I swallowed at this final bloodthirsty detail. “The version I was told this morning omits that last part, obviously, but yes, otherwise it accords exactly with your own.”
“Personally, I do not hold out any great hopes,” Salah confided. “If the gem were capable of recovery, it would have been found by now. But as a symbol of the resurgence of Ghurid, even the possibility of its return exerts a powerful hold over the common people, and my uncle is wise enough to harness that power to his own ends. And, of course, were I to be the man to find it, well… the laws of Ghuridian succession are a tangled, and thus infinitely flexible, mess.”
I nodded. The specific politics of Ghurid were unknown to me, but the generally fragile governments endemic to the region and the ease and frequency with which they were replaced was a constant theme of international reports in The Times. Anything which helped shore up a ruler in the area would be assiduously promoted.
Holmes, too, was nodding. Evidently having exhausted all possible avenues of interest with Mr Schell (who was now apparently asleep at the table, his meal going cold in front of him), he had turned his attention to Salah.
“I could not help but overhear, Mr Salah. I wonder, does the legend in your country say exactly where the torture of the Baron de Trop took place?”
“Only to the extent that we were able to identify Thorpe Manor.”
“That is a shame. If you knew where exactly he died, it would perhaps narrow down your area of search.”
“It would, yes, but this is not so large an estate, and I intend to explore as much of it as I can while I am here. Perhaps I shall find it myself.”
Holmes laughed and applauded softly. “I respect such self-confidence, Mr Salah, so long as it is not misplaced. But surely you will only be here a few days, and I believe that Mr Buxton has various tours planned for us all.”
Salah laughed too. “We Ghuridians are a race as comfortable in the night as the day, Mr Holmes; even those of us who have spent years away from home. The heat of the desert sun is in our bones. I shall have many hours when you are all safe in your beds to explore the house and gardens. Who knows what success I might have?”
He fell silent, considering the task ahead of him, perhaps. Just then the same girl as before entered to clear the plates, and I realised that I had seen no other servants at all since our arrival. I remarked on this fact to Buxton.
“No, apart from a man who comes by rail from Browerby, the next stop up, to do the garden once a month, Alice Crabtree is the only villager who was willing to come and serve at the house tonight. The late Lord Thorpe was not a popular man locally, you see, and kept no servants of his own. In fact, I believe the delivery of meat and vegetables this morning was the first such to the house in forty years. While his Lordship was alive, nobody local would sell him so much as a carrot, and he was forced to order his provisions in from Stainforth.” He leaned towards me conspiratorially. “Mr Thompson, the lawyer, paid Alice a sizeable fee to cook and serve dinner this weekend, or we would have been reduced to whatever cold sandwiches I could have contrived to put together. Not that the food we have been served has been much better!”
The food had been less than impressive, it was true, but given the circumstances, it was plain that we should be grateful to have been fed at all. As Alice leaned past me to place a bowl containing what I hoped was custard on the table, I gave her a thankful smile. I wondered if she knew what had made Lord Thorpe so unpopular, and would have asked, but she hurried past me and onto my neighbour before I could do so.
The table had gradually fallen quiet, I realised, with only Hopkirk and Mrs Schell still engaged in anything more than the most desultory of conversations. I could just make out the sound, if not the content, of their murmured chat, but apart from that, and occasional requests to pass the salt, the meal continued in silence until its end. A wind had whipped up outside and I could hear it clearly. Heavy grey clouds had gathered too, and I wondered if we might have been better taking our chances with the London smog.
Finally, Alice cleared the last bowls and cups, and we each rose and awkwardly bade one another goodnight. I should have liked a nightcap but as Buxton had left for his own cottage across the fields, there was nobody to offer one, and so I made my way to bed, still somewhat hungry and in a vague ill-humour.
Chapter Five
The Silent Man
I was woken the following morning by the sound of a curtain flapping in the window of my room and a sudden realisation that the air was freezing cold. I had closed neither window nor curtains fully the night before, but even so, little light, and no sound, intruded from outside. This, combined with a certain dull quality to the air, could only mean one thing. I padded over and pulled the curtains open wide and sure enough, outside everything was blanketed in fresh white snow.
Heavy flakes – the size of sovereigns – were still drifting lazily to the ground, the uniform whiteness of which was interrupted here and there by fallen branches, some of them quite large, suggesting the storm I had evidently slept through had been a heavy one. A patch of clear blue sky to the west hinted that the worst was over; as far as the eye could see, however, the fields and hills were hidden under thick drifts. Shivering in the cold air, I washed and dressed quickly and made my way downstairs, and through to the dining room where Buxton had said breakfast would be served.
Perhaps because the weather was so vile outside, the curtains were drawn and candles had again been lit. In their unsteady light, I was dismayed to see that the only other person present was Judge Pennington, the disagreeable diner of the night before. He was sitting with an untouched plate of eggs and bacon in front of him, smoking a cigarette and staring into the distance. As I entered he glanced across and, to my surprise, beckoned me over.
“We were not introduced last night,” he said, holding out his hand. “My name is Mark Pennington. And you are Dr John Watson.” He coughed and stubbed out his cigarette. “I am a circuit judge,” he explained, “and your name and that of your friend Mr Holmes are not unknown to me.”
