The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX

by Marcum, David;

  “I was re-arranging the books in here last summer and accidently dropped this old Latin Bible. When King James had the English translation published fer the public in 1611, these went out o’ style, and I doubt anyone had occasion to look through it carefully anymore. But I noticed a loose page and opened it up to try and straighten it. Turns out, it weren’t one o’ the book pages at all. T’was a handwritten note, also in Latin.”

  Just then, we were interrupted by a servant who announced that “dinner was served”. Alex put a finger to his lips to indicate our conversation needed privacy and ushered me to the dining room where we enjoyed a fine meal of lamb, potatoes, and assorted vegetables. We discussed army days and old comrades. I told him of my current circumstances and about my flat-mate, who was an amateur detective of sorts. I even explained how he was able to deduce so much merely from the letter I had received inviting me to Falgreen.

  “Och! The man is a warlock, to be sure! Two centuries ago, he’d a been burned at the stake! Ye say he does this fer a livin’?”

  “Oh yes,” I assured him. “He’s quite good at it and makes a decent living with helping private clients. Even the police occasionally call upon him for assistance.”

  “Tis a marvel indeed. If I’d known of him, he might have been able to help decipher the clues to me quest a lot faster than the weeks it took me.”

  “I’m sure your confidence in yourself will be rewarded, old friend. I’ll certainly help in any way I can.”

  “I knew I could count on ye, Johnny. Let’s take our brandy and cigars into the study and I’ll show ye me discovery and me interpretation.”

  He led me to a roll-top desk, where he unlocked the top and retrieved an envelope with some papers. Then we sat at a round oak table under a bright chandelier. He carefully unfolded an ancient page, yellowed with age. “What do ye make of this, with all ye’r Latin learnin’?”

  He turned the page toward me and it read as follows:

  Ad custodem custos fide et de mammonae

  Ortu solis exortu ad finem victoriae strenae

  Dum se nobis pastorem, sustentare eum qui pecuniam ovium

  Ex visibilibus in ostium quod aperit caelum, ita faciet ad dextram

  Arma inter valle umbrae mortis et in mensam ex adverso hostium meorum

  Mitte tuam solem et oculum a note, ubi umbra cadit in capitis mei

  Ad simul et convertam te et auferetur regnum ad Septentrionalis

  Et cum iter fecit gradus prophetia Isaiae: umbra in horologio Ahaz

  Habens cubitum sub tutela sancti Andreae in vobis quaerite et invenietis in via turn enim circulo recta medium

  Rursus bello oriri pretium

  Et animam tuam: Deus misereatur

  I was able to make out some phrases, but was at a loss to the overall meaning and confessed as much to my friend. “I can discern some of this, but since my school days, my Latin has been pretty confined to medical terms. I hope you weren’t counting on me to translate this for you.”

  He smiled brightly through his whiskers and slid another paper across to me. “Not to fear, Johnny lad. Me pastor translated it and I swore him to secrecy,” he winked. “Figured that’d be safer than some busybody scholar. Now does that make any sense to ye?” he said, handing me another piece of paper. I took it and read in much plainer English:

  To the keeper of the faith and the guardian of mammon

  The full risen sun of a new year dawns on the means to victory

  While the Lord is our Shepherd, the treasure sustains the sheep

  From the door that opens to the sights of the heavens, make way to the right

  Between the battlements shadow of the valley of death and the table in the presence of mine enemies

  Cast thine eye away from the sun and note where my helmet’s shadow falls

  Go at once and turn thyself away toward the kingdom of the North

  And march as did Isaiah’s shadow on the steps of the stairway of Ahaz

  A cubit beneath St. Andrew’s protection ye shall find the way turn a circle half right

  To arise again with the wages of war

  And may God have mercy upon your soul

  “Well, it’s certainly readable now,” I commented. “But do you understand what it means?”

  “I believe so, but I need someone I can trust to help me. That’s where you come in.”

  His full pronunciation of “you” told me how serious he was, so I answered in kind. “Anything I can do to help, Alex. You can count on me.”

