I realized at once that the news of Dr. Addleton’s death had been a greater shock than he cared to admit. The man’s life had been in danger and both of us had rejected him in our own ways; I by ridiculing his story and Holmes by postponing any action on his part.
“Do you think Junius Carlyle might know something?” I asked.
“Anything is possible, Watson. Will you be dining at your club tonight?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Good! Then I will play a bit upon my violin and contemplate the case.”
I remained at the club for dinner with a physician friend and it was after nine when I emerged and started back to Baker Street. There was no rain that evening, though a bit of fog still hung in the air, making it darker than it should have been at that hour on a June night. Even the city’s harsh arc lights did little to relieve the gloom. Nevertheless, I ignored the waiting hansom cabs and once again set out on foot. Little swirls of mist drifted across the sidewalk as I turned off Oxford and started up Baker Street toward the suite of rooms I shared with Holmes.
The area had few strollers besides myself and the exertion of the walk after a heavy dinner was beginning to tire me. I was glad there was only one more block to go. Thinking that, I was startled and confounded when a large powerful arm shot out of a doorway as I passed, lifting me bodily from the pavement. I tried to shout, but the sound seemed frozen in my throat. I feared that any moment might be my last on Earth.
Then another figure appeared from behind, just out of my range of vision, and a gruff voice said, “Put him down, Kananda.”
Certain I had been waylaid by footpads seeking my purse, I was startled once more when the burly man returned me to my feet. I turned to face the second man and recognized his pointed black beard at once. “Junius Carlyle!” I gasped. “What is the meaning of this outrage?” For it was indeed Mr. Junius Carlyle, the friend who had mentioned Holmes to the late Harold Addleton.
“Hush now, Watson,” he urged, perhaps fearing an outburst on my part. “I mean you no harm.”
“You have a strange way of showing it,” I motioned toward the burly man who stood at my side. “Who is this chap?”
“He is Kananda, my valet. He is capable of breaking bones with ease, but I assure you, he is quite gentle.”
I remembered then that Addleton had mentioned such a man warning him about the Druidic Curse. “What do you want of me?” I asked.
“My business is with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I desire assurance that I can call on him without being turned over to the police.”
“Do you know, sir, that Dr. Addleton is dead?”
“I know it all too well! Scotland Yard suspects me of the crime, if crime it is. I need the assistance of Mr. Holmes.”
“It is safe to visit him.”
“May I go there now?”
I glanced uneasily at his towering valet. “The hour is growing late, but I will speak to him before you enter. I am sure he will see you.”
The three of us continued toward 221B and, when we reached it, I had them wait downstairs while I went up to our rooms. Holmes was awaiting me with a slight smile on his face.
“I see you have brought me visitors, Watson.”
“How…”
“It is no feat of deduction. I happened to glance out the window as you approached. Of course I recognized Junius Carlyle at once, and the tall gentleman would be the person Dr. Addleton encountered.”
“He says it’s his valet, a chap named Kananda. Carlyle fears he is suspected of Addleton’s murder and wishes to consult with you. He wanted my assurance that you would see him.”
“By all means, show them up, Watson.”
On the landing, I encountered a disturbed Mrs. Hudson. “Who are those men in the entryway, Dr. Watson? That tall one…”
“They are calling on Mr. Holmes. There is nothing to fear.”
She was not always pleased with Holmes’ visitors, no more than she was pleased with his occasional target practice on the wall above our mantel. I hurried down the seventeen steps and told our visitors, “Holmes would be pleased to see you both, and to learn anything he can about the untimely demise of Dr. Addleton.”
Junius Carlyle hurried up the steps with me, with Kananda bringing up the rear. Holmes was awaiting us at the door. “Come in, gentlemen. It is good to see you again, Mr. Carlyle.” The two shook hands.
“Thank you, sir,” he said at once, seating himself facing us, while Kananda took a seat on the sofa.
Holmes leaned back in his chair. “I trust you are healing well from the leopard attack you suffered in Africa.”
