The Lost Files of Sherlock Holmes

by Paul D. Gilbert

  ‘Colonel, please!’ Holmes impatiently interrupted. ‘I will be more than willing to help identify your wife’s would-be assailant, but please do not prevaricate with these tales of antique legends. They are of no use at all to a trained logician and I have no more interest in them than you have in the numerous varieties of cigar ash that I have studied over the years. Now please, stick to the facts!’

  ‘To the minds of the simple local folk, I include our wayward shepherd amongst these, these whimsical tales are as real as cigar ash!’ The irony of these last words reflected the resentment Masterson felt to Holmes’s attitude. ‘However, the facts are these, Mr Holmes. On the very day of the crossbow attack, our shepherd was seen emerging from a concealed hole in a local hillside. He was then seen scurrying down its slippery, muddy slope. Mr Holmes, he has not been seen nor heard of since.’ He concluded with a gruff finality and rose to his feet, obviously assuming that Holmes’s interest, and involvement in the matter was surely at an end.

  To our surprise, Holmes suddenly rose from his chair. ‘A moment if you please, Colonel. Watson, I seem to remember there being a copy of Mallory’s Mort d’Arthur, amongst the volumes you have yet to transfer to your new nuptial abode. Would you please locate it for me?’

  ‘Certainly, but I was under the impression you held no interest in such matters.’ Without replying, Holmes gestured toward the bookshelves and I began my search.

  ‘Colonel, I owe you a sincere apology. My friend Watson, here, will attest to my ignorance on certain subjects which is such that it leaves even him aghast at times. You see, I consider it wasteful to saturate the limited capacity of the human mind with information that is of no use to someone of my chosen profession. On this occasion, it seems, Arthurian legend warrants a place. I suggest you return to Cornwall, on the first available train, and maintain a vigil over your wife until Watson and I join you there tomorrow afternoon. Hopefully, my attic has sufficient temporary, capacity for Thomas Mallory.’

  It was left to me to show the befuddled Colonel to the door, for I had located my copy of Mallory, and Holmes, his clay pipe already filled and alight, was now totally absorbed in its contents. Such was the depth of Holmes’s concentration that I soon realized that any attempt at conversation or extracting an opinion from him on the subject of Masterson’s wife, would prove to be futile. The arctic conditions precluded any notion I might have harboured of returning home for the night, so I spent the remainder of the day in a manner I had enjoyed on countless occasions, prior to my marriage, reading the papers by a cheery fire in the old room at Baker Street.

  Mrs Hudson provided us with a simple, but ample supper, of which Holmes touched not a bit and at eleven o’clock I retired for the night to my old bedroom. I left Holmes with my Mallory, in the aforementioned fashion, but had no idea as to what time he finally put it down.

  I was greeted in the morning by the substantial volume hurtling towards my head, as I entered the sitting room.

  ‘Watson! Be sure to catch your most excellent volume.’ Holmes called to me.

  ‘Steady on Holmes.’ I protested, then added quizzically, once the book was safely in my hands. ‘So it seems you enjoyed these whimsical stories.’

  ‘They were certainly most entertaining.’ He replied nonchalantly as he poured out some coffee.

  ‘It was certainly interesting to note the various parallels to be drawn between your legendary King Arthur and myself.’

  ‘Parallels? With you? Surely not Holmes. I can see none.’ I queried, assured of my friend’s humorous intent.

  ‘Oh yes Watson, there is not a doubt of it.’ Holmes rejoined in surprising earnest. ‘Consider, if you will for a moment, the significance of Arthur’s holy realm of Logres. Throughout the land the old order of civilization was collapsing, and reverting to barbarism. The dark ages had fallen, and yet in the depths of this darkness shone a solitary light. A bright guiding light that was Arthur and his realm. The parallel is now obvious, when you consider the darkness that our regular police force is constantly stumbling around in. Not quite barbaric in method, perhaps, and yet their ignorance and ineptitude is tantamount to barbarism! Yet in their darkness shines a tiny light. The light of reasoning, logic, observation, and method. This small room and my humble practice is the modern, judicial realm of Logres and I, of course, the guiding light of Arthur.’