“How do you do,” I said automatically. The judge’s manner, while not unfriendly, was brusque, and I had the sense that in introducing himself he was merely fulfilling a social obligation.
“Is Mr Holmes a late sleeper?” he asked after a moment.
“He can be,” I replied. “Though at other times he can be up all night and not go to bed for days.”
Pennington nodded and we sat in silence for an uncomfortably long time. Finally, as a precursor to making my excuses and going to get my own breakfast, I asked if he intended to retire to the manor, should his bid for the estate win the day.
At this he scowled. “That was my intention. I have travelled around the country for thirty years, sitting first in the Northern and then in the North-Eastern Assizes, and have long desired to settle in this area and write my memoirs. The life of a circuit judge is a fascinating one, but by its very nature peripatetic.”
“I’m sure it is,” I murmured sympathetically, if not entirely truthfully.
“But if Mr Salah’s claims last night are to be believed, I doubt that I will be successful. I am not a poor man, by any means, but nor do I have endlessly deep pockets.” The scowl that seemed rarely to leave his face deepened. “It really is unconscionable that England’s very heart is being sold off piecemeal to foreign potentates,” he grumbled. “What purpose is the Empire if all we succeed in doing is to raise primitive nations to greater wealth than our own citizens!”
He glared at me, once again the angry crow of the previous night, clearly waiting for a positive response. Fortunately, I was saved from supplying one by Holmes’s voice, which preceded him into the dining room by a second.
“There you are, Watson!” he exclaimed. “I have been looking for you everywhere.” He pulled out his watch and examined it briefly. “It is almost nine, but the only person I have seen is the girl from last night, carrying what I assume were those dishes.” He pointed across at a sideboar
d, on which were arranged a selection of silver dishes, each of which promised some much-needed sustenance. “She asked me to pass on the message that Mr Buxton would be unlikely to get across the fields from his cottage this morning, so it seems our tour will be delayed.”
He appeared to notice Pennington for the first time. “Ah, Judge Pennington,” he said, with a nod of greeting. “I had hoped to speak to you at some point. I take an interest in the proceedings of the various assizes, and there are one or two errors of law which you have made recently, which I would be delighted to go over with you.”
Pennington’s face flushed bright red. He had finally begun to eat his breakfast and had just taken a forkful of bacon and eggs, which prevented him from replying immediately. While he frantically chewed, however, Holmes took me by the arm and guided me away, towards the sideboard. “That is why I was looking for you, Watson,” he said, but I confess I was barely listening. A good night’s sleep had restored both my humour and my appetite, and I was privately delighted that I would not be expected to listen to another lecture on the history of the manor house. A good breakfast and a morning in front of the fire with the newspapers sounded far more what the doctor ordered, so to speak. Unfortunately for those minor ambitions, I had failed to account for the possibility that Holmes might have other plans.
“There is little to be gained at this stage in remaining sedentary,” he declared, lighting a cigarette. “What we need just now is the testimony of witnesses.”
“Witnesses to what, Holmes?”
“To the ghost, of course!” He grinned suddenly. “Obviously, there is no such thing, which begs the question: why do the locals think there is? The village is only a short walk, after all.”
This was certainly not how I hoped to spend the morning. I had however spotted what I believe was a legitimate objection.
“You have not allowed for the snow, Holmes! If Buxton could not make it to the house, I very much doubt that we will be able to effect the same journey in reverse.”
I should have known that Holmes would have taken this into account. “Mr Buxton has a cottage to the west of the house, across a considerable distance of rough ground. The village on the other hand lies east, at the end of a well-sheltered pathway. How do you think the maid contrived to be here to serve breakfast?”
I groaned inwardly, seeing my comfortable few hours slipping away from me. A hurried breakfast, then a forced march to the village, would, I expected, be the disappointing sum of my morning.
In fact, I pulled out a seat just as Holmes, with a cry of “Well, stop lollygagging, Watson!”, strode in the direction of the door. With a last sad glance at the covered dishes on the sideboard, I followed him, pausing only to grab my hat and coat from the stand. From behind us, I heard the indignant voice of Judge Pennington calling on Holmes to stop, but he was already out of earshot.
* * *
Our walk to the village covered much of the same ground as our trip from the station on the previous day but was considerably less pleasant. A fiercely gusting wind negated the negligible warmth of the sun, which was now weakly shining through the clearing clouds, and the ground underfoot, though navigable, was comprised of, in equal amount, snowdrifts a foot deep, and wet, slippery mud. Even though the distance cannot have been more than half a mile, by the time we arrived on the outskirts of the village I was chilled to the bone and soaked from the knee down.
To Holmes’s disappointment, there was not a soul to be seen, and, for want of anywhere else to go and keen to find shelter from the wind, we soon found ourselves at the door of the local hostelry, The Silent Man.
It was still a little before ten in the morning, and I expected it to be closed, but Holmes gave the door a hearty push and it swung open, allowing a very welcome warmth to wash over us. He stood for a second in the doorway, then moved inside.
The interior consisted of a single irregularly shaped room, with rough, