“I have finished in here,” said Holmes as he folded the incomplete letter and put it in his notebook. “May I see the library next?”
“Of course,” replied Lord Sessamy.
The Cliffdale Castle library was as handsome and large as we had been told. I paused to admire the tall latticed windows sporting the coats of arms of branches of the Sessamy family going back centuries. They let the setting sunlight into the long chamber from the right side. The blaze in the fine marble fireplace opposite the windows did much to take the autumn chill off the room. Rows and rows of books lined the walls. Over our heads the balcony floor ran around three-quarters of the room supporting more shelves of books reaching up to the rococo ceiling painted with hunting scenes. Glass-topped display tables stood on Persian rugs that shared space with the long mahogany table in the center. An antique desk occupied a spot on the right. Cases with many wide shallow drawers, like those designed to hold collections of insects or mineral samples, stood in a row against the wall beyond the windows.
Sherlock Holmes quickly examined the contents of the display cases. He paid particular attention to one that held an assemblage of daggers and knives. I realized it must be the one Mr. Aydin had hit his head against when he fell. Holmes spent some time looking at the edge of the case that faced the shelves where the rolling ladder had stood with his lens. Finally he straightened up and cast a glance at the rest of the room.
“The question foremost in my mind, Watson,” he remarked absently, “is why did Mr. Aydin put the unfinished letter to his brother back in the middle of a stack of untouched notepaper? What are those cases used for, Lord Sessamy?” Holmes indicated the bank of drawers against the opposite wall.
“Collections, mostly, Mr. Holmes. My great-grandfather began them. He was fond of travelling and brought back many small souvenirs. Let me show you.” The Baron pulled open a wide, shallow drawer and displayed a tray neatly divided into many sections, each holding a tiny wooden carving of an animal. There were giraffes, lions, gazelles, apes and other fauna of the Dark Continent. Another drawer disclosed mounted beetles, each labelled in an old-fashioned hand. Drawer after drawer was opened, each containing diminutive treasures like Egyptian scarabs, mineral samples from Asia, origami figures from Japan, and coins from all over the globe, each individual item in its own little compartment.
“I have added to the drawers’ contents with my own specimens. This one contains shells that I found on the beach when I was taken on vacation to Cornwall as a child. I was very proud when my father reserved a drawer for them. It was my first contribution to the family collection. I have filled several drawers since with such things as exotic birds’ eggs from America and fossils found on the estate.”
“And this set of drawers in the far corner? Do they have more baubles in them?” asked Sherlock Holmes.
“This last one contains only maps. My father and my grandfather were fond of maps and here you will find a diverse sampling of ones both modern and ancient. I must confess that these drawers were in a sorry mess before Mr. Aydin began work on them a year ago.” The Baron opened a drawer and pulled out a hand-drawn sailor’s chart of the coast of Norway. “This one dates from the early 1700s and was reputed to belong to the Greenwich Observatory at one time. There are hundreds of maps in these drawers. They cover all the oceans and the landmasses of the earth. My favourites when I was young were the old ones of unexplored territories with the legend “Here Be Dragons” marked in the blank spots.”
Mr. Handy appeared at the doorway. “Dinner is served, My Lord,” he intoned.
“Thank you, Handy. Since it will be only us, Mr. Holmes, I thought that we might not stand on ceremony tonight and forgo with dressing for dinner. I frequently eat informally when the women are absent. Each time I do I can see Handy’s orthodox soul shrink in horror. His greatest fear is that I shall one day turn eccentric and eat all my meals from a plant-stand in the conservatory while dressed in hunting pinks and bedroom slippers.”
