by william Todd
There was no reply.
“Keene?” I reached out into the darkness at nothing. He was gone.
My only thought was he must have decided to do something I had worried was never far from his thoughts: mete out justice for his dead sister.
I made my way as fast and as quietly as I could to the spot where I could observe the curved part of the second tunnel, half-expecting to see Keene running wild-eyed at Newbury’s and his sister’s—at least in his eyes—murderer. Stealth would no doubt be broken momentarily, and I had to ready myself for that inevitability, hoping against hope that the worst we would encounter was a spade and not a revolver.
Without warning, a large, skeletal hand wrapped around my mouth, preventing an exclamation that most assuredly would have given me up, and I found myself being pulled back into the darkness of another tunnel I knew nothing about.
“Watson!” came a harsh whisper. “Watson, it’s Holmes. I shall take my hand from around your mouth. Please do me the favor of not giving up our position.”
He slowly moved his hand away.
“Holmes, what in blazes are you doing here?” I whispered however hard it may have been to keep from remonstrating him at the top of my lungs.
“A conversation for another time,” he replied softly. “Right now, we need to catch our thief.”
“Mr. Keene was with me. I fear he has abdicated to get to that money and restore his family name.”
“Never fear, Doctor Watson,” came a whispered reply from the darkness next to me. “Mr. Holmes corralled me first.”
“I am waiting for the recovery of the money before I close in,” said Holmes.
“I hope he finds it soon,” said I. “I fear Mr. Jones has told the constabulary and soon the tunnels will be full of police.”
“I am fine with that,” replied Keene. “He is a murderer and thief, and he belongs in the same place Newbury would have gone. My retribution will be requited with the restoration of the money and hopefully the dignity of the Keene name.”
“I think you will be happy on all accounts,” said Holmes. “Come, let us get our man. But we must be careful. He has a weapon.”
As we spoke, the hue of the light two tunnels away changed. It was lessening.
Holmes hurried across the tunnel with myself and Keene at his back. He looked into the other tunnel and found it empty. “He must have found the money. Hurry! We must catch him before he can escape entirely.”
The three of us hurried down the tunnel to the larger vein that stretched into the distance to Kerrek House. A small but growing light emitted from the far end.
“Here come our comrades,” said Holmes. “Come. This way. No doubt he will try to make his getaway by the main entrance.”
As we raced towards the main vein of Wheal Kerrek, the inky blackness around us gave way to a growing illumination. It was here that I could see Holmes in his beekeeper’s outfit. That was why he looked so brutish amongst the shadows.
Once at the junction, to our left roughly one hundred feet, was a large opening to the cliff and the ocean beyond. A rotted railing surrounded a small landing. An old tarpaulin covered in untold years of dirt and muck lay half-in, half-out of the entrance, partially covering the dilapidated landing. Stairs that looked equally suspect ran up to the right, no doubt to the skeletal remains of the mining structure itself.
Just short of the opening was a man carrying a large, stained bag of money. There was something familiar about him. Something about the hair, the clothes…the suit.
“Mr. Newbury!” Holmes called out. “You may as well stop there. There is no way you can get away from me.”
When he turned, he pointed a pistol in our direction. “No further,” he said. “It isn’t exactly my nature, but I am not averse to using this if pushed.”
“Come, come,” my friend said. “There are a handful of constables making their way down the tunnel from Kerrek House as we speak, and no doubt there will be a similar number above shortly. You do not have the ammunition to kill us all, but it takes only one for which to hang. Right now, robbery is all you are on the dock for.”
Newbury, wild-eyed, backed up a step but still held the pistol at us.
“You have nowhere else to go,” said Holmes. “Let us end this game without any dramatics.”
“It doesn’t matter, does it? I owe debts that I cannot repay without this money. And the arms of those gentlemen have a long reach, sir. A prison sentence is as good as a death sentence, so I cannot end this game the way you wish it to end.”
“So, it was you who owed the money and not your brother,” offered Keene angrily.
Newbury gave Keene a quizzical eye. “Do I know you, sir? How did you know that?”
“Esme was my sister.”
He nodded knowingly. “You must be Rory. She spoke of you often.”
By this time, a group of six constables were at our backs. Holmes motioned for them to stand down.
“She loved you almost as much as she loved me,” Newbury said, as a man almost in the throes of jealousy.
“And you used her, you scum! You poisoned her mind to this robbery by feigning a love that did not exist.”
Tears began to well in Newbury’s eyes. His next words held bitter notes. “Do you think you are the only one on earth capable of loving someone like Esme? You are wrong, sir, I loved her like no other. I knew about her fits and cared not a tittle about them. In fact, her need of me drew me all the closer to her. I’ve seen the seizures first-hand. I held her as she shook, stroked her hair, kissed her cheek until the fit had passed. She would tell me that some seemed to last forever, but when I was there to comfort her, they were over in minutes. Strange as it may sound, I had found my calling, and I would have done anything for her. I wanted, no needed to take care of her. It seemed to be the only thing in life I was any good at.”
“Then why get her involved in all of this?” Keene retorted.