  “I knew it. Cap’n Doctor,” he said, slapping his hand on the table and holding it out. “And ere’s me hand on it. We’ll share whatever we find, fifty-fifty.”

  I took his hand and replied, “That’s terribly generous of you. Are you sure?”

  He grew serious momentarily and said in solemn tones, “Ye saved me life, Johnny. If not fer that, the treasure may have gone undiscovered for another hundred years, or maybe never. T’is only fair, I say.” Then his smile broadened again, “Now let me tell ye what I think this means, and ye can give me yer thoughts.”

  He went through his reasoning, first of all stating that he found the page inserted at Psalm 23 in the Old Testament, which he felt was significant. He went on to explain that he believed the keeper of the faith and the guardian of mammon was Roderick, and that his suit of armour in the castle indicated the key. The treasure sustains the sheep and the wages of war both referred to the money collected to raise up an army against the British. He was sure the door and the battlements referred to the high tower, which was the closest point in the castle with sights to the heavens. Standing Roderick’s armour in the proper place at dawn on New Year’s Day would cast a shadow pointing to the starting point of the directions which followed.

  Finally stopping his explanation to take a fresh sip of brandy, my old comrade asked, “Well, Johnny what do ye think?”

  I removed the cigar from my lips, collected my thoughts briefly, then answered, “You certainly seemed to have reasoned it out logically and I don’t wish to dampen your enthusiasm, but it has been three-hundred years and there are likely changes in terrain, the heights of trees or even new trees altogether could affect shadows and steps. The land is also fairly flat, with just a slight rising towards the east, away from the river. A shadow cast at sunrise would be long indeed, likely outside the castle walls. Would this ancestor of yours risk burying the money out in the open like that?”

  Alex raised his open palm, his own cigar sending smoke upwards from between his long fingers. “Aye, I know there be objections, but I’ve explored the area where I expect the shadow to fall on New Year’s morning. I think we’ve got a chance here, Johnny, and certainly nothing to lose. What say ye?”

  I grinned, “I’m at your disposal, Alex. If nothing else it will be a fine adventure to remember for this gloomy winter.”

  We clinked our glasses and toasted to a successful quest.

  Chapter IV

  Friday, the thirtieth, dawned cold and cloudy. I wandered downstairs and found that breakfast was being prepared but wouldn’t be ready for half-an-hour yet. The cook, Mrs. Sheffield, offered me a hot cup of coffee which I took gratefully. With no sign of Alex about, I decided to do some exploring. I threw on my overcoat, muffler, and flat cap and ascended the stairwell of the castle’s tower. Stepping out onto the rooftop surrounded by battlements, I found my friend leaning between two of them and looking out across the fields to the west.

  I wrapped both my hands around the warm cup of coffee and took a sip, and then asked, “What will you do if it’s overcast and there no sun shining at dawn on the first?”

  “I’ve thought o’ that,” he answered. “I’ve been coming up here the last few mornings to get an idea of where the helmet’s shadow will fall. It shouldn’t make more than a few inches difference
this close to the actual date, so we should be close to a starting point.”

  He leaned back and I saw that behind him, leaning against the wall, was a staff with one of the ancient helmets on it.

  “I take it this is the height of Roderick,” I commented. “Clever to do it this way and not have to lug his entire set of armour up here. So where do you think the shadow will fall?”

  He responded by pointing to some ruins that lay between Falgreen and the River Sark. “Yesterday, the shadow fell just north of the foundation of the old kirk there. It’s where the cemetery was. It’s quite possible the treasure is buried among the old tombs.”

  “Won’t that present a problem with your local pastor?” I asked.

  “We’ll have to see where the clues take us,” he replied. “If it be an actual gravesite we’ll bring in the me pastor and see what can be done. But I doubt that someone with Roderick’s bible knowledge would desecrate a grave by burying his war chest in it. We’ll find out come Sunday morning.”

  We left the cold of that thought and tower perch and retreated downstairs to a welcoming hot breakfast.