  ‘Really Holmes!’ I complained, annoyed at this further example of my friend’s arrogance and yet, somehow, amused, despite myself, at his presumptuousness.

  ‘You must excuse my apparent vanity, Watson, yet it would be equally wrong should I belittle my efforts, and abilities. The devilled eggs look delicious, by the way.’ He said, rising suddenly.

  ‘Will you not join me?’ I asked while taking my place at the table.

  ‘Alas no. There are certain inquiries I must undertake before our departure from London. Our train leaves Paddington at 2.17, so I will meet you on the platform. I trust you have included your revolver amongst your luggage.’ I nodded my affirmation as he hurried from the room.

  Our train was true to its listing in Bradshaw and although I was pleased by my own punctuality, I found that Holmes was already settled in our carriage and enjoying his first pipe of the journey.

  A half smile and a raised eyebrow in my direction were his only form of greeting, so I decided to keep to my corner of the carriage, buried in my Telegraph, until he was in a more communicative mood. There, almost lost within the middle pages, was a half column devoted to the attacks on the Colonel’s wife. Though the article added little to our sparse knowledge, it drew some response from Holmes.

  ‘Well done, Watson. It may be that an interview with that reporter may prove of more worth than anything we might learn from the police.’

  ‘Have you formed no theory of your own yet, Holmes?’ I asked.

  ‘Watson, old friend, the Colonel has hardly furnished me with a surfeit of practical information. To theorise at this early stage, when our factual picture is predominately a void, would prove a fruitless waste of time. I assume that you have formulated a theory of your own.’ He asked, turning his head from the window for the first time since our journey began.

  Trying to conceal my surprise at his incredible intuition, I replied, ‘It is not so much a theory, I suppose, and yet I find some of our scant information certainly suggestive. It seems fairly obvious to me that our mysterious shepherd is Alice Masterson’s, thankfully, inept assailant. I can see no other reason for his sudden and bizarre disappearance.’

  Holmes cast me a short, contemptuous glance. ‘Considering his task remains incomplete, I would say his disappearance is all the more remarkable. No, Watson, I feel your solution is far from the truth. For a man to go to such lengths and take so great a risk to commit murder and then leave before achieving his goal, is beyond reason. Besides, there are very few shepherds for whom access to a crossbow is the norm.’ He turned, dismissively back to the window, but then, perhaps aware of my crestfallen demeanour, he smiled briefly, and added. ‘I am sure, however, that as our investigation progresses and more facts come to light, a significant link between this shepherd and our most singular problem, will be established.’

  Content with that, at least, I returned to my paper, but I soon exhausted its articles of interest, and dozed off for an hour or more. When I awoke, I was immediately struck by the changes that had occurred to the landscape through which we were travelling. Warmer air was, evidently, blowing in from the west and the further we travelled in that direction, the more colourful the scenery became. Indeed, by the time we had reached our destination and were being jostled along to Avalon in an ancient trap, all traces of the snow had disappeared.

  The desolate harshness of the Cornish landscape I was so used to in summer, was accentuated by the grey of winter and the gnarled barren trees. This setting seemed more than appropriate for the strange events about to unfold. The large, open lake we rode passed on our way to the house, was both serene and mysterious, sh
rouded, as it was, in a thin winter’s mist. The main house itself was austere and imposing. The two wings flanked a wide gravel driveway and were separated by a huge, pillared staircase and entrance, all fashioned from the local, grey stone.

  ‘I trust there will be sufficient elements of interest, in this case to warrant so infernal a journey!’ Holmes complained as we pulled up outside the entrance to Avalon. Never at his happiest away from his beloved London, the chilliness of the air and the isolation of Avalon itself, made the whole excursion intolerable to him.

  Our host was not on hand to receive us, but we were met by an elderly footman who raised his eyebrows quizzically, when he caught sight of Holmes’s attempts at insulating himself. The large, heavy coat, the woollen blanket he held about him, and the enormous muffler.

  ‘Mr Holmes?’ He asked impressively, then after noting Holmes’s half-hearted nod of affirmation. ‘I have a message for you sir!’ He announced handing Holmes a wire, one, presumably in answer to the inquiries he had made earlier in London. Holmes opened this at once, remaining in the trap while our luggage was being unloaded.

  I alighted from the trap enthusiastically only to be held back by my friend’s strange behaviour and appearance. It was almost as if the contents of the wire held him transfixed and he continued to stare at it as if he expected its contents to change suddenly. I returned to my seat in the trap and studied Holmes’s peculiar transformation.

  His eyes had lost their steely, grey sharpness and his lips their usual firmness of determination. His countenance had turned quite ashen, and his strong shoulders visibly drooped before my eyes. I even observed, I am sure, a slight, involuntary movement in the hand that held the cursed wire. When he eventually spoke his voice had lost its authority, and was no more than a hoarse whisper. I had to lean forward to render his words audible.

  ‘We must return to London, on tomorrow morning’s earliest available train. Watson, please make my apologies to the Colonel.’ Then, addressing the footman. ‘If my room is ready I shall go there at once, and remain there until our early morning departure. In the meantime, I shall require nothing.’

  As can be imagined, I was mortified at seeing my friend reduced to this sorry state and surprised at hearing these strange pronouncements. As he descended from the trap, he denied me even the briefest of glimpses at the accursed wire and it was obvious that no explanation was to be forthcoming. His weak shamble, up the main stairs, was that of a stricken mourner. The footman shrugged his shoulders, seemingly as ignorant of the contents of the message as I surely was, he then instructed a lad as to the disposition of our luggage. While this was being attended to, a tall, distinguished butler led me through to the Colonel.

  The drawing-room I was shown into was not the large, cold, stone chamber one would have expected. It was a spacious room certainly, yet the clever placing of comfortable furniture, and the warmth of the rich tapestries that adorned the walls, lent it an unexpected intimacy. The warmth from the huge fire further enhanced the comfort of the room, and the tapestries seemed to glow in its light. The Colonel, who had previously been leaning against the magnificent marble mantelpiece, whisky glass in hand, immediately sprang forward to greet me, pausing on his way to pour me a large measure of whisky from a fine crystal decanter.

  ‘This will soon warm your chilled bones, Doctor Watson. Welcome to Avalon!’ He boomed.

  ‘I thank you for both. You have a fine home, Colonel.’ I replied.

  ‘I will show you around tomorrow and bore you with our Arthurian artefacts. Where is Mr Holmes?’

  ‘Unfortunately, the harsh weather and the length of our journey have had an adverse effect upon his health. In fact, if you would excuse me I should go to examine him at once. At this stage I cannot be sure as to when he will be fit enough to commence his investigations.’

  ‘Yes, yes go to him and understand that my staff will be at your constant beck and call; anything you might require will be made available to you.’ The Colonel offered. ‘Please convey our wishes to Mr Holmes, for a speedy recovery.’

  ‘Thank you Colonel, I will certainly inform him of your concern. I wonder how Mrs Masterson’s arm is coming along. I shall be pleased to examine her wound if she is strong enough to join us later.’

  ‘Join us!? Mrs Masterson!? Confound you, Doctor!’ He bellowed these words like a maniac, and hurled his glass violently into the fireplace. Then he stormed out of the room, throwing furniture aside in his wake.

  This sudden, irrational display of violent temper was inexplicable to me and I stood, for some moments, still holding my whisky, as one who is dumbstruck. I was certain that I had said nothing that could have been construed as offensive, indeed it had been Mrs Masterson’s welfare that had prompted our journey to Cornwall. Therefore, there had to be another explanation for the Colonel’s extraordinary behaviour and I hoped that Holmes’s condition would improve sufficiently for him to be able to discover this.

  The thought of having to locate the whereabouts of my room, in this grey stone labyrinth, was somewhat daunting, so I was relieved to find the footman still in close attendance when I turned to leave the drawing-room.

  ‘Shall I show you to your room now, sir?’ The elderly servant asked quietly. I could tell from his manner that, although he had been upset at Masterson’s outburst, this had not been the first occasion he had witnessed such behaviour.

  The room I was shown to was spacious and comfortable, though the cold stone walls made me glad of the roaring fire. I decided to waste no time in unpacking my bag, and went directly to the room opposite my own to inquire as to Holmes’s current condition.

  Upon receiving no response to my firm knock on his door, I entered the room quietly to find that he had not taken to his bed at all. Instead he was seated by a window that looked out over the front drive, in a high-backed chair, facing away from the door. He did not turn when I entered the room, therefore, it was only when I joined him at the window that I realized how unwell he really looked.

  ‘Confound it, Holmes! You really must take to your bed and allow me to examine you.’

  ‘Please do not alarm yourself on my account, Doctor.’ Holmes whispered without turning toward me. ‘My condition has now greatly improved.’

  ‘There are no visible, medical improvements that I can see. Your face is still pale and drawn, your eyes sunken and red. Although your condition might be put down to the weather and the journey, I know enough of your method to realize that it has certainly been compounded by that wire.’ I replied anxiously.

  ‘Therefore, I am sure you feel entitled to know the exact contents of this communication.’ Holmes suggested, while turning towards me slowly.

  ‘If I am to be of assistance in clearing up this matter, I feel it is necessary.’ I replied.

  ‘Unfortunately this information is not mine to divulge and, equally, its very nature precludes us from taking any further interest in this matter and makes any action an impossibility. I think, perhaps, I am best left to my own company for the time being.’ Holmes suggested, smiling briefly, and enigmatically.

  Reluctantly I agreed. ‘Perhaps after some rest, and once the effect of the journey, and the contents of the wire have worn off, your judgement will return, and your decision alter.’

  ‘Oh Watson!’ He cried out, raising his right arm above his head in agitation. Then he added quietly. ‘Perhaps you are right. We shall see.’ He returned his gaze to the window, and assuming this to be by way of my dismissal, I returned to my room, and proceeded to dress for dinner.

  The Colonel and I dined alone and, although I thought it prudent not to enquire as to his wife’s whereabouts, I found it most unusual that she chose not to join us. The dining room was as large and sumptuous as the drawing-room and I was amazed to discover that the Colonel’s allusion to a round table was no jest. He sat on a tall throne-like carver and the Arthurian subject dominated our conversation. Any mention I might have made of his wife and the murderous attacks she had experienced,
were met by polite rebuffs from my host, while his enquiries as to the state of Holmes’s health, were met similarly by myself. No mention was made of his earlier violent display, and it seemed that none of these issues would be resolved until Holmes was fit and well once more.

  Once we had partaken of an excellent meal, the Colonel led me back to the drawing-room where we enjoyed some fine cigars and an extremely old port. As the evening progressed, however, I become aware of my host’s growing agitation. He continually withdrew his watch, which, on each occasion, he examined at some length, almost as if he expected the time to suddenly change. I excused myself at an early hour and decided to look in on Holmes before retiring for the night.

  He was as I had left him, seated motionless before the window, yet when he turned towards me, I could see that some of his earlier agitation had been replaced with one of his dark moods.

  ‘Have you been privileged enough to make the acquaintance of our charming hostess yet?’ he asked with surprising sarcasm in his voice.

  Whereupon I narrated to him the strange interview I had experienced earlier with the Colonel and its most singular conclusion. I also voiced concern at his unusual behaviour during the course of the evening, with allusion to his constant time watching.

  ‘I am afraid that the situation is very much as I suspected.’ Holmes said while withdrawing his old clay pipe and a pouch of shag from his jacket pocket.

  ‘Suspected!?’ I queried excitedly. ‘I was under the impression that you had formulated no theory on the subject, due to sparse information.’

  Holmes sat smoking in silence for a moment or two, while he was, no doubt, reaching his decision as to whether to confide in me or not. He obviously reached an affirmative decision, for he turned his chair around and motioned for me to assume the chair opposite his own.