by william Todd
“What evidence is there to happen upon that conclusion?” Stanley asked with the confounded look that I knew only too well when one tried to follow Holmes’ sometimes rather oblique train of thought. “The perpetrators had an open window from which to extract her. Would that not be the most logical assessment?”
“You, young Mr. Hopkins, still have much to learn. I deduce this not by what has been found in the room but by what has not been found. Eliminate all other factors, and the one that remains, however improbable, must be the truth. She was spirited away, but the most logical assumption is not always the correct assumption. I must exhaust all other avenues before I am willing to stroll down that one.”
“Then let us inspect all the rooms, if that will lead us to her.”
Mrs. Hopkins’ bedroom was behind the door at the top of the stairs, and the other door at the other end of the hall had been, in all probability, Stanley’s room once but at present was a storage area of sad trinkets of the late Mr. Hopkins. Sherlock Holmes dashed into each of these rooms and peered quickly out each window, taking notice of nothing else but the windowsill and the view from that window. Stanley and I would barely make our way into the room, and Holmes would push past us, off to the next room.
In short order, he finished with what seemed to Stanley and myself as a rather perfunctory inspection of the rooms, and we now found ourselves outside once more.
Cyril Brock was speaking to Mrs. Hopkins again on the walkway. The other policemen had already departed.
He nodded to us, as the mother turned a ruddy, worried face in our direction. “Well, Mr. Holmes, did your inspection of the house bring you to my conclusion yet?”
“I will admit that the evidence supporting our particular theory was sparse upon initial inspection.”
“Then I believe I have outdone the great Sherlock Holmes!” he triumphantly stated.
Holmes cut in, “I said sparse, Mr. Brock, but I did not say nonexistent. There were one or two trifling morsels on which I can nibble.”
“Why this preoccupation with some diabolical abduction when a simple explanation is just as likely? It’s almost as though you wish this terrible fate upon her.”
Holmes, quick as a cat, eclipsed the distance between the two. A self-contained fury laced his speech. “It would be wise not to test my mettle, Mr. Brock, for you would find out quickly how—”
“Holmes!” I shouted to cut him off, knowing what would happen if he had taken his thoughts too far with an officer of the law.
He quickly regained himself. Through pursed lips he then restarted. “I wish no ill of any sort upon the head of this young woman. I am only following what I believe the more likely scenario, given the facts at present.”
The two men stared each other down, but Brock was the first to flinch. He turned, tipped his hat to a stunned Mrs. Hopkins and said, “As I stated madam, I would be greatly deceived if your daughter was not back in the safety of your home by nightfall. In the meantime, I will certainly keep a lookout on her whereabouts and inform you on any developments.”
With a wily sneer Cyril Brock then tipped his hat to my friend and said, “Good day, Mr. Holmes. And good luck in your investigation.”
“Holmes bowed slightly, as was his custom, and with a crafty grin of his own replied, “And you with yours, Mr. Brock.”
As we watched the man saunter down the walkway, I stood amazed. It is a rare person indeed who could ruffle feathers as sturdy as those of the great detective.
A queer aura had enveloped Sherlock Holmes. I noticed for the first time that the membrane within his subconscious which separated sentiment from cold calculation began to seep. They were amalgamating into something that I had never experienced before in the man. I only hoped that it would not be to the detriment of the missing Fiona Hopkins.
5
Now alone for his own investigation, Holmes re-inspected the entirety of the yard. Next, he inspected the park-side portion of the ivy-covered brick wall that formed the barrier between the Hopkins’ home and Clyde Park. At one point, Holmes climbed upon the seven-foot wall and examined the narrow ledge, as well as any overhanging limbs from the large, ancient oaks that framed the perimeter of the park.
We followed along below until at last we found ourselves at the back of the property some fifty feet from the front. The wall continued along the entire length of the park, which fell from our sight a lofty distance ahead, but we stopped at a mew that separated the back properties of Beckham Lane and Cloverfield, the next street over.
At this point, Holmes descended the wall and quickly went on inspecting the ruddy lane behind the house and the dry-rotted wooden fence at the back of the property.
We followed like good hunting dogs when Holmes entered back into the property through a wooden gate, which opened onto the mew. He inspected the cobblestone walkway that bisected the yard-turned-vegetable garden and ended at a small porch at the back of the house.
Finally, Holmes ascended the roofed porch and inspected the back door and its lock.
With great anxiety, Stanley finally broke the silence of the last hour. “Mr. Holmes, please tell me that you’ve found at least something to put you on the scent of my sister.”
“It is rare, indeed, that I would put so much effort into an inspection and come away empty handed,” said he with a somewhat triumphant look upon his face.
“Then how do we proceed?”
“You would do well to comfort your mother in this difficult time, and leave the work for those in whom you’ve employed to do the work. Watson, I wonder if your services would be better served here to help attend to a woman whose nerves are no doubt at their breaking point. I fear that what must be done at this point is rather boring procedural inquiry, and it would be well for you to be here if our friend Mr. Brock returns with any updates.”
“I suppose I can tend to Mrs. Hopkins’ needs should any arise,” I said in a tone that exhibited my disappointment in being left behind.
