by David Marcum
“In fact, though,” Holmes pointed out, “literally scores of people have been making their way past your garden to the fair at the bottom of the hill. You would scarce have noticed someone keeping a watch. Nothing which was in any way out of the ordinary?”
“The only thing that could be regarded as in any way unusual,” continued Beasley, “was that the Patriarch turned up a week earlier than expected.”
“Did he give any explanation for this?” Horburgh asked.
“No, and I sought none.”
“Do you still have the letter?” inquired Holmes.
“I am afraid not. All it said was that he would come down next Monday and asked for directions.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Very dark skinned, as you’d expect; a white beard all over, shaggy eyebrows, and a heavily lined face. He was wearing a dark cassock with a red lining on the inside, a white collarless shirt, and the usual Coptic headgear.”
“What age is he?”
“I had thought he was similar to my own, which is sixty-two, but he looked much older.”
“Is there anything else you can tell us about him?”
“Not really. I had never met him before, and so know little about him.”
“And do you have any theory as to how an escape was effected?”
“Absolutely none - the whole thing amazes me yet. One thing about the Patriarch though: he certainly lacked the courtesy on the average Englishman - he was quite scathing about my grasp of the Coptic language. I must confess, I learnt it as one would learn Latin, as a liturgical language, and therefore I’m conscious that I do not speak it well conversationally. Anyway, he said quite plainly that he preferred to speak in English, which I found disheartening and somewhat rude. He had said, however, that, before he left he would go over some of the finer points of the Bohairic dialect, which is the most common one.”
There was such a stark contrast between Beasley, with his accomplishment in ancient languages, as well as his command of English, and the old railway porter with his broad vowels and slurred consonants, that it was difficult to imagine them rubbing shoulders together. There seemed a decade in age difference, yet there could hardly be.
“Dear me, this is an absolutely unique document which I have lost. No sir, which the world has lost! It is literally priceless. As a scholar of Antiquity yourself Mr. Holmes - yes, I read your erudite commentary on the Sinaitic Palimpsest and the Codex Sinaiticus - you can well understand my loss. Written in an almost extinct language directly descended from that which the Pharaohs spoke - can you conceive that! And the Coptic Church established by Mark the Evangelist is, perhaps the oldest-”
“No doubt that is very interesting,” interrupted Holmes, as the professor seemed about to embark upon an elaboration of the subject, “but I forgot to ask if you had informed the Patriarchate in London of the disappearance?”
“Yes, I sent a telegram immediately. The secretary who comes in a few days a week should pick it up.”
“Well, we had better move the investigation along. You do not think that there is any part of this house which could be used as a place of concealment?” asked Holmes.
“Absolutely not.”
“With your permission,” said Horburgh, “we will make a full search of the place - cellar and attic included. We must, you understand, eliminate any possibility of a hiding place.”
“Of course, go anywhere, do anything which you need to do,” replied Beasley. “The keys are hanging upon the hook in the hall.”
Suffice to say that for the next hour or so, between the four of us, we paced and measured every inch of every floor of the house, but in no wise was there any discrepancy which would have allowed for any secret chamber or hiding place. We then unlocked the door to the cellar and started carefully down the steep, narrow, winding stairs. Horburgh lit his bull’s eye and shone it round the cellar - what a disappointment! We found nothing there but a few pieces of old junk and four blank walls. No loose flagstone or hidden openings. A mouse could scarcely have been hidden here, and no-one could possibly have escaped this way.
“Before I go down to the fairground,” said Holmes when we returned to the upper air, “I should like to inspect the ransom note.”
“Here it is.”
Holmes turned it over once or twice, his keen eyes raking it for the slightest indication.
