us. I am as guilty of underestimating his abilities, as I am of overestimating my own. However, upon boarding the cart, I was made immediately aware of my error and decided to allow him to play his hand, not realizing that he would be bold enough to play it so soon. Of course, I could not warn you of his rapid approach without warning him off and then our bird would have flown. Again, old friend, my apologies.’ We began walking slowly towards the farmhouse, where we hoped to procure a lad to send to the village to summon the police and perhaps, a means of transport back to the station.

  ‘At least now I understand why you allowed Tyler off the leash, but how did you realize he was anything other than a humble cart-driver?’

  ‘I was alerted to the possibility as soon as we boarded the cart. I observed the cudgel lying on the floor at the front by his feet; a ferocious weapon, indeed, for a driver in so remote and quiet a village as Borehamwood. Then I became aware of how soiled by soot his face was. You would rarely find such soiling on any face other than one from an intensely built-up, urban area, such as East London, for example, from where Tyler surely hails, as confirmed by his accent. It was his hands, however, that decided me to borrow your revolver. On the hands of every driver that I have observed there are always obvious red welts caused by the strain of controlling the horse with the reins. On Tyler’s there were none,’ Holmes concluded.

  ‘I understand, but how could you be so sure he would come after me and not yourself? Surely you were in the same danger as I was?’ I asked.

  ‘Perhaps, but it seemed more likely that he would try to prevent you from making contact with the farmer and thereby raising the alarm, and attending to me once you had been secured.’

  By now we had reached the farmhouse where we found the owner, James Bowen and his wife, to be most affable and co-operative. A lad was dispatched to the village at once and Mrs Bowen afforded us a substantial tea which we had barely consumed by the time the local constabulary had arrived.

  I was still harbouring certain misgivings over the manner in which Holmes had misused me in entrapping Tyler, although, his reaction upon finding me safe and well, had diluted these somewhat. However, his behaviour upon revealing the whereabouts of the stolen money to the local police was what surprised and gratified me the most. As he had calculated it was hidden in the fireplace of the middle cottage. Normally a situation such as this would provide him with a moment of supreme and dramatic triumph. As gratifying as this moment undoubtedly was, he accepted it with total nonchalance as he was clearly still distracted by the thought of the potential danger he had subjected me to.

  The train journey back to London was both quiet and uneventful, but as I sat there in the carriage, observing how oblivious my friend was to the view from the window he was staring so intently through, I could not help surmising that the total dedication he afforded to his profession would not prevent him from using me in such a way once again, should the situation command it.

  THE MYSTERY OF AVALON

  During the months immediately following my marriage, I was totally immersed in setting up a home with my beloved Mary and establishing the small medical practice which had been neglected somewhat by my elderly predecessor, Dr Farquar.

  The common indulgences of the Yuletide festivities, followed by a particularly cold early January, had led to a sharp, albeit temporary increase in the demands upon my services, the results of which had rendered me decidedly weary. Therefore, when a lull at last descended, around the tenth of the month, I confess to welcoming the opportunity to rest. The more so on this particular morning, for an overnight snowfall had continued into the morning, unabated, and I had spent much of the night tending at a patient’s bedside.

  Relaxing with my wife before a roaring fire after a hearty breakfast was the perfect remedy, so one could beg sympathy for my dismay at receiving an immediate summons from my old friend and colleague, Sherlock Holmes.

  I examined the note with annoyance before hurling it into the fire. It read…

  My Dear Watson. A most singular problem has been brought to my attention by a gentleman from Cornwall. Our client has just arrived, would be obliged by your immediate attendance. S.H.

  P.S. My greetings to Mrs Watson.

  ‘Our client indeed!’ I protested. This use of the plural was strange for I had seen very little of Holmes over the past several months, and I had certainly missed the stimulation I had always gleaned from my humble involvement in his career.

  The fault for this, however, was not mine alone, for while I had been preoccupied to the exclusion of my friend, it was equally true that he had not requested my assistance either. Apart, that is, from my brief involvement in the singular affair of the Blue Carbuncle. Nonetheless, there was no doubting the urgency of this problem, and I was intrigued to discover what should bring a client up from Cornwall during the depths
of so harsh a winter.

  ‘Your expression tells me that you feel you have to go.’ My dear Mary astutely observed. ‘Besides which, Doctor Jackson is able to take care of your patients, as well as his own, now that things have slackened off somewhat.’