After dinner Owen Sessamy offered to show us the rest of the Castle, but Holmes begged off and returned to the library. I look the Baron up on his offer, however, and we spent over two hours traversing corridors and climbing stone steps to various vantage points of the Norman pile. While he showed me the Green Hall and the Onyx Suite Lord Sessamy told me tales of the Castle, including the story of the Grey Yeoman. It was the ghost of a loyal soldier whom after death haunted the ruined tower. He had died fighting during a battle with the Northerners five hundred years before. His body had been ravaged by the fire that had devastated the tower. His spectre now inhabited the ruins, forever on the lookout for the treacherous Northerners. Early repairs to the tower had to be called off when the workmen reported several sightings of the ghost and refused to continue the restoration.
The Grey Yeoman was reported to cause red lights to dance within and outside the tower on certain nights, as if the fire that destroyed the tower was still raging. There was a constant cold spot at the end of the Castle corridor that led to the Grey Yeoman’s last post. Sometimes cries and screams were heard issuing from the tower. Sceptics said they were the calls of nesting birds but no signs of birds were ever found. The most notable manifestation of the Grey Yeoman occurred during Jarvis Sessamy’s funeral, held at the castle’s chapel. In the middle of a fire-and-brimstone sermon by the vicar concerning Jarvis’ many sins, an earthquake shook the building. It was considered the work of the Grey Yeoman, displeased at the harsh words against a Sessamy in their own castle. I smiled at his words, but I saw by his eyes that the Baron was serious. Lord Sessamy admitted that all his life he had avoided the ruined tower of the Castle for fear of encountering the Grey Yeoman.
When we returned to the main floor, there was no sign of Holmes, although a light glimmered from under the library’s door and I could hear the rustle of papers from within. I knew how he got when he was in the middle of a case and I decided it was best not to interrupt him. I explained some of his methods to Lord Sessamy and we finally retired to bed.
Sherlock Holmes was not present at breakfast the next day but Handy announced that he had requested we meet in the library after we finished our meal. Lord Sessamy and I found Holmes seated at the vast table. Before him were three folded maps on the polished surface. It was obvious to me that he had neither eaten nor slept since we had parted the night before, but his attitude was bright and cheerful like it frequently was when he was following a promising clue.
“Good morning, gentlemen! I have spent a most interesting night in this fine old room, Lord Sessamy.”
“I am glad to hear it, Mr. Holmes,” said our host.
“Yes, and I found the most interesting things in that map case. Everything was meticulously labelled and filed away except for one paper. Look here.” Sherlock Holmes unfolded one of the maps and spread it before us. “Do you recognize this, my lord?”
“It’s a map of the Yorkshire Dales. Here is Cragville and Summitton and here is Dyrebury. That spot indicates Cliffdale Castle.”
“And what of this one?” Holmes opened another paper.
“That is an older map, with Dyrebury in the middle. The Castle is marked on the upper left. The style of cartography is from the eighteenth century, I’d say.”
“Finally, what do you know of this one?” Another map, more crudely drawn and on rougher paper, was flattened out on the table top.
Lord Sessamy slowly looked it over then turned to Holmes. “Bless my soul, sir. I don’t claim to know the details of every map in the collection, but I would swear I’ve never seen this one before. Where did you find it?”
“It was filed between two other maps in a bottom drawer. One was a street map of Chicago, Illinois, USA and the other was a detailed map of the Great Lakes area of the Middle Western States. These others I pulled out of their proper places.”
“But finding this old map where you say you found it doe
sn’t make any sense. Chicago is located on the shores of Lake Michigan, but that location hasn’t any connection with this old map. Mr. Aydin was so meticulous in his filing. He would never leave this paper, which covers the Sessamy estate and the surrounding area, filed between two maps concerning a different area of the globe. It must have been a mistake.”
“On the contrary, I think it was deliberate. He…” Holmes was interrupted by the appearance of the butler.
“What is it, Handy?” asked Lord Sessamy.
“I beg pardon, my Lord, but Abigail is outside with her bag. She insists that she is leaving.”
“What! Bring her in, Handy.”
Abigail proved to be a pretty woman of perhaps twenty-five years, with smooth brown hair and a neat ankle, who was dressed in a brown coat and a straw hat trimmed in artificial cherries. She left her valise in the hall and walked into the library. She faced her employer with a defiant face.