“‘Patriarch’ has a capital letter,” he said, “and has been made from two smaller words stuck together: ‘Patr’ and ‘iarch’. Possibly from ‘Patrol’ and ‘matriarch’ - a reference, perhaps, to our sovereign. I have closely examined the typeface, but I am disappointed that I am unable to recognise it all as a newspaper type. It is possible that it may be some obscure regional one which I have not seen, though I am familiar with the local ‘paper, the South Bucks Free Press. Perhaps, though, the other side may be more revealing. Aha, look at some of the words, or rather the parts of words, on the reverse side: ‘Batter’ and ‘Field’ with capitals, then ‘-arriage’. The complete words which suggest themselves to me very strongly are: Battery, Gun Carriage, and Field Marshal. Where would we be likely to find such a vocabulary?”
“The Army and Navy Illustrated!” we three answered almost in unison.
“And we know where we might find a copy of that,” said the local man. “The case against Tierney strengthens by the hour.”
“Do not be deceived by appearances,” said Holmes to our colleagues.
“Looks to me it’s as plain as the nose on your face,” said Horburgh.
“Nothing so misleading as the obvious,” cautioned my friend. “Well, if you two fellows will wait here, Watson and I shall take a turn down to the Field and speak to the show people. I think we may find them less guarded than you did.”
We asked about and got to see the Ringmaster easily enough, a plump, white-whiskered fellow in a shiny black suit, puffing away at a pipe in his caravan.
“Not the official Police, are you?” he asked. “Well, come in then. Bartram’s the name, Patrick Bartram. I heard from the Inspector what happened, but the Lord knows none of our folk would get up to sich capers. The odd chicken or rabbit here and there, mayhap. I’m not saying as absolutely everybody’s above board here, there are a few rogues amongst them I know, but a kidnapping! No sir! Last thing we want is the Police hounding us. You can search any caravan or tent in this camp, mister, but I’d soon know if there was anyone hiding out here. Know how I’d know? The behaviour of the dogs! You must ha’ heard them yowling when you come in. Make a lot of noise, but they wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
“Have you noticed anything unusual, any coming or goings with the fair folk?” Holmes asked.
“Not exackly unusual, no. Only Vittoria the Dancer has ran off with Vigor the Strongman - threw over her other beau, Conrad the Clown. It’s been going on for months behind Conrad’s back, it was the talk of the camp, and it come to a head on Saturday night after the last house. What else? Well. One of the acrobats, Dino Eusebi, sprained an ankle rehearsing a new move - look, that’s him there hobbling by on his stick,” said Bartram, as we glimpsed a tall, olive-skinned athletic-looking figure limping past the window and entering a caravan opposite. “His brother, Luigi, has had to get a stand-in. Oh, and two of the performing dogs are ill. That’s about it.”
“When did the elopement actually take place?”
“Two days ago. Saturday night there’s a big row between Vittoria and Conrad; Sunday morning she’s gone off with Vigor. I can’t see as they would have had anything to do with...”
“Can you show me any photographs of them?”
Bartram went to a shelf and extracted a copy of the Showmen’s Gazette.
“We’re all in here, except the new fellow who come in to work with Luigi,” he said, spreading out the sheet on a low table. “I wrote the advertisem
ent meself. This is Vittoria, lovely girl ain’t she? If I was young enough, I’d ha’ run off with her meself, so I can hardly blame Vigor - that’s him there. Left me in the lurch he has, though; very hard to replace a Strongman, you know. They don’t come ten-a-penny like dancers or clowns. Well, thank goodness we are having the night off, only the matinee performance today to get through. That’s Conrad, the glum looking one, and his mate Tibor; there’s the two Eusebis, Kaspar the lion-tamer, and the dancers.”
Holmes seemed to take an age in perusing the sheet, as though he were memorising the faces.
“Well?” asked Bartram at last.
“I do not believe the missing man is in this camp,” Holmes replied eventually, “nor that you personally have had anything to do with the crime which took place last night, and I will convey that to my acquaintances in the official force.”
“Thank you kindly Mr. Holmes, if there’s anything I can do...”
“No, thank you. Well, perhaps I might find a copy of that gazette of yours amusing reading for the train journey back to Paddington.”
By the time we had returned to the cottage, the photograph which the professor had taken had been delivered to the Inspector.
“The thief came in through the window, that’s clear enough - just look at those footprints, clear as a bell,” said Lestrade.
“Straight from the fence to the roan pipe, then you can see where he has tried to get a footing, before he shinned up,” agreed Horburgh. I could follow their reasoning, but I noticed Holmes was staring very intently at the photograph.
“Something doesn’t quite fit here,” he said, shaking his head. Lestrade looked at him warily.
“What is it?” asked the local man, rather querulously.
“It’s the alignment of the footsteps,” replied Holmes. “Look again, more closely. Doctor, you are a man with professional knowledge of the human anatomy, yet I surmise that you cannot see it either.”
I shook my head, somewhat annoyed at myself for being so obtuse.
“Start from the fence line and examine the trail of prints, step by step,” he said.
It sprang out at me. “You are correct, Holmes,” I ejaculated, “there is something strange about the pattern of the footsteps, they seem to go off at strange angles and there is an irregular distance between each footfall - it is perfectly clear now.”
The two policemen nodded in agreement. I felt that Horburgh’s scepticism toward my friend, which had been mounting, was now dispelled.
“He was drunk!” I expostulated. “The irregular footprints show his drunken stagger.”
“Excellent, Watson. That is certainly one strong possibility.”
“I know a man who was drunk last night,” said Horburgh.
“Tierney!” cried Lestrade.
“The very man,” said his colleague as Beasley appeared at the door to inquire whether we wanted further refreshments.
“Not for me,” said Horburgh.
“We should waste no time in arresting Captain Tierney, warrant or no warrant,” said Lestrade, when Beasley had left the room.
“I must thank you sincerely, Mr. Holmes,” said the local man, “you have certainly lived up to the reputation which my colleague here intimated to me.”
“And yet, my good fellows,” replied Holmes, “your case is by no means complete, and I should urge caution. First of all, how did your drunkard ascend the roan pipe in the dark and subdue the old man without making a sound? How did he then escape? Where is the Scroll? Where is the Patriarch?”
“Well, the Scroll might well be in Tierney’s house, which is why he wouldn’t let my colleague search the place” Lestrade replied.
“As for the Patriarch,” said Horburgh, “assuming he is not actually inside Tierney’s villa, he could have been spirited away somewhere nearby. We have alerted the local farmers to check all barns and outhouses. You mentioned the South Bucks Free Press, Mr. Holmes. They have agreed to carry a front page article in the evening edition.”
“It is good to see that at least in some parts of England, there are still pressmen who have respect for the forces of Law and Order,” said Lestrade pompously. He was, I presumed, still smarting under a recent lampoon in Punch, entitled “Oh Mr. Policeman, What Shall I Do?”, which poked fun at Scotland Yard’s lack of progress in a capital case.
“There are old derelict warehouses down at the river wharf at Hedsor,” Horburgh resumed. “And there are a few empty manor houses too, like Dovecote Hall and Nine Elms House, that haven’t had a tenant for years - we have men out searching those at present. We haven’t overlooked the old disused Gunpowder Mill, and there are old lime kilns in the district, too. As for Tierney’s state last night, it’s amazing how much drink some of these sots can swallow and still remain compos mentis. He may, in any case, have had an accomplice. If he has had anything to do with this, we’ll soon have it out of him.”
Holmes looked very thoughtful for a few moments.
“I cannot say yet what involvement, if any, Captain Tierney may have had in this perplexing affair,” he said at last. “And I cannot but admire your presence of mind and your verve, Inspector Horburgh. But my earnest advice to you both is to call off the search for the Patriarch - you are wasting your time, for I am afraid your men will never find him.”
We three gazed at Holmes in astonishment.
“Then he is dead?” cried Lestrade.
“I am certain as I can be of anything that the Patriarch is alive and well.”
“Then, where is he?” asked Horburgh.
“I am unable to say precisely, but I do not think he can be very far away-”
“Is there nothing we can do to rescue him?”
“No; if my theory holds, the mere passage of time will bring about his appearance,” Holmes said enigmatically.
“When?”
“Again, I am unable to say, at present.”