Carlyle jerked back, startled by his words. “Who could have told you of that?”
“No one needed to tell me. When we shook hands just now, I noticed the parallel scars on your lower right arm. Those were deep claw marks, made by a large member of the cat family, though not as large as a lion. A leopard or jaguar seemed most likely, but the jaguar is only found in Central and South America. I know nothing of your travels there, but Dr. Addleton mentioned your memories of Sir Richard Burton. You probably encountered him in Africa and, therefore, an attack by a leopard seemed most likely.”
Junius Carlyle stroked his black beard thoughtfully. “You are an observant man, Mr. Holmes. I trust you can bring your powers to bear on my predicament.”
“The death of Dr. Harold Addleton?”
“None other. Apparently Scotland Yard suspects that the fire in Addleton’s flat was deliberately set. A man named Lestrade questioned me at my club today. He made it obvious that I am a prime suspect in the case, especially since a witness placed me on the street near Addleton’s flat shortly before the fire broke out.”
“You were there?” Holmes asked, frowning slightly.
“Unfortunately I was. There has been a dispute between us over his work on the Salisbury barrow.”
Holmes considered this news. “Was it this dispute that caused your man Kananda to threaten him with a Druidic curse?”
“I admit to that, but I had nothing to do with his death. I began to hear stories about his excavations in a barrow near the Salisbury Plain. There were theories involving the Druids and serpents’ eggs. It seemed to me he was going beyond the bounds of scientific research, venturing into something close to mysticism. I even took the trouble to visit Sir Conrad Chubb, upon whose estate Addleton’s archaeological dig was being conducted. Sir Conrad, a fine old man of conservative leanings, was perplexed by what I told him but unwilling to bar Addleton from the barrow on his estate. He had agreed to the dig and felt he should honor his word, at least for a year. I returned to London to find that Addleton had presented a preliminary report on his theories to our little group.”
“What was there about his theories that so upset you?” Holmes asked.
“He believed the Druids represented the earliest known religion, predating the ancient Celts of 400 B.C. This was sheer poppycock.”
“So you sent your valet to threaten him with a Druidic curse.”
“I did,” he admitted, glancing at Kananda. “I meant only to frighten him.”
“Pray tell us of last evening’s events. Were you at Dr. Addleton’s flat?”
“I was not, sir, but I journeyed to Great Russell Street with every intention of visiting him. I hoped to make peace between us. I took a hansom to the street, but had him drop me off a block from the dwelling. That was when I encountered Dr. Mulligan, a young astronomer who attends our monthly dinners. At first, I thought he was headed for Addleton’s flat, because the two were friends.”
“Are his views of the same mystical nature as Dr. Addleton’s?”
“No, no. Mulligan is quite down-to-earth.” He smiled slightly through his beard. “For an astronomer, that is.”
“And he was not visiting Dr. Addleton?”
“Apparently not. After we spoke, he continued on his way. At that time, I could see someone through his window, moving about. I assumed it was Addleton. Then, suddenly, I saw a flash of
fire. Passersby pointed up at it, and someone ran for help. A fire brigade arrived before long, but to little avail. As a crowd gathered, I slipped away.
“And Mulligan reported your presence to the police.”
Carlyle nodded. “A few hours ago, I was visited by Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, a sickly, dark-eyed chap who was anything but friendly. Obviously he considers me a prime suspect in view of my dispute with Addleton over the barrow.”
“Perhaps you need a good solicitor more than you need me.”
He seemed taken aback by Holmes’ comment. “Do you believe I killed Dr. Addleton?”
“I have an open mind on the question, but I feel you have not been entirely truthful in your account. You would not come here tonight without your valet as a bodyguard, yet you would have us believe you planned to call on Dr. Addleton, whom you had every reason to fear, without any guard at all.”
“I could handle that little man. And if I’d brought my valet, he might not have admitted us.”
Holmes considered it for a moment, and then said, “Lestrade is known to me. I will speak with him and establish the facts of the case. If I am able to assist you, I will do so.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. That is all I ask.” Junius Carlyle got to his feet and Kananda followed along. We saw them to the door and watched their departure.
“There is something sinister about that pair,” I told Holmes.
He laughed, patting me upon the shoulder. “You may think so, Watson, but I believe Junius Carlyle would use his valet, or even a revolver, before he resorted to fire as a weapon. The murder of Dr. Addleton, if indeed it is murder, does not seem his sort of crime at all. We must call upon Lestrade in the morning. I am anxious to learn whether or not that fossilized egg was found at the scene of the fire.”
We breakfasted early and left our Baker Street rooms shortly after nine for the hansom ride to Scotland Yard. Inspector Lestrade, as solemn and sly as ever, greeted us in his little office. He was a lean chap, with the sallow complexion that had made him appear sickly to Junius Carlyle. From previous meetings, I knew otherwise. Lestrade could be an energetic, sagacious man who occasionally reminded me of a bulldog despite his complexion.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, it is a rare occasion when I can welcome you and Dr. Watson to my office.” He smiled craftily. “May I assume the reason for your visit is the untimely death of Dr. Harold Addleton on Great Russell Street two nights ago?”
Holmes chuckled. “You know my methods too well, Lestrade.”
“Sit down, Holmes. And you, too, Dr. Watson. It is good to see you both, especially if you can contribute anything regarding the Great Russell Street tragedy. It is a baffling affair. When the fire brigade arrived, they found the body on fire. A preliminary examination indicates Addleton was killed by a blow to the head before being set afire to cover the crime, but we have not yet announced that fact.”
“There was only one door to the flat?” Holmes asked.
“Quite so. And the windows all overlooked a busy street one floor below. The fire was centered on his body and did little damage elsewhere. There is no indication of how it started, though I have a witness who places Junius Carlyle across the street from the flat.”
“Is there a back door to the building?”
“There is. You may join me in inspecting it, if you wish. I am on my way there now.”
Holmes readily agreed. The journey from the short tree-shaded street off Whitehall to Great Russell Street was not a long one and, as we pulled away, Lestrade confided, “I will be pleased to be out of this building. The government promises us new quarters on the Thames Embankment within a few years.”
When we reached our destination, I followed Holmes’ tall, gaunt frame out of the cab. Lestrade directed our attention to the double windows of the first floor flat above the tobacconist’s shop. They were boarded over, and he explained that the fire brigade had smashed them out to clear the flat of smoke. We passed a bobby at the door and climbed a steep staircase to the next floor. Past the splintered door, where the fireman had forced entry, was a small but adequate flat with a bed in one corner, covered by a flowery spread.
Holmes walked around the large scorched spot on the carpet and then moved on to a bookshelf containing a number of volumes on Stonehenge. One, its binding chipped and fading, was an 1840 edition of William Stukeley’s Stonehenge and Avebury. Next to it were two more recent volumes in better condition, Long’s Stonehenge and its Barrows from 1876 and Petrie’s Stonehenge: Plans, Descriptions and Theories, which was barely six years old. Holmes glanced through the pages of each, but seemed to find no special notes or markings.
Addleton’s document case was nowhere to be seen and he asked Lestrade about it.
“We took it in as evidence,” he explained. “There were some penciled notes and a rough drawing of his digging areas at the barrow. There was some sort of egg too, with speckles on it.”
“So he was not killed for the egg,” Holmes murmured, half to himself. “What of the building’s other tenants, Lestrade?”
“The owner of the downstairs shop has a room up here. We questioned him, but he knew nothing. He said Addleton was a quiet tenant who rarely had visitors.”
Holmes nodded. There seemed nothing more to be learned here.
Back in our Baker Street quarters, Holmes spent the next two hours searching through his commonplace books, brooding over pages of curious items from the press and elsewhere. It was mid-afternoon when he finished his search and closed the cover on the last of them.
We were interrupted by a knocking at the door. It was Mrs. Hudson, announcing a visitor. “A young woman,” she told us. “Says she’s Professor Emma Lakeside.”