“Now, Abigail, Mr. Handy says you want to leave,” said her employer. “You’ve worked here as a chambermaid for several years. Haven’t you been well-treated?”
The woman turned her eyes from Lord Sessamy to Sherlock Holmes and me. I noticed that while she was attractive, with regular features marred only by a dusting of freckles over the nose, her brow was creased and she seemed to be both angry and fearful. Was Lord Sessamy a hard master? Nothing I had noticed about him since we first met indicated such a thing.
“It’s not the job or the other servants, sir. I won’t work in a place that has detectives in it. I’m a respectable girl and my family never had detectives in the house,” she said.
“Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson are investigating Mr. Aydin’s death, Abigail. I went down to London to bring them back just for that. It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
“I’m respectable, my lord. I won’t stay in a place that has detectives in it. I’m sorry, sir, but I’m going to live with my sister in the village. I have made up my mind to it, sir.”
“The police were here last week, Abigail, when poor Mr. Aydin died. You didn’t object to them.”
“The police were bad enough but I won’t stay in a house that has detectives in it, sir.”
“You are owed money, Abigail.”
“You can send it to my sister’s house, sir. I won’t stay in this place another minute.”
With that, the woman turned and carried her bag out of the Castle. We stood at one of the library’s windows and watched a light carriage enter the Castle’s ground and pull up in front of the stone steps. Abigail hopped in, the driver lifted in her valise, and the whole rig disappeared down the drive towards the main road to Dyrebury.
Handy had disappeared. Our client turned around. “I’m sorry to have to involve you in our domestic problems, Mr. Holmes. I don’t understand her objection to detectives. Abigail has always been a steady, hard-working maid.”
“What were her duties?” Holmes asked.
“That question is better put to Mr. Handy.” Lord Sessamy rang for the butler. When he returned to the library our client told him to answer any question Holmes put to him.
“What were Abigail’s duties?” Holmes asked again.
“She was assigned to the third floor, sir,” said Mr. Handy.
“Then she was responsible for cleaning Mr. Aydin’s suite.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was she the maid who found Mr. Aydin’s body?”
“No, sir. That was Harriet, the head housemaid. She was questioned by the police.”
“You said Abigail had worked here for several years. Had there been any complaints against her during that time?”
The butler looked a bit uncomfortable and glanced at Lord Sessamy. The Baron nodded and Handy answered Holmes’ question. “Abigail was a little standoffish from the other maids, sir. She had the reputation of holding herself above her station in life. She also was caught several times in places where she had no business. She was spoken to about it and promised to stop. Nothing was ever missing, however, so we had no reason to let her go. I think she may have been naturally curious, sir.” The butler said the last statement like it was some sort of distasteful disease.
“Whose carriage was that which picked her up just now?”
“It was the hack from the “Lamb and Lion”, sir. She must have arranged for it this morning. The mailman comes early.”
“She said she was going to her sister’s house. So she has family in Dyrebury?”
“There is only her sister, sir, Mrs. Darnell from The Oaks, who is old Mrs. Rikketts’ housekeeper. Mrs. Rikkett is quite the invalid and never leaves her home anymore. The two women came to Dyrebury about three years ago from Summitton, I believe.”
“Who drove that hack?”
“It was young Boniface from the inn, sir. He took over the place when his father died last year.”
“Was he an admirer of Abigail’s, Mr. Handy?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir. Gentlemen callers are not encouraged at the Castle and Abigail never spoke of one. She talked of spending her free time with her sister and then only when she was asked.”
Sherlock Holmes thanked Mr. Handy for his assistance and the butler left the library. The hour chimed from the big ormolu clock on the library mantelpiece and Lord Sessamy pulled out his own watch from his waistcoat pocket.
“You must excuse me, Mr. Holmes. I have an appointment with my estate agent in ten minutes at the stables. Please feel free to call on Handy if you need anything.” Lord Sessamy left.
