The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX

by Marcum, David;

  “How many times have you heard me tell a client that I am not a magician doing mere ‘tricks’? Pure observation and deduction, Watson - that is the basis of my craft. It is the result of a disciplined mind and an accumulation of knowledge as to cause and effect.”

  He perused the envelope carefully, examining it from every angle, feeling the texture with his thumb and middle finger, holding it up to the light of the nearby lamp, even smelling it.

  “Wait,” I pleaded. “Slow down and let me make notes as you explain this process.” I retrieved a pad and a pencil from the desk and sat back down, entreating him to talk me through each step he was taking.

  He sighed heavily again and started over. “Are you quite ready now, Doctor?” he asked, like a schoolmaster with an inept pupil.

  I nodded my assent and he continued once again. “A visual examination of the envelope shows it to be among the better quality stationery available on the market. Not top of the line, but hardly foolscap. This tells me the sender is fairly well off, or at least has access to someone who is. Feeling the texture confirms the quality and also allows me to determine if there are any enclosures other than the letter itself, such as a ring or a locket. None are present here, and the touch and lack of weight allow me to surmise there is but a single page inside.”

  “I see,” I commented between my scribbling. “But why did you use your middle finger instead of your index finger to feel the paper?”

  “Ah, you made an observation instead of just watching me work. That’s progress at least,” he answered - somewhat sarcastically, I thought. He continued, “A man’s index finger has a tendency to have tougher skin because it is used more than the other fingers. Thus the middle finger has more sensitivity to feel finer variations of texture.”

  “Interesting,” I noted on my pad. ‘Please, go on.”

  Raising it up in the air again, he said, “Holding it to the light also adds to the judgement of the quality. It is finely woven which makes it strong, yet allows the paper to be thin. Not so thin as I could make out the letter inside, but I was able to note four capital letters at the bottom of the page which, from their placement and style, I would deduce R.S.V.P. Thus, an invitation.

  “The postmark is from Gretna Green, just over the Scottish border. The return address of ‘Falgreen’ indicates some manor estate or castle, worthy enough to be known by a name rather than an address. Again, this would lend credence to the sender being someone of a moderate station. Well-off, but not necessarily nobility, as is indicated by the lack of title, since he refers to himself merely as ‘Alex Sinclair’.

  “The red sealing wax on the back, stamped with the Sinclair signet but no coat of arms, again points to someone of moderate wealth. The envelope bears no smudges and is not wrinkled, so it was likely posted the same day it was written. It does retain a musty smell, typical of old castles either near a river or surrounded by a moat. I believe the River Sark flows into the River Esk channel just south of the town. Kirtle Water is also close by.

  “The name ‘Falgreen’ is also a clue, as it could be indicative of a castle surrounded by a green hedge or set upon a green mound, similar to Carlisle Castle, just a few miles south of there.”

  “This is fascinating, Holmes,” I commented as I wrote. “Anything else?”

  “I would deduce that your connection to him is from your military days by his addressing you as ‘Captain, Dr. John Watson’. Referring to himself as ‘Alex’ rather than ‘Alexander’ indicates to me that you and he were close friends, likely in the same regiment. His station in life suggests he was an officer, but his reference to you as ‘Captain’ and ‘Doctor’ tells me he did not outrank you, for someone who did would refer to you as a one or the other, not both. Therefore, I would surmise that he was likely a Lieutenant.

  “The handwriting is very revealing. He is obviously intelligent. There are also indications of strength from someone whom I would expect to be about your age, yet there is also a sense of overcompensation. A little too much flourish, attempting a conceit that really doesn’t ring true. Hmm...” Holmes stared thoughtfully at the inked address and even felt along the line for the depth of impression. “Was he ever wounded?”

  I dropped my hands into my lap, dumbfounded. “That is amazing, Holmes!” I went on to explain Alex’s injury and how our friendship grew out of my treatment of him. I included the fact that he called me “Captain Doctor” because I had to pull rank on him to get him to obey my medical orders about his recovery program.