Holmes, hands raised in submission, slowly walked in Newbury’s direction. “Come. I am not armed, and you are. Let us talk this out. I am submitting myself to you so we can end this peacefully.”
Holmes halved the distance between them before Newbury even seemed to notice him. He waved the pistol forcefully at Holmes, which made him stop.
Giving his attention back to Keene, with whom he seemed more interested in conversing asked, “Don’t you see? She was a willing participant. She seemed to know instinctively that we were made for each other. My only purpose in life, I had come to realize, was to take care of her. But my past was catching up to me. I owed dark people in dark places a lot of money. I concocted the story about my brother’s debts, for I was embarrassed as to my faults and the depths to which they had thrown me. Out of desperation and her love for me, it was Esme who came up with this plan, far-fetched as it was. It was a reach, but it could work. I told my debtors if they would but wait one year, I would pay double what I owed. That would give me time to throw off any investigations into the missing money. They were keen on doubling their money so they agreed, knowing how this would end if I did not fulfill my obligation. They told me I would be followed wherever I went so trying to flee the country would only end badly for me. I agreed to whatever they demanded, and the die was cast. Esme and I were cautiously optimistic that this could wipe the slate clean, so to speak, and we could start over.”
“Why here?” Holmes asked.
“When I was a lad, we had family in Newquay we visited every summer. I knew about Folly’s End and Wheal Kerrek and figured the old mine was the perfect place to hide it. That was where we were headed before the accident. We took to the hills to get to Par, then from there, we would fetch a carriage to Newquay, for we knew the train stations would be watched.” He shrugged in resignation. “We did not even get to Par before she fell from the rock and all was lost.”
Holmes was slowly eclipsing the distance between the two as he continued to question Newbury, who seemed lost in his thoughts at the remembrance of that day a
year ago.
“That was quite the taken chance, showing yourself back at the bank,” Holmes went on.
“I then read in the paper that Esme had died in police custody before she named her accomplice, and it broke my heart. But I also knew that they now had no clue about me. I did the only thing I could think to do—I hid the money here, returned to St. Austell and went back to work, feigning illness as a way to further throw off my pursuers. I figured if I were so bold as to return to work that maybe they would think it couldn’t be me. I worked another month then left it to sell suits until I felt safe enough to retrieve the money.”
Keene did not seem satisfied with Newbury’s dissertation. “If you loved her, then why did you leave her there in that field injured while you got clean away with the money?”
Suddenly, a voice cried out from above, “You are now surrounded. You may as well give it up.” The second group of constables had arrived, effectively cutting off Newbury’s only route of escape.
Keeping his pistol pointing at us, Newbury quickly craned his neck back and peered up the stairs. He moaned slightly but recovered himself as he fixed his stare squarely back to us. “At that point,” he went on, “I knew the jig was up. I sat in the grass with her for a time, holding her. Right then, I was prepared to give up along with her. But she wouldn’t have any of it. It was then that she confided in me that she knew—though I still do not know how—it was my debts and not my brother’s for which the money was to be used. She begged me, tears in her eyes, to leave, take the money and pay the debts. She would say it was a stranger who’d robbed the bank and took her hostage. She would cast no nets of culpability in my direction.”
“Yet, you showed by leaving where your loyalties truly lay,” said Holmes as he took a few more tentative steps towards Newbury and stopped. “And the poor girl died for her trouble.”
Backing up slowly, his pistol beginning to shake, Newbury said, “And I’ve had to live with that knowledge from that day to this. Do you not think had I known she was to have a seizure in the custody of the police that I would not have gladly given back the money to hold her one more time? Look into her eyes and tell her all would be well one more time?”
He pointed the pistol up the stairs as he backed against the railing then pointed it back at Holmes, who by now was only about fifteen feet from Newbury. “Who are you?” he asked my friend as if noticing him for the first time. “You don’t have the look of the constabulary. In fact,” he said in obvious reference to Holmes’s attire, “I’m not quite certain what you have the look of.”
I would have found the comment amusing had the situation not been so dire.
“I am Sherlock Holmes.”
“Of course, you are,” he replied in lamented sarcasm. “Why should my luck change now?”
The man’s shoulders slumped in dejection.
Holmes began his slow, cautious trek to close the remaining distance between them, hands stretched in a calming manner. “It does not seem that you truly have murderous intent, on me or anyone here. Let us end this in a civilized manner. We can keep you safe while you serve your sentence, and you may still be young enough to enjoy some of your life upon your release.”
He ignored Holmes, now, and only peered upon Keene, regret in his eyes. “Whatever else you may think of me, rest assured, you were not the only one who loved Esme—whose job it was to look out for her. It seems we’ve both failed on that account.”
Newbury paused for a moment, in seeming reflection as to whether he would fight for his freedom or give up. He made his choice when, head sunk into his chest despondently, he dropped the pistol and bag at his feet.
“Good man,” said Holmes as he closed the remaining distance between them.
Suddenly, he looked up, tears streaming down his ruddy cheeks, “I will be sure to let Esme know that her brother was still looking out for her, even in death.”