Sherlock Holmes picked up the misfiled map and handed it to me along with his magnifying glass.
“There are several interesting points about this map, Watson. Can you find them?”
I examined the faded ink and the rough paper. “It appears to be very old.”
“Yes, Watson, that is obvious. What else can you tell me?”
I was irked at him impatient response to my observation and concentrated my attention on the map. “It looks to be hand-drawn by someone who had some artistic skill but was not an accomplished artist. It is not drawn to scale. The little sketch of the Castle is out of proportion to the cross-hatching that designates Dyrebury. I think these lines show mountains and the darker ones are roads. There is a tiny drawing of what appears to be a horse and carriage on this line. There are several marks on the map that indicate locations marked with numbers. The numbers in the legend on the bottom lists names like “Forest”, “Bridge” and “Northern Road”. Here’s one for the “Lamb and Lion”. There are also many “X”s scattered over the landscape. There is no indication of what the “X”s are supposed to mean. I see nothing else.” I put down the map and the lens with a feeling of satisfaction.
Holmes took up the paper and held it up to the light that was streaming through one of the latticed windows. “I love maps,” he murmured, as if only to himself. “They are little bits of history put to paper. They speak of journeys, of unknown places, of people who once laboured and dreamed of accomplishments, yet now are gone and forgotten. The ink is faded to brown, the paper yellowed and crumbling, but the places spread out on this map have taken on a life of their own. What was so important that someone took the trouble to draw this map of a corner of the Yorkshire Dales over one hundred and sixty years ago?”
“I don’t understand, Holmes. How can this misfiled map have anything to do with the death of Garrett Aydin?”
“Mr. Aydin hid an unfinished letter to his brother in the middle of a stack of pristine stationary in his room. He hid this map in the middle of a drawer of unrelated maps in the library. Yet Mr. Aydin was the most methodical of men and a systematic worker who was neat and precise in his work. What does the fact that these papers were hidden away indicate to you?”
“He feared he was being spied upon. And his letter spoke of coming into a great deal of money!�
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“Then he was found dead, the back of his skull supposedly crushed by the edge of a display case. I have examined that case, Watson, and I’d stake my reputation that his head never came in contact with it. Garrett Aydin was murdered, and the reason for his violent death lies hidden in the Morley triangle of that letter, this misfiled map and the stolen book written by young Berengaria so many years ago. What do you see marked on this corner of the paper?”
I looked where Holmes was pointing. A faint drawing, made up of a series of half circles heaped up on one another with a thin line underneath curving away to the right, was visible. Another line ending in a narrow oval branched out from the first.
“It is a sketch of some sort.”
“It is a rebus, Watson. That is to say, it is a puzzle where a word or phrase is indicated by a drawing. Doesn’t that look to you like a berry?”
“Of course!”
“I think this map was drawn by the girl Berry after she had completed her manuscript. In it she distilled every clue as to the location of the Dyrebury Danger loot, but she still didn’t know where it was. If she had, the treasure would have been recovered then. Mr. Aydin read the book and then he discovered the map. His letter to his brother indicated that he thought he could decipher the clues and find the riches. Lacking the book containing the story, our only chance to find the treasure and the man who killed for it is to solve the riddle concealed within this map. Come, Watson. A bell is no bell until you ring it and a map is no map until you follow its roads.”
He returned the first two maps to their proper places and rang for Handy. In a few minutes we had on our hats and coats and were driving the dog-cart to Dyrebury, the old map tucked into Holmes’ pocket.
Just past the village Holmes stopped the cart and pulled out the old map. He studied it for several minutes then turned off into a sunken lane that corresponded to one of the lines on the map marked with three of the “Xs’. He eagerly turned his head from one side of the road to the other and after ten minutes’ travel slowed the trotting horse to a standstill.
Sherlock Holmes and the Folk Tale Mysteries - Volume 2 Page 3