  The freezing temperature and intermittent hail kept us inside the rest of the day. Alex had some business to take care of, handling the estate and the local folk who rented lands from him for raising crops and livestock. The impression I received coincided with Holmes’s assessment. Falgreen allowed him to be moderately well-off but not extremely wealthy. Expenses were often threatening to overcome income, and Alex had mentioned that he may be forced to sell off some his holdings.

  I was left to fend for myself in his well-stocked library, where I made myself comfortable in front of the fire with the Jules Verne book I had brought along. After a brief respite for lunch, we each returned to our activities. This time however, I chose to experiment with some writing of my own. I took up pencil and paper and began making notes for a tale of my current circumstances. I allowed my imagination to run with the situation as it existed in the late fourteenth century with the cousins Sinclair attempting to do their patriotic duty for Scotland. I imagined scenes of intrigue, clandestine meetings, and passionate debates. It was all speculation, of course, and I would certainly seek my host’s permission to use his family for a fictional account. By dinner time, I had put down several ideas which gave me confidence that there was enough to start writing a story, and I resolved to begin doing so at the next opportunity.

  Over our evening meal, Alex asked what I had found to read in the library. I recommended to him the Jules Verne adventure which I had brought along. The mood was congenial, and so I broached the possibility of writing a fictional account of his ancestors and their adventures during those ancient days in Scotland’s history, as background to our modern day treasure hunt.

  He contemplated that as he sipped his wine, a fine vintage of the Graham clan. Finally he responded, “T’would make a grand tale, I’ll admit, especially if we find the treasury. But me cousins, those descendants of Oliver, are very protective of the clan’s history. T’is doubtful they’d approve.” He hesitated a bit and I sensed there was something else bothering him.

  “What is it, Alex?” I asked, “If you have an objection please tell me. I’ll not take offense, I assure you.”

  He leaned forward and spoke in a low voice, “It’s just that, if we find a treasure that makes us rich, I’d just as soon not have the news bandied about. Ye know how differently people treat ye when you’re wealthy. Everybody lookin’ fer an investor. Every charity, tax collector, and long lost relative will come out o’ the woodwork lookin’ fer a touch.”

  I confess that this thought had never occurred to me and the look on my face must have revealed my disappointment, for my comrade spoke up again.

  “Not that it’s a bad idea, Johnny. Perhaps if ye changed the names and location?”

  “That’s a thought,” I conceded, grateful for the suggestion. “Thank you.”

  “That’s better then. Now, how’s yer leg up for a horseback ride tomorrow, weather permittin’? T’is Hogmanay[1] after all and I’d like to show ye the Sinclair lands as we visit the tenants and neighbours. Might even give ye some ideas fer yer story.”

  “The leg kicks up with the cold,” I answered, “but if the rain and hail subside, I could use a good stretching out.”

  “Very well, then. I’ve got a couple o’ fine stallions that are plenty gentle but can give us a good run when so inclined. We’ll start out right after breakfast.”

  * * *

  The next morning dawned cold but clear, and we packed up our panniers with various breads, sweetmeats, and bottles of Scotch whisky, and cantered off to visit Alex’s tenants and neighbours. All were welcoming on this festive day, even those who were paying their monthly rents. There was one stop where we were particularly welcomed, a small shop on the outskirts of Gretna Green where a variety of souvenirs and bric-a-brac were sold to the many tourists. When we walked in, bearing our gifts, a petite young woman of about twenty years with doe-like eyes and chestnut hair that curled round her face and across her shoulders let out a cheery greeting and proceeded to fall into a prolonged hug with my companion, followed by an affectionate kiss that bespoke more than a casual friendship. Slipping his arm around the girl’s waist, Alex waved in my direction and announced, “Sarah, me darlin’, this would be me good friend, Cap’n Doctor John Watson, as fine a medical man as her Majesty’s army has ever produced. He’s the one who saved me leg and me life. Johnny, this would be Miss Sarah Lamont, me fiancée.”