With that, Newbury leaned back against the rotted railing, which quickly gave way. Holmes lunged at the man and grabbed at his lapel to try and reign him in, but in the attempt and with momentum pushing him forward, they both were gone in an instant, falling over the side of the landing.
There were several audible gasps, and I cried out, “Holmes!” as I raced to the rickety platform. I quickly crawled on my hands and knees to the edge and peered over the side. At first, all I could see was the twisted body of Newbury on the rocks below. I did not see Holmes. Had he fallen into the waves crashing nearby? “Holmes!” I cried out.
“You look but you do not observe,” was the unlikely response. To my great surprise, Holmes was clutching a wooden brace under the landing that was still securely embedded into the side of the cliff out of my line of site. In one hand was the ripped lapel of Newbury’s suit.
“Double stitching would have held, Watson,” he replied dryly as he tossed the fabric from his hand for a firmer hold on the brace. “I would be greatly appreciative if you could extract me from this predicament before the entire platform gives way.”
With help from two constables, we soon had Holmes back to the safety of the landing.
With a queer solemnity, he, Keene and I peered over the edge at the lifeless body on the rocky beach below.
“All this in the name of love,” said I.
“We reap what we sow, Watson.”
With that, we all turned and made our way back to Kerrek house while the constabulary tended to the gruesome task of recovering the body.
Once back in the safe confines of Kerrek House, we three sat at a table in the restaurant. Most of the hotel was down for lunch by then. Our robust adulterer, now alone, took a table next to ours and started eagerly eyeing the menu as we sipped on some well-deserved tea.
“So, tell me, Holmes,” I started. “When did you know it was Newbury and how? I thought you were going to the bee symposium.”
“And I was, Watson. But I had an epiphany while in the taxi. I had him drop me off at the end of the drive, and I made my way back to Wheal Kerrek to test my theory. Of course, I was correct.”
“But we thought we were on the trail of Newbury’s murderer, not Newbury himself. How did you know?”
Holmes lit a cigarette and inhaled with a satisfying air. “The first thing I found odd is the fact that only one person saw him killed.”
“Two,” I replied. “Me and a member of the staff.”
“Quite right, quite right. Yet, I believe only one was supposed to truly witness it. You just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
“She was meant to witness his death? Why?”
“Patience, my dear fellow. You want to see the picture before the puzzle pieces are all in their rightful place. The next piece was given to me by our new friend, Mr. Keene.”
He looked to one than the other of us. “What did I do?” he asked with astonishment.
“You mentioned only looking through two suits in his wardrobe when you were looking for clues as to the whereabouts of the money, yes?”
Thinking momentarily, Keene then replied, “That’s right, Mr. Holmes. There were only two suits in his wardrobe. So?”
“You were not acquainted with this bit of information, young Mr. Keene, but Watson, you were. When he approached us on the train, he mentioned having three suits available to try on, plus the one he was wearing. That is four suits. There were no other clothes in his room but what was in his wardrobe, so, if he was wearing one, and two were there, where did the other one go?”
“Quite right,” said I. “Those were not for sale—they were only product for show. And little help they did him. From what the manager told me when I asked, he tried mightily at dinner to get a sale but was rebuffed at every turn.”
Holmes waved my statement off, whimsically, “Please, Watson, did you really feel the need to ask if he had sold any?”
“I was only trying to give the man the benefit of the doubt.”
“Ever the optimist, my dear Watson.” He took a sip of tea and refilled his cup. “
The next link in the gruesome chain was when we made our way back up to the observation room.”
“But you said yourself that was a fruitless task.”
“I said nothing of the sort. I believe I said that going up there revealed more than you realized. Observe, do not just see, Watson. My guess is you remembered the tapestry and that was how you knew about the tunnel from the house to the mine.”
“That is correct,” I said with some satisfaction.
“But there was something up there that you missed. It is the tables on the train all over again.”
After a long silence, I finally said in exasperation, “Will you just come out and say it, what did I miss?”
He gave one of his curt smiles, the kind that are there and gone in the blink of an eye. “Had you counted the mannequins you would have realized that there was one missing.”
Putting it all together, I then said as I formed the events in my head, “So, Newbury planned this fake murder by dressing up a mannequin in one of his suits, setting it up by the overlook of Folly’s End, and shooting it in the back with an arrow, the force of the impact taking it over the edge, so people would see what looked like Newbury falling to his death.”
“But why?” asked Keene.
“Though he did not give us this information, my theory would be that he was planning this show for the individual tasked to be his shadow. If they thought he was dead, his debtors would be forced to call off the dogs. He then would be able to start fresh with all the money instead of only part, or perhaps none of it.”
“A brilliant plan, I must admit,” said I.
“Precisely, Watson. However, he needed a witness for this plan to work. That is where the crying woman comes in.”
With that, Holmes looked up and, seeing a constable standing near the entranceway with a netted hat tucked under his arm, craning his head over the patrons, stood and waved him over.
“Ah, there you are, Mr. Holmes,” he said as he approached. “I found this in the field when we were canvassing the area. I knew right away it belonged to you.”
“Thank you, constable,” he said, taking it and putting it on the table next to him. “While I have you here, I was hoping you could do me a service.”