  Holmes nodded in satisfaction and spoke once more. “I would suggest then, that something has occurred in his life which he wishes to share with you. Something rather significant, I should think, judging by the excitement evident in his writing. So by all means, open it up and share your friend’s good news.”

  He tossed the envelope back to me. I missed it, due to having the pencil in my hand, but it fell in my lap and I quickly took up my penknife again and slit it open.

  It was indeed, an invitation to come celebrate the New Year with him at Falgreen, where he promised a fine feast, a cosy room, and an adventure that could prove most advantageous to both of us. His wording was rather cryptic and gave no clue as to what this adventure might be. I handed the message over to Holmes and asked his opinion.

  A brief glance was all he took and declared, “I should say that this ‘adventure’ he speaks of involves something quite valuable, Watson. He obviously did not wish to name details, as he could not be sure this letter wouldn’t fall into false hands. It is probably something of spiritual enlightenment, physical enjoyment, or material enrichment - most likely the latter, as I do not think he would be quite so secretive if it were a new religion or a meeting of a pair of eligible damsels. I would recommend that you accept and remove yourself from the dreariness of London’s coal-smoked atmosphere for a time. A spirited romp in the country will do you good.”

  “What of you, Holmes?” I enquired. “Have you any plans?”

  He puffed away at the pipe he had alighted while I was reading my invitation and announced, “I am determined to catch up on my indexes and old case files in these next few days, unless a new client comes along, of course. In any event, I shall be quite busy and not very good company.”

  I should note that at this time, being the first year of our living together, my accompanying Holmes on his cases was not as frequent an experience as it would later become. Thus, I felt unencumbered and took up pen and paper to write out a telegraphic reply to Alex, accepting his invitation and expecting to arrive on the 29th of December, per his request.

  Chapter II

  The journey by locomotive was a long one. I left Euston Station in London at nine in the morning and arrived at Carlisle, just south of the Scottish border, at four o’clock

  The scenery along the way was pleasant enough, being primarily flatlands and rolling hills at first, until reaching the Peak District where the mountains began to rise alongside us. The afternoon found us forced to cut through the range between the Yorkshire Dales and the North Pennines and snow flurries accompanied us until we dropped back down to the flatlands around Carlisle. Being the middle of winter, I had naturally dressed for the climate, but the traveling rugs provided by the railway company were welcome all the same.

  I had spent much of the journey reading a new work of Jules Verne, Eight Hundred Leagues on the Amazon. I found it to be an exciting tale and was impressed by Verne’s attention to detail and ability to convey action with the written word. It was a skill I much admired and a secret desire of mine to be able to write in such a manner.

  Needing to change trains, I was forced to wait until half-past-four to catch the next departure from Carlisle to Gretna Green. The train was crowded with several young couples, apparently seeking to start the New Year as newlyweds. Gretna Green was still a very popular spot for weddings, even though the laws which had made it so
had changed. In the middle of the 18th century, English lords approved new laws to tighten marriage arrangements. Couples had to reach the age of twenty-one before they could marry without their parents’ consent, and their marriage had to take place in a church.

  Scottish law, however, was different. You could marry on the spot, in a simple “marriage by declaration”, or “handfasting” ceremony, only requiring two witnesses and assurances from the couple that they were both free to marry.

  With such a relaxed arrangement within reach of England, it soon led to the inevitable influx of countless thousands of young couples running away to marry over the border. Gretna Green was the first village in Scotland, and conveniently situated on the main route from London.

  With Gretna Green perfectly placed to take advantage of the differences in the two countries’ marriage laws, and with an angry father-of-the-bride usually in hot pursuit, the runaway couple could not waste time. Therefore, as soon as they reached Scottish soil in Gretna Green, they would find a place of security where they could marry in haste. Back then, that spot was the blacksmith shop, the first building couples reached in Gretna Green and even now, a century later it was a popular wedding location.

  I finally arrived at ten-before-five, with the sun settling low in the western sky, and was met by Alex himself, who welcomed me with open arms in that gregarious fashion I remembered so well. He had put on weight since the last I saw him, yet retained an athletic build, the addition being more muscle than fat. He no longer wore his deep red hair in a close cropped military fashion, but rather long, though he retained his cavalryman’s moustache, to which he had added a neat beard. His Scots burr was thick and hearty as he greeted me.

  “Cap’n Doctor!” he exclaimed, upon wrapping both his hands around the one I extended in friendship. “It’s so good to see ye again.”

  I had seen upon his approach that he still favored the leg I had set nearly three years ago. He noticed my observation and commented. “The leg stiffens up a bit on me durin’ the cold winter months, but I can sit a horse with any man in the county, thanks to ye, Doctor. But I see yer walkin’ with a fair limp yerself, Johnny. A war wound, I take it?”

  I explained about my taking a bullet in the shoulder at the Battle of Maiwand and how Murray, my orderly, had gotten me to a horse, only to be struck in the leg by a second Jezail bullet during our retreat.

  “Aye, a bloody business in Afghanistan. This leg o’ mine kept me out of it, but at least ye saved it for me, and now it’s time to repay ye.”

  “Whatever are you talking about?” I asked. “And how did you find me?”

  “Let’s get out o’ the cold first,” he replied. “I’ve got a coach to take us home just over here.”

  He led the way to a fine enclosed coach with a driver in full livery. We stowed my luggage and climbed inside. Once we were off he continued.

  “To answer yer second question first, about a month ago I began me search by contacting a friend at the War Office to see about yer current billet. It took a bit o’ time, but I finally found that ye had mustered out and were on a pension that was mailed to Baker Street.

  “Now as to yer first question,” he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “I believe I’m on the verge o’ discovering an old cache o’ money that could be a considerable sum. As I owe ye me life, I felt it only fair that ye should share in it.”

  I felt a bit overwhelmed, “Alex, I was only doing my duty. Any army doctor would have done the same.”

  “Aye, but ye pulled that ‘Captain’ rank on me and took a lot more time than a doctor jest doin’ ’is duty. Besides I need a man o’ yer intellect to confirm me findings and make sure I deciphered the clues correctly.”

  “Clues?” I asked.

  He slapped my good knee with a meaty paw and announced, “We’re goin’ to find that secret cache, Johnny me lad!”

  I peppered him with questions, but he put me off, saying he would explain all when we got to the privacy of Falgreen. We drove less than a mile south on the Glasgow Road, crossed over the River Sark, and entered into the walled courtyard of Falgreen Castle just as the final rays of the sun were fading in the west. The landscape in the area around Gretna Green is primarily flatlands which gradually taper away toward Solway Firth at the northern tip of the Irish Sea. The area is quite green and makes for excellent farming and pasture for sheep and cattle. I did note that Holmes was correct in his deduction of the etymology of the name, for surrounding the castle walls was an incline greater than forty-five degrees reaching high up the wall from the adjacent fields. It was thick with green vegetation and would have been nearly impossible for soldiers to attempt to climb and breach the thick, red, block walls.

  Alex had my luggage taken to my room and offered me a brief tour. “We’ve about an hour till dinner,” he suggested. “Let me show ye ’round a bit.”

  As we walked he gave me a bit of a history lesson. The castle itself dated back to 1140, when it was completed in response to the English castle at Carlisle across the border. Carlisle had originally been built as a stronghold against Scottish invaders. Seeing the usefulness of such a fortress, the Scots built Falgreen for both defense against Anglo forces and as a staging ground for its own southern-bound troops.

  For such an ancient structure, I noted that it had been kept in remarkably good repair. The red and green tartan of this branch of the ancient Saint Clair Clan was prominent among banners and tapestries, and there were various suits of armor and weapons displayed. Each of these were designated by a plaque giving the name of the bearer.

  We stopped before one of these suits and Alex could barely contain himself. “This could be the key to our upcoming adventure,” he proclaimed as he ran his hand along an arm. “This suit of armour.” Turning to me he asked, “Are ye familiar with the history o’ the Battle of Solway Moss?”

  “I also am of Scottish descent,” I reminded him, “We are all aware of that prelude of events just prior to the birth of Mary, Queen of Scots. Though I’m certainly not up on details since my school days.”

  Alex smiled, “Aye, I was a bit rusty meself until recently. Let me read this for ye.” He picked up a large book on a nearby table, the title of which was A History of Scottish Wars, and read as follows:

  On 24 November, 1542, an army of fifteen-thousand Scots advanced into England from Dunfries. Lord Maxwell, though never officially designated commander of the force, declared he would lead the attack in person. A later report says that in the absence of Maxwell, Oliver Sinclair, a favourite courtier of King James V, declared himself to be James’s chosen commander. According to this account of the battle, the other commanders refused to accept his leadership and the command structure disintegrated. The Scots advance into England was met near Solway Moss by Lord Wharton and his three-thousand men. The battle was uncoordinated and may be described as a rout. Sir Thomas Wharton described the battle as the overthrow of the Scots between the rivers Esk and Lyne. The Scots, after the first encounter of a cavalry chase at Akeshawsill, moved down towards Arthuret Howes. They found themselves penned in south of the Esk, on English territory between the river and the Moss, and after intense fighting surrendered themselves and their ten field guns to the English cavalry. Wharton said the Scots were halted at the Sandy Ford by Arthuret Mill Dam. Several hundred of the Scots may have drowned in the marshes and river.

  James, who was not present at the battle, withdrew to Falkland Palace, humiliated and ill with fever. The news that his wife had given birth to a daughter (Mary, Queen of Scots) instead of a son, further crushed his will to live, and he is reported to have stated that the House of Stewart “came with a lass and will go with a lass.” He died at Falkland two weeks later at the age of thirty. It is reported that in his delirium he lamented the capture of his banner and Oliver Sinclair at Solway Moss more than his other losses.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Now
I recall. So this Oliver Sinclair was one of your ancestors?”

  “Aye, and this castle was his to command and retain after being ransomed from England. He charged a cousin, Roderick, to keep it staffed and ready to use as a staging ground for Scottish troops, which it would later become. Which brings us to the reason I’ve sent for ye.

  “In order to maintain the castle and be ready to raise and supply an army, Oliver was constantly procurin’ funds and sending the money here. Roderick always feared an attack from the English, and so kept that treasury well-hidden. Legend goes that he left secret instructions for his cousin should anything happen to him. But then he died in 1576, at about the same time as Oliver, and the treasury was never discovered.”

  Alex clapped me on the shoulder, smiled broadly and said, “That’s why I’ve invited ye here, Johnny. It’s believed that no one else knew where it was hidden, for there’s no record of its use. The story has come down through my family for generations.”

  Here he pointed to his broad chest with his thumb and announced, “But I’ve found the message Roderick left Oliver with the clues to its whereabouts. On New Year’s Day, we’re goin’ on a treasure hunt!”

  Chapter III

  “A treasure hunt?” I asked, skeptically. “You mean to say no one has found this cache in over three-hundred years?

  “If they did, there’s no record of it, and I doubt the instructions I found have been touched since they were written and hidden away.”

  “Where did you find them?” I asked with great curiosity, for Alex’s excitement was becoming infectious.

  “Come along, I’ll show ye,” he replied and led the way to a cosy chamber that was lined with bookshelves containing a wide variety of books of all ages. He went to a particular shelf, pulled out a voluminous leather-bound tome, and set it upon a table. I leaned over his shoulder and saw that it was an ancient Bible.