  I squeezed her hand appreciatively, and hastily prepared a bag for myself, while Mary arranged for a cab.

  Despite my best intentions, my arrival at Baker Street was by no means an immediate one. The severe weather had rendered the task of procuring a cab a most difficult one, and once safely aboard I found the depth of the snow made our progress, even through the thoroughfares of central London, slow and sluggish.

  Although it felt strange to see my old rooms again, Mrs Hudson’s cheery greeting, and the sight of Holmes seated in his favourite chair, made me feel as if I had never been away.

  Catching sight of my overnight bag, Holmes exclaimed, ‘Dear friend Watson, prepared and reliable as ever, I see. Most good of you to attend so promptly, particularly since you were working through the night.’

  Having observed my look of astonishment, he explained. ‘Your shoes Watson, your shoes! Knowing too well the habits of a military man, the damp stains on your uppers indicate that they have been subjected to deep snow. Seeing that last night’s fall did not commence until after midnight, and the paving on this side of Baker Street has been all but cleared, what other explanation can there be?’ He spread out his hands as if he had just performed a conjuror’s trick, and fell back into his chair.

  ‘Now help yourself to the Persian slipper,’ Holmes invited. ‘While I introduce you to our esteemed visitor from Cornwall, Colonel Geraint Masterson. Colonel, my trusted friend and associate, Doctor Watson.’

  Such was my pleasure, and relief, at finding things so delightfully unchanged in my old lodgings, that it was only now, as I stood by the fire replenishing my pipe, that I became aware of a third individual in the room. He was seated pensively, on the edge of the settee, directly across from Holmes.

  For me to say that the Colonel’s appearance and presence was startlingly impressive would be to understate in the extreme. Yet to define the cause of this effect was no easy task. His size, certainly contributed to this. He stood at no less than six feet and two inches, but his military experience had given him an impressive build and bearing. I was equally taken aback by the manner in which he grew his hair and beard. Although, undoubtedly clean, and neatly cut, he had allowed the hair at the back of his head to grow to a level well below his shirt collar, indeed, it actually reached down to just above his shoulders. His beard, again, was neatly trimmed, yet was shaped to an unusual point, which reminded me of those paintings of medieval kings. His face was open and alert, while his smile was one that immediately inspired trust. A most singular individual indeed.

  ‘Ah, Dr Watson!’ He boomed. ‘I, and the public at large, have you and your most excellent journals, to thank for bringing to our attention the unique skills and talents of your colleague, Mr Holmes. For it is only he, I am sure, who is capable of lifting the dark cloud that at present hangs ominously over my household.’

  Sherlock Holmes bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘It would render my task considerably easier if you could now furnish me with some facts.’ He said sharply while lighting up his old clay pipe.

  ‘Quite so, quite so, but where does one begin?’ The Colonel pondered.

  ‘I would strongly suggest at the beginning.’ Holmes tersely observed, an attitude I found somewhat surprising considering the affable nature of the Colonel. Nevertheless, the Colonel mumbled apologetically, and I took out my notebook and pencil as he began his remarkable tale.

  ‘Remember Colonel, omit nothing.’ Holmes added. ‘That which you may consider trivial and inconsequential, may be the one missing piece of the puzzle whose absence might prohibit my success.’

  The Colonel paused to reconsider his oration, and began his story.

  ‘My family seat is a large, sprawling estate, near the village of Slaughter Bridge in the heart of Cornwall. No doubt because of the connection between the village, and the legendary last battle of King Arthur at Camlaan, my ancestors saw fit to name the house and the wild, rugged terrain that comprises our land-holding, after the last resting place of Arthur, namely Avalon. As you might have gathered from my own first name, some of my ancestors took the idea of our Arthurian connection rather too seriously at times. Indeed my own name is not the first to appear in the family tree, that has been derived from the knights of the round-table. My father was named Percival, whilst my brother bore the name of Gareth.’ Laughing nervously, the Colonel added, ‘Our estate even contains a large mysterious lake, and we dine from a circular table.’

  I could see from Holmes’s vacant expression, that the significance of these Arthurian references had meant absolutely nothing to him and in confirmation of this he impatiently cajoled the Colonel to get to the point. He duly responded.

  ‘Well, the plain and simple truth of the matter, Mr Holmes, is that someone is attempting to kill my dear wife, Alice. We have been married these past ten years, since I resigned my commission, in fact, and we have lived out these years, at Avalon, in absolute peace and harmony. Her love of Avalon is surely as deep as my own, and her kindly, and friendly manner, towards all of human kind, be he a rich, local landowner, or our lowliest servant, is universally reciprocated. Therefore, her current predicament is totally beyond all reason.’

  ‘I assume,’ Holmes began, leaning forward, his eyelids heavy in concentration, ‘that this attempt on your wife’s life was made recently?’

  ‘Two,’ the Colonel corrected. ‘There have been two murderous attacks upon her. This is why I could no longer tolerate the inadequacies of the local constabulary, and why I have made the long journey to London to seek your advice.’

  Holmes waved aside this further compliment. ‘The first attack occurred when precisely?’

  ‘It was three days before Christmas and we had just completed our breakfast, when Alice decided to stroll down to the stables. As you may recall it was particularly cold at that time and she wished to ensure that our horses were being supplied with sufficient winter provisions. As she passed out of sight of the house and entered a small copse that lies between the house and the stables, she felt a huge hand reach out and grab her by the throat. She struggled for a moment, before a thick piece of cord replaced the hand and threatened to choke the life from her. She was fortunate in that she was carrying her heavy walking stick, which she used to lash out in all directions. The rope suddenly slackened and she heard her assailant run away into the trees. She saw no-one, Mr Holmes,’ said a very solemn Colonel.

  ‘Why, exactly, was your wife in need of a stick in the first place?’ Holmes asked.

  ‘Alice was still nursing an injury to her right leg that she sustained while out riding, some weeks previously.’

  ‘I take it the police were called immediately after the attack and a thorough search made of the copse for traces of the assailant?’ I asked, whilst noticing Holmes’s look of surprised approval at my interjection.

  ‘Indeed yes, but to no avail,’ the colonel replied. ‘Not even a single footprint was visible. Unfortunately the heavy frosts had rendered the ground solid and hard.’

  ‘Unfortunate indeed.’ Holmes replied in a tone heavy with sarcasm, obviously already convinced of the ineptitude of the Cornish police. ‘What, pray, were the exact circumstances of the second attack upon your wife?’

  ‘As you might imagine, it was this further attempt upon my wife that prompted my journey to London. It took place yesterday morning and came considerably closer to succeeding than the first. In fact, my wife sustained some small injury to her right arm as a consequence. On this occasion the scoundrel used a crossbow, and fired while Alice was tending to her plants in our conservatory. The arrow came crashing through the glass and embedded itself in a wooden post attached to the far wall. Its trajectory caused it to skim Alice’s arm and her profuse bleeding caused her to pass
out for a few moments. I delayed my journey to London until I was certain of her recovery and that the police had taken all necessary steps.’

  ‘I take it the enquiries of the police bore as little fruit as those on the previous occasion?’ Holmes asked.

  ‘Alas, that is true and yet, the unusual behaviour of our shepherd, of late, and his subsequent disappearance, seems to have drawn their attention and interest.’

  ‘Ah … excellent!’ Holmes exclaimed, suddenly sitting bolt upright, alert, and attentive. ‘There are certain elements in your story that lift it above the mundane and routine. Indeed, Watson, I should not be surprised to see this tale take its place amongst your other, most vivid chronicles, one day. Initially, though, we must hear about this extraordinary shepherd.’ Holmes said this while positively beaming with expectation.

  Colonel Masterson swallowed hard before continuing, obviously taken aback by Holmes’s outburst. Understandably, of course, as he did not know of Holmes’s penchant for the more bizarre, and outlandish aspects of his investigations as well as I did.

  ‘As you may know, gentlemen, the main body of Arthurian legend, though romantically embellished by twelfth century troubadours, is firmly rooted in the Dark Ages, the period immediately following the Roman withdrawal. In the minds of simple folk, and more especially during times of national crises, the hope remained that Arthur would rise again and wield Excalibur once more in the British cause. A further legend, perhaps of medieval origin, tells of a shepherd searching for a lost sheep on an isolated hilltop. During his search he stumbled across a hidden cave, finding within a huge treasure and King Arthur and his knights laid out in full armour. The awestruck shepherd decided to help himself to as much of the treasure as he could carry, and was on the point of departing, when Arthur suddenly awoke from his extended slumber. The king threatened to dismember the shepherd’s head should he not replace the treasure, depart from the cave and swear an oath never to return. The terrified shepherd obviously complied immediately and the location of the cave has remained a mystery from that day to this.