“Please send her up,” Holmes said. Then, to me, “Professor Lakeside is the sole female member of Addleton’s dining club. Her sudden appearance here is most interesting.”
Emma Lakeside proved to be an attractive woman in her thirties who wore her hair in a bun and entered our rooms as if arriving at her classroom. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. I’ll come right to the point. Junius Carlyle tells me you are investigating the tragic death of Dr. Addleton. I believe all this talk of a Druidic curse was just a hoax to keep him from digging further at the Salisbury barrow. When that didn’t deter him, he was murdered.”
“Please be seated, Professor Lakeside, and start at the beginning. What do you know of his work at the barrow?”
“He told us a great deal about it at last month’s dinner, and about the fossilized egg he uncovered there. I am convinced the digging at the barrow led directly to his tragic death.”
Holmes considered her words. “The killer appears to have made no effort to steal the egg. The police found it in his flat.”
“The egg meant nothing. It was something else.” She studied her hands for a moment, and then continued. “Archaeology is not my field, but I have a brother Cecil who has pursued it as an amateur. Seven years ago this month, I joined him in excavating a portion of this very barrow where Dr. Addleton was working. We found no fossil eggs or anything else of interest, and Cecil moved on to another site further north. However, I have an idea that might bring the killer into the open. I plan to announce to Junius Carlyle and the others in our dinner group that, as a tribute to Dr. Addleton, I intend to continue his excavating at the Salisbury barrow.”
“If your theory is correct, it could be dangerous,” Holmes told her.
“That is why I have come to you,” she replied. “I do not want my head bashed in, like Dr. Addleton. I need some degree of protection and I lack any evidence to give the police.”
“Interesting,” Holmes remarked, drawing on his pipe. “When do you propose to undertake this adventure?”
“We are dining tomorrow evening to pay our respects to Dr. Addleton’s memory. That would seem to be the perfect time to announce my plan. If weather permits, I will be at the barrow this weekend while we are enjoying these long daylight hours. I hope my brother Ce
cil will be able to join me.”
“Watson and I will arrange to be in the neighborhood,” he assured her. “You will be perfectly safe.”
She smiled at him. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”
When we were alone, Holmes once more consulted his commonplace books. “She said they excavated at that barrow seven years ago this month. That would have been June of ’87. It was a fairly quiet time for us, Watson. All the news seemed to be about Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee that month, and the gifts she received from various countries.”
“What do you propose to do, Holmes?”
“We will travel to the Salisbury Plain on Saturday morning and see if anyone else joins us there.”
Saturday proved to be a sunny day with mild temperatures and we made the train trip to Wiltshire without incident; engaging a carriage to take us to the Salisbury Plain. The barrow in question was some distance removed from the Stonehenge monument, which we could see off to the south.
“No one seems to be here yet,” I remarked, as we studied the landscape from atop a nearby rise. But we did not have to wait long for some activity. Within a half-hour, a carriage pulled up on the road below us, and I recognized Emma Lakeside, wearing pants and a man’s shirt, accompanied by a bearded man who carried a knapsack.
“That must be her brother. They have a shovel and some other tools.”
But Holmes was hardly watching, keeping an eye on the surrounding area. Off in the distance, I could see some cows grazing and, now and then, a carriage or wagon would pass on the road.
“Holmes…”
“Quiet, Watson. Do you have your revolver handy? We must be ready to move at a moment’s notice.”
“I see nothing but the two of them digging. What is it we’re waiting for?”
He did not answer at once, and some ten minutes passed in silence. Then, suddenly, he gripped my arm. “There, Watson! Quickly!”
I saw them in the same instant. Junius Carlyle and his valet had appeared, coming over the barrow from the other side. Kananda carried a heavy walking stick that could have been a weapon.
My hand went to the revolver, but Holmes dissuaded me. “Not yet, Watson. Follow me.”
Sherlock Holmes Stories of Edward D. Hoch Page 8