“It is nearing two, now. I shall return no later than seven and inform you as to the outcome of my inquiries. If all goes well, Mr. Brock will have been proven correct, and your sister will be safely back home this evening. But not without some help.”
“I will do as you say, Mr. Holmes, but it will be all I can stand to not be out flushing the birds with you.”
“There are times in one’s life when the best thing that can be done is nothing,” he replied, regarding both of us. “Go, take care of your mother now. Watson will join you in a moment.”
We watched as Stanley’s slumped, worry-ridden body entered the house through the back door. I observed him through the kitchen window hugging his mother once more.
“I must say, I am getting better at this game you play so expertly, but I cannot see a reason that I should not be at your side,” I remonstrated. “Though it is obvious some tears have been shed, it seems the death of her husband has steeled the emotions of Mrs. Hopkins, at least superficially. At this point, at least, there is really little I can do for her.”
“Ah, you are indeed learning my ways, Watson! A year ago, you would have done as I had asked without a second thought. Now—and rightly so—you question your being left behind. What I must do now requires stealth, and one man creeping through a small town such as this garners less attention than does two.”
“What do you suspect that requires you to slink about town?”
“Watson, this intricate web has been spun by a most cunning spider. There are parts of which I am quite certain, and parts in which I am completely in the dark. This is most definitely a three-pipe problem, but I am without the presence of my pipe and the time in which to smoke it.”
“What exactly are the points of which you are certain?”
“If we do not find the girl tonight, all will be lost. That is the only thing of which I’m certain.”
6
I wiled away the afternoon, trying to keep Stanley occupied in conversation of my time in Afghanistan. He se
emed genuinely interested, but I could tell by the lost look that often overtook him that his sister was never far from his mind.
Mrs. Hopkins kept herself busy baking the afternoon away. Occasionally, she would appear from the kitchen with a beet-red face, swollen eyes, and matted hair, not all entirely due to the heat from the oven and the moistness of the summer air. She tried mightily to shield her face from me whenever passing by, attempting to keep her grief private, as women so often do; but so long as she kept at her tasks, which was probably somewhat therapeutic to her, she seemed fine, and there was no need of any intervention on my part.
In the intervening time between Holmes’ departure and return, nothing of importance took place at the Hopkins residence, and no reports came our way as to any headway made by Cyril Brock. That is what I relayed to Sherlock Holmes when he returned at half-past six.
I could tell, though, by the glint in his eager eyes and his quickness of step that he had a more fruitful afternoon.
“I am glad to hear that your medical services were not needed,” he said, “but one must take the safe road when it comes to unstrung emotions. In this line of work, I have seen many minds come unraveled with similar events. I hope you understand, my dear Watson.”
“Quite alright,” said I. “I was just recalling some of my exploits in the military with Stanley.”
“I’m sure that must have taken quite a bit of the afternoon away from young Mr. Hopkins,” said he with a smile.
“What do you have to report?” Stanley asked keenly.
“There is much that Watson and I must now do, but not until after nightfall. It is a dangerous business, but if all goes well you may yet hug your sister tonight.”
To Stanley’s consternation we left him with his mother. Holmes told him that we would return sometime in the night and that, if possible, he should wait up for us.
“Where are we headed?” I asked as Holmes hailed a cab at the end of the block.
“We are off to the station. Lestrade will be there within the hour. We shall have a bite to eat at a nice little shop I happened upon during my little excursion this afternoon, then we will set out our net and see what fish we might catch in it.”
If Holmes has anything akin to a deficiency it is his love of the dramatic. He is like a magician who seeks the look of awe upon the faces of his audience with a splendidly completed act of prestidigitation. I have learned with due diligence he will take me into his confidence; but until that penultimate point, I must be satisfied with my role as silent partner.
It was a bit past seven when Lestrade stepped onto the station platform. His bulldog features, twisted ever more so, told me that he knew as little or less than did I of what our evening foray entailed. Lack of knowledge of a situation brought to him by Sherlock Holmes, though, never stopped Lestrade from trusting that his counterpart had an interesting task at hand and always followed willingly, if not blindly.
He had with him another man, introduced to us as Jeffries, a large bear of a man with as much hair on his chin as was on his head. Despite his grizzled look, he had a warm smile and bright, cheerful eyes.
“I suppose you still aren’t keen to letting us in on what you’re up to yet, are you?” Lestrade asked.
“Tut, tut! Surely you wouldn’t want to deprive me of what little enjoyment this life provides, now would you?”
The little detective rolled his eyes.
“We shall have a bite to eat and wait for the sun to set. Before the night is over I hope to have a young girl back home and a trafficker of white slaves behind bars.”
Everyone’s eyes widened at this shocking revelation, but it was Lestrade who spoke. “If you can put me upon the track of one of these vile creatures who turn the innocent to drugs and prostitution, I promise you he will not escape my grasp.”
Holmes grinned in his wily and askew way and said, “That is precisely why I called upon you, Lestrade. But if all goes according to my plans, we shall not have to go to him. He will come to us.”