“What about the Scroll?” asked Lestrade.
“If my deductions are correct, the Scroll has not left the village.”
“Come, Mr. Holmes, you are full of riddles and evasions,” cried Horburgh at the limit of frustration. “Tell us where it is and we’ll get it!”
“Frankly, I am unable to state its exact location, and any premature attempt on your part to obtain it may result in its immediate destruction. However, if you will meet me on the river path just outside this house once darkness has fallen - but say nothing to the professor, you understand. Eight o’clock, then? We will need four constables, two in plain clothes. Oh, and bring two pounds of raw beefsteak.”
Lestrade had become inured to my friend’s histrionics, but Horburgh looked at Holmes frankly as though he were a lunatic.
“And if you should weary between now and then,” my friend said, with a glimmer of amusement in his eye, “I commend you to a few hours’ light reading of the Showmen’s Gazette, Inspector Horburgh. It is amusing and very occasionally illuminating. No? Well, I shall keep it then for the journey back to Paddington tonight, once we have the case tied up.” With that, he turned upon his heel and led me off.
We dined exceptionally well at the Old Swan Uppers, and once the plates were cleared, Holmes lit his pipe.
“I must say, Holmes, you have my head spinning. Do you mean to say that you have the case cut and dried already? Or was that a bit of bravado in front of Horburgh?”
“Nothing of the sort, Watson, though I noticed that the Inspector’s admiring tone changed somewhat when I disarranged his pet theory.”
“I thought you were rather offhand with him, all the same.”
“I genuinely admire his energy in getting the case started on a practical footing. But I have presented him with prime clues - including the one on which the case turns - and he refuses to acknowledge it! The problem with the official force is
that they have an incorrigible tendency to be seduced by their own arguments. They do not have instilled into them the discipline of searching for an alternative explanation for apparent facts. They are incapable of the mental exercise of falsifying their own theories, which ensures that they never rise above the mediocre. Sometimes, they do not achieve even that.”
“As we are meeting outside the professor’s house without his knowledge, may I take it that the Scroll and Patriarch are hidden there? Is the professor the guilty one?”
“All in good time, Watson.”
The policemen were waiting for us at the riverbank, Horburgh in a sour mood.
“Got your suspect under lock and key?” Holmes asked.
“I’d rather have the Patriarch and the Scroll,” he replied curtly.
“If you do exactly as I suggest, I promise that you very soon will have.”
“I don’t see as I have any alternative.”
“Excellent. Your colleague here will attest that I have never yet broken a promise.”
Lestrade nodded glumly. Holmes asked if he could speak to the four constables in private, then whispered his instructions to them. Then we made our way in darkness and silence down the river path to the back of Falconer’s Field, stopping at a line of trees close to caravans. A low fence at the farther end of the trees separated us from the camp itself, and the occasional voice from one of the fairground people floated across to us. Holmes paused at one point, gave a low whistle once, then turned to Horburgh.
“Have you the beefsteak?” he asked. The Inspector handed him a package, which he opened quietly. He tiptoed towards the fence over which threw the pieces of meat.
“In case the dogs are roaming around,” he whispered by way of explanation and then called the constables forward. I could see him pointing out some features of the camp to the constables. Then off they went through the trees. Holmes then motioned to us, and he crept forward, as though leading a salient upon enemy territory, until we were within a few yards of one of the vans, which was lit by a flickering oil lamp. We were still concealed, and I assumed the object of our visit was Bartram’s caravan, though in the darkness I could scarcely tell which was which. My attention was suddenly arrested by the two plain-clothesmen who had walked up to the caravan, and began to fiddle with the door handle. Their actions were clumsily in the extreme, and it was no surprise to me when the door flew open with a cry and the inhabitant peered out. I had expected to see Bartram, but I recognised the man as Dino, the acrobat. It occurred to me at that point that Dino was supposed to have sprained an ankle. His recovery since afternoon seemed to have been unusually rapid. A second later, his brother appeared beside him. The startled policemen made off in opposite directions, and the two brothers gave chase with heavy oaths.
