The Case of the Lost Lad
It was February in Baker Street and no one had knocked on our door in nearly a week. The newspapers were full of nothing but politics and weather reports. Sherlock Holmes had kept busy during those days by researching the physical effects of the musical scale on the common house-fly, although where he had obtained a supply of house-flies in the depths of winter was beyond me. We heard the ring of the bell below and in a few moments Mrs. Hudson brought in a calling card on a salver. I sat up from my position on the sofa, where I had been trying to concentrate on a yellow-backed novel. Holmes put aside his violin on which he had been plunking odd notes and picked up the bit of cardboard.
“Edged in black, Watson,” said he, “with the name Mrs. Laurie Vogelbauer engraved with a Cheshire address. Well, it must be a serious case indeed that would bring a young widow so far from home to consult with a London detective. Send her up, Mrs. Hudson.”
He threw a handkerchief over the glass jar of flies that stood on the windowsill, and exchanged his purple dressing gown for a frock coat. I straightened my tie and looked at him inquiringly.
“How do you know she is a young widow, Holmes, and with a serious case?”
“A calling card edged in black indicates the death of a close relative,” he replied, “and the use of the first name Laurie indicates she is young. An older woman would have used the formal designations Laura or Laurel as an indication of her dignity. She has the title Mrs. on her card, indicating a marriage, but it does not bear a man’s name, showing he is no more. Men named Lawrence sometimes are called Laurie, but never on a formal calling card. Also, the card is a woman’s card, shown by the delicate font selected. Her husband’s death would explain the black border. Therefore, she is a young widow with what she considers a serious problem, evident by her willingness to bear the travails of a journey to London in such weather as February brings the patient Londoner.”
A few minutes later Mrs. Laurie Vogelbauer was seated on the sitting room sofa, telling us about her situation and in so doing confirming all of Holmes’ deductions.
She appeared to be in her later twenties, of medium height, dressed in deep mourning, the black hair under her widow’s cap and veil touched with a few premature grey hairs. Her face was pale and drawn. Her fingers, thin like the rest of her, rested on her lap, clutching a black reticule. Her dark eyes, however, gazed at Holmes steadily, and there was no hesitation in the direct manner in which she addressed the detective. She had a very slight accent.
“My brother and I are the children of Antonio Bass, the Italian tenor, who made such a success at the Royal Opera Theatre back in the ‘70s,” she began.
“Our mother is English and insisted that my brother be educated at Durham. She made a home for us there during his college years. My father continued to travel and work during that time. Unfortunately neither Robert nor I inherited his musical talents. Robert became a solicitor. He bought into a practice in the village of Tilston in Cheshire and settled there. Then our mother rejoined our father. I was my brother’s housekeeper until he married, and then I met Edward Vogelbauer. We fell in love, Edward was hired as a clerk by the East India Company and we were sent out to New Delhi shortly after the wedding.
“We made a home in India and the two of us were very happy. A year later our son was born. I named him Lohengrin in honour of my father’s greatest role and we called him Lonnie. He looked just like my husband. Four years ago our father died in Milan and our mother moved to Tilston in order to be near my brother’s family.
“Just over a month ago, when Lonnie was five, William was promoted to chief clerk and given six months leave back to England before he took up his new duties. A week later we sailed on the Lyric bound for Liverpool. We were passing Weymouth on January 28, two weeks ago. That night a vicious storm blew up and our ship was cast up on the Chesil Banks.
“That treacherous sandbank broke the Lyric into pieces and everyone was thrown into the sea. We were in sight of Weymouth and heroic efforts were made at rescue. I was saved, but my husband drowned and my son was torn from my arms by the force of the waves.”
Her eyes filled with tears but her voice did not falter. “My husband’s body was found on the beach the next day. I was taken to hospital where I lay insensible for three days. Lonnie’s body was never recovered.
“My brother came down from Tilston and brought us back home. I barely managed to get through the burial service at St. Mary’s. Afterwards I collapsed and my recovery has been slow. It is only in the past couple of days that I have been able to move about at all. My brother was against my coming down to London to consult you, but I wouldn’t give in. He insisted that my mother accompany me, but I left her back at the hotel. I came here alone by hansom cab.”
Holmes had been listening with his eyes fixed on his fingers steepled before him, sunk into his armchair. Now he lifted his eyes and looked at our visitor.
“We extend our sympathies, Mrs. Vogelbauer. What is it you request of me?”
“I want you to find my son.”
“You said your son was dead.”
“I wish to lay flowers at his grave.”
“You just said your son’s body was never recovered.”
“While I was in hospital my brother made inquiries. No one of Lonnie’s description was found on the beaches around Weymouth. But since I recovered, I have been thinking. The storm came from out in the Atlantic. What if he was swept eastward away from the scene of the shipwreck? Someone could have found him down the coast. He might have been buried in some small hamlet’s cemetery and never identified.”
“That is possible.”
“I wish you to find him, Mr. Holmes. Or, failing that, to find out what happened to him.”
“If his body was swept out to sea, it will be impossible to find him.”
“I do not ask the impossible. I merely want to know if he has a grave anywhere along the Dorset shore. He was my son, sir. I ask as a mother.”
“Much time has passed.”
“I know you are an honourable man. If you take my case, you will do your best. If you fail, I will accept the fact that Lonnie is lost forever and I will place a memorial to him in St. Mary’s Church in Tilston.”
I had never seen a woman so steadfast in her purpose. Clearly, she was not going to accept anything less than the famous Sherlock Holmes agreeing to help her. He stood and held out his hand.
“I make no promise of success, but I will take your case, madam, and I will keep you informed of what progress is made.”
“That is all I ask, Mr. Holmes. My mother and I are staying at the Pilchard Hotel by the Embankment.” She pulled a photograph out of her reticule. “This was the only personal item my brother was able to recover after the wreck. Please take care of it.”
It was a water-soaked photograph of three people. One figure was Mrs. Vogelbauer, looking younger and healthier, seated beside a man who had to be her husband. A boy stood by her knee. Edward Vogelbauer was older, dressed in a white tropical suit, with light hair and a luxurious walrus moustache.
Lonnie Vogelbauer had his father’s colouring and was dressed in the sailor suit currently fashionable for young boys. At once it was evident why his father sported such a hirsute upper lip.
Young Vogelbauer was given by Nature an elongated upper lip over a wide mouth. It was quite odd-looking, almost a disfigurement, and I could understand why his father sought to hide such a physical feature. A few minutes later I ushered Mrs. Vogelbauer out and returned to the sitting room.
Holmes was studying the photograph closely. After a few minutes he put it down and dragged out bundles of newspapers from under his chemical table. He began throwing old issues around the room, searching for those of two weeks prior.
He retired to his armchair with an untidy stack and settled down to read newspaper reports about the
wreck of the Lyric. His brain busy on the case, I knew he would be no company for the rest of the evening. I retired to my own bedroom, but I found it hard to get to sleep. The image of Laurie Vogelbauer speaking so earnestly to Holmes would not leave my mind. For her to ask my friend to find a dead child, lost for weeks! Had Sherlock Holmes finally accepted a case that was impossible to solve? Was it kind of him to give hope to the lad’s mother? I felt terrible for her losses, but I couldn’t see how it was possible for Holmes to locate the grave of a child lost at sea. Finally I must have slept, for when I opened my eyes I saw weak, watery winter sunlight through my window and it was morning.
I arose late, and breakfast followed me quickly into our sitting room. I found Holmes at his desk, consulting several almanacs and his own indexes, all the while scribbling on a large sheet of foolscap. The floor was a sea of discarded old newspapers and when I bent to pick up some I saw they each contained an account of the Lyric disaster.
I sat down to eat and was half-way through my soft-boiled egg when Sherlock Holmes dropped the sheet of foolscap on the breakfast table and poured himself a cup of coffee.
I lifted it off the toast rack and examined it. I was surprised to find the paper covered with several columns of figures, the lines headed with words like “sea current” and “tide levels”. I tried to make sense of the numbers but found the entire sheet incomprehensible.
“What is this, Holmes?” I asked as I handed it back to him. “You have done a lot of figuring, but to what purpose I cannot fathom.”
“Quite out of your depth, hey, Watson?” he chuckled. “I have spent the time since last night working on Mrs. Vogelbauer’s case. I now fancy that I know as much as I would have had I been on the spot during the storm. Those figures you see before you were generated by the information I gleaned from several newspapers, including the Times, The Dorset Sentinel, my almanac and old copies of The Shipping News. I believe I have determined the exact spot where the body of Lonnie Vogelbauer would have washed up on the Dorset coast.”
“And where is that?”
“Lulworth Cove, a pebble-covered beach less than a mile from Durdle Door and one-half mile south of West Lulworth. It is a goodly distance from Weymouth, but I have gone over my calculations carefully. I have that appointment with Scotland Yard tomorrow morning that I cannot avoid, but our afternoon will be free. Our first stop, Watson, will be at the Old Trinity Church of West Lulworth. There I am sure we will find the answers to end Mrs. Vogelbauer’s sorrowful quest.”
The next day we left London from Waterloo Station on the two o’clock train with tickets for Weymouth. A hired horse and trap took us from the city down a well-travelled road eastward. The Dorset coast benefitted from the temperate winds that blew in from the Gulf Stream and the fogs and chill rains of London were nowhere in evidence. Occasionally, if the road took us close enough to the cliffs, we could hear the sounding surf and smell the salt air. We passed a series of dairy farms and clumps of woodland as we travelled. After nearly twelve miles Holmes and I saw the tower of Old Trinity and the surrounding roofs of West Lulworth rise up as we approached.
By now it was late afternoon and the light was failing. We drove directly to Old Trinity Church, with its square Roman tower and Portland stone walls. It didn’t look that old to me but Holmes informed me that the original Old Trinity had been torn down in 1869 and this replacement building was constructed in a new location.
We found the vicar on the front steps with a broom, sweeping the entrance steps. He introduced himself as Rev. Starr and apologized for the broom.
“Normally the sexton does this, but he’s come down with the grippe and is confined to his own bed. So I have been trying to take his place ever since, not altogether successfully, I fear.” He opened the front door and led us into the chancel.
Rev. Starr was a young man, going prematurely bald and dressed in the customary black. Holmes asked to view the church burial accounts and the cleric led us to the records room, pointing out some of the more noteworthy features of the church on the way.
In the records room Sherlock Holmes gave a more detailed account of our mission. Rev. Starr frowned. “I took up this post just a week ago. I don’t recall any talk about finding a body on the beach after that storm. However, there may be a note of it on the proper page of the ledger.” He lit a lamp, for by now the winter dark was drawing in, pulled a thick book off a high shelf and opened it out on the table in the centre of the room.
“Here are last year’s notes. Well, it seems it was a quiet year. No one died until July, when Toby Shell died at the age of 87. After that it was quiet again until December 10th. I see that the old vicar, Mr. Sands, officiated at the funeral and burial of Mrs. Welkes. She was the wife of the local magistrate.”
Holmes frowned. “There have been no burials this past month? What about the surrounding towns?”
“Our sexton keeps up with the local news pretty well, since his wife cleans in all the churches and chapels around here for miles. He’s told me a lot of the gossip she has collected, in order to bring me up to date on the community. I don’t remember any mention of a drowned child found on any of the local beaches.”
Holmes looked rather abashed. I felt badly for my friend. Obviously the boy’s body hadn’t been swept down the coast at all, but out to sea. Sherlock Holmes was rarely wrong in his observations and deductions and for his sake I felt this failure keenly. What a blow this information must be to his pride!
Holmes and I left Rev. Starr on the front steps of Old Trinity Church and, on the recommendation of the vicar, turned the head of the horse to the Cliff House Hotel. Holmes was silent throughout our drive. The Cliff House Hotel was a modern pile, not yet thirty years old, perched on an outcropping overlooking the sea. We left the trap with the stable boy and entered the lobby. My friend asked for two rooms and signed the guest register. Mr. Gull, the hotel manager, looked at our names as he handed us our keys.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson of London! What an honour for Cliff House! I have followed the accounts of your adventures avidly. I suppose you are down here to investigate the sea monster.”
“What sea monster?” I asked.
Mr. Gull was a short, dapperly dressed man whose head jerked and bobbed in bird-like fashion as he spoke. He handed me a copy of the local newspaper. “People have been talking about the sightings for days, but it was only today that an official story appeared in the paper. Read for yourself. They even have an artist’s rendering.”
Comfortable in the solid belief that if something was printed in the newspaper it must be true, the hotel manager turned to another customer. Holmes and I took chairs in a corner of the lobby and perused the front page. The “artist’s rendering” was a highly imaginative drawing of a squat, many-armed creature with an enormous head creeping up over the sand from the ocean toward two terrified children cowering by some boulders. It’s huge, slavering mouth was open and its many sharp teeth gleamed against the black interior. Several arms were stretched out, as if clutching for the boy and girl, there were only slits for a nose and two bulging eyes glared at the prey with an inhuman intent fearsome to behold.
The story that accompanied this amazing illustration was detailed and if true, terrifying. Two children, a brother and sister, had run into their parents’ public house, the Whale and Minnow, on the outskirts of nearby Littlebeach at six o’clock at night five days before. They were crying and shaking. It took nearly an hour for the parents and their patrons to calm the children down and extract their story.
The boy, who was seven, said that he and his sister, who was five, had been walking home on the beach from Skylar’s Woods, east of Littlebeach, when they saw something struggling in the water. Although the light was failing, the child declared that he saw a monster with many arms and a gaping maw stagger out of the surf and head for them. Its skin was dark streaked with white. He stooped and
grabbed up some stones from the beach and flung them at the beast. It cried out and advanced upon them. The children screamed and ran. As they scrambled up the path that led over the chalk bluff to Littlebeach, they both swore that they felt the monster’s cold, clammy breath on their necks and heard it’s gurgling, slobbering cry just before they reached the top and escaped.
It was quite dark by the time the children had sobbed out their tale and no one felt like rushing out to search the beach for the monster. Indeed, the patrons showed a strong inclination to linger, ordering more beer and casting many glances out of the pub’s windows as they drank. Finally, as the hour arrived that forced the Whale and Minnow to close its doors they began to leave in groups, talking loudly as they hurried away through the night. The pub owner and his wife both checked the locks and bolts of all the doors and windows before taking the shaken children up to bed.
The next morning the children still clung to their story, but the adults, encouraged by the new day and the absence of any further signs of the monster, shrugged off the alarm and chided the boy and girl for causing such a disturbance the night before. Soon it took on the aspects of a joke, although the children refused to leave the house and insisted that the sea creature existed.
A few days passed. Then the day before our arrival at West Lulworth Constable Gil Reed of the Dorset Constabulary filed an official report that he saw something strange in Skylar’s Woods as he passed through on his way from Reefside to Littlebeach. The officer reported to his superiors that he caught a glimpse of “a body” slithering through the underbrush of the Woods away from the path on which Reed was riding his bicycle. He noted that the most prominent features of the encounter were the sight of a wide, sloppy mouth and the babbling sound he heard as the “thing” disappeared into the dusk.
“What a remarkable story!” I explained as I studied the illustration. “What do you think of it, Holmes?”
Sherlock Holmes and the Folk Tale Mysteries - Volume 2 Page 8