7
It was after ten when we found ourselves upon the boardwalk at Cliversham seaside. The public beach was at the confluence of Hyde park and the expansive Kigge property, a narrow access roadway to the shore the only thing separating the two pieces of real estate. The night was dark and still. The only sounds were from the gentle rustle of waves some distance off, hidden by a willowy wall of fog creeping in from the ocean.
Holmes directed us to a portion of the boardwalk intersected by a small, sandy path that led from the main thoroughfare down to the beach. This junction was surrounded by sand dunes and tall grass.
Holmes handed me the lantern he had been carrying. “This is where the rendezvous will take place. Watson, you will be my agent, and Lestrade and Jeffries will be lying in wait among the dunes and grass. You will be completely safe under their guard.”
“For whom shall I be waiting and for what purpose?”
“You will be waiting for a man named Simon Campbell. Or should I say, rather, Alastair Brumley., however even that name is more than likely an alias.”
“Brumley?” Lestrade interrupted. “He’s one of the top agents for the white slavery market on the continent. He’s a slippery one, he is. The Yard has been tracking him unsuccessfully for several years. Master of disguises. No one knows precisely what he looks like.”
“Well then, shortly you will have yours, and we will have ours.”
“Why should he come out here to meet us?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly and replied, “Because I asked him to. But knowing the rough business he employs, it would be remiss to think that he would come alone or at least without protection.”
“Well, what do I do when he shows himself?” I asked.
“Do exactly as I say. Tell him that you are the one who wrote the note. You are a neighbor of the Hopkins, and you saw him carry away the young girl in the middle of the night after the rain had stopped. Make sure you emphasize after the rain had stopped. That will be the selling point to make him believe you actually witnessed the abduction. Tell him that you will keep the entire matter silent if he has brought the two hundred pounds you asked for in the note. I do not expect that Brumley has any inclination of having any money exchange hands. This is the point at which we shall find out if he has any confederates or is acting alone, and this is the point at which Lestrade and Jeffries will be needed. I apologize, Watson, for putting you in such a dicey situation, but I assure you that you are in very capable company with Lestrade at your back.”
“Thank you, Holmes,” Lestraded remarked, rather taken aback at Holmes’ rare compliment.
“I trust your judgment completely, Holmes,” said I. “I only wish I had brought my service revolver.”
Lestrade produced a pistol from his trouser pocket and handed it to me. “Holmes had asked me if I might be a good chap and bring an extra along for you.”
“And what will you be doing?” I asked my friend as I tucked the piece away.
“There is a cottage that sits between large dunes on the adjacent tract of beach. It was once owned by one Horace Bump, a local businessman who died some eight years ago. After his death, his family sold everything and moved to York to be with relatives. The house now gets let out to tourists who summer at the beach. That is where Brumley has been staying, and that is where I will find young Ms. Hopkins.”
“Ah, so this is a ruse to get him out of the cottage so you can gain access to the girl,” Jeffries surmised.
“Once we have Ms. Hopkins, she will finger Brumley as her abductor, and Scotland Yard will have their man. Now, everyone take their positions and keep a diligent eye, for the wait may be a long one before our fish comes for his bait.”
*********
The wait was less than an hour. By then, the fog had rolled over the beach and its first flicking tentacles were reaching the boardwalk. I sat on a wooden bench at the intersection with the lantern colouring a pale-yellow dye across the fog as it enve
loped everything within its grasp.
Suddenly, I heard the faint, dull thud of boots thrusting through sand. It was coming from the direction of the beach. I squinted through the murk but saw nothing, at first.
As the footfalls became more pronounced, I rose to my feet and held out my lantern to see a dim figure come into view. As it trudged up through the fog I was finally able to make out the features of a tall, well-built individual.
“I spend so much time on this beach I need no light to get me around,” said the shadow. A tall man outlined in dark, wiry hair and with a clean-shaven face appeared on the sandy pathway. He wore grey trousers with suspenders over an un-tucked white shirt with its cuffs rolled up to his elbows.
“Brumley,” said I, trying as best I could to mask my nervousness.
“I’m known by many names, but you may call me by that one, if you wish. No one ‘round here knows me by it, though. May I ask how you came about it?”
“I’m the one who wrote the note,” I said, ignoring his question that I, without an innate ability to quickly fabricate stories, could not answer without giving myself away as an imposter. “I saw you take Fiona last night after the rains had ceased. Did you bring the money as I asked?”
“Ah, you choose to be strictly business; I like that. Chit-chat really is overrated.”
He was now completely in the light of my lantern. I could see by the brown, weathered skin of his face and arms that he had been spending a significant amount of time in the sun—probably in the Mediterranean peddling his wares.
Brumley’s dark eyes glinted like black glass, and his cheeks pursed up into an evil smile as he withdrew a Remington Rimfire Derringer pistol from under his un-tucked shirt. “See, I don’t plan on paying you anything. Dead men have no need for money.”
I have no compunction in saying that at that point I found myself wrestling with much the same feelings that had flooded through me during that fighting in Afghanistan which resulted in my injuries. I struggled mightily to keep my composure and endeavored to keep the conversation going, as I saw two murky figures coming out of the shadows behind him. “What are you planning to do to with the young girl?” I asked.