  I bowed, doffed my cap, and reddened slightly at this praise. “Why Alex, you never told me. Congratulations, old man!” I started to offer my felicitations to Miss Lamont, but before I could utter another word, I found myself in a bear hug that was surprisingly strong for someone so small, for she could not have been more than five-feet-two inches and weighing one-hundred-ten pounds at most.

  “Oh, thank you, thank you, Doctor! You saved my Alex for me!”

  Finally disentangling herself, she explained, “I’ve loved Alex since I was a young girl, but never told him, he being so much older than I. Then he went off to war and I thought I’d never see him again. When he came back wounded, I finally made up my mind that I had to tell him how I felt. I could not risk anything happening to him without letting him know how much he was loved.”

  “Imagine me surprise, Johnny,” Alex chimed in, “when this slip of a girl came to visit me at the castle in me convalescence and confessed her feelin’s. I had only known her as one of the girls about town. I’d never dreamed she had a crush on me. The more she visited, the more I felt such a compatibility that our love became mutual. I proposed to her on her twenty-first birthday in October, and we’re to be married this spring.”

  At this juncture, Miss Lamont held out her hand so I could see her lovely engagement ring and said, “You must promise to come to the wedding, Doctor. Please, it would mean so much to us.”

  “Yes, Johnny ye must come,” added my friend. “Ye must stand up with me as I take me bride.”

  I was flabbergasted by all this news at once, but I answered in the affirmative. “Well, I can hardly deny the request of such a charming young lady, nor that of an old comrade-in-arms. Of course I’ll come.”

  “Wonderful!” said Sarah, clapping her hands in delight. “Now, sit, sit, sit, there by the stove and take off your coats while I get you both some hot coffee.”

  After a delightful visit with this bubbly bride-to-be, Alex and I mounted up and returned to Falgreen. The rest of the day was spent receiving visits from others celebrating Hogmanay. When an elderly neighbour and his wife left us just before sunset, Alex turned to me and proclaimed they would be the last visitors we would receive.

  “Really?” I asked. “When I was a lad, we celebrated through the night and well into the next morning.”

  “Aye, that’s tradition,” he replied. “
But the local custom here is to limit visits only to daylight hours, unless ye’ve been invited to dinner. I’ve not sent such invitations nor accepted any this year, for we’ve a busy day tomorrow. I’ve ordered breakfast for seven-thirty, and by eight-thirty we’ll need to be in position.”

  After dinner that evening, we retired to his library once again and discussed exactly what each of our tasks would be on the morrow. We worked out a system of flag communication between me at the battlements and Alex, near the kirk where the shadow should fall. Since he had been checking this phenomenon for several days, he already knew approximately where to begin. My signals would guide him to the exact starting point. Then I would sally forth to join him. Within the hour, we hoped a fortune would lay at our feet.

  Chapter V

  After a restless night, being excited about what lay ahead, I arose at seven and looked out the window. To my delight, the early morning stars still shone, meaning clear skies for the task before us.

  I enjoyed a hearty breakfast with my friend as scheduled, after which Alex gave all the servants the rest of the day off to go into town and enjoy the celebrations with family and friends.

  In the dawn’s twilight, we saddled the horses again with panniers. Hoping this time to fill them with treasure, Alex rode out to the kirk and stood near where he had determined the shadow would fall. I took my place on the tower roof between the third and fourth battlements, counting to the right from the door, for Alex had determined these were the verse numbers in the Twenty-third Psalm, to which the “valley of the shadow of death” and “the table in the presence of mine enemies” referred.

  I held Roderick’s helmet on its shaft and, when the full sun cleared the horizon, I signaled with a bright red flag to Alex. I moved him slightly to his left and backward a couple of steps. When he was in position I gave him the agreed upon sign and left the tower to mount my steed and gallop out to join him.

  Upon arriving, I found Alex in the old kirk cemetery, compass in hand, facing due north. “Now,” he said, “we’re to proceed as Isaiah’s shadow, which was backwards ten steps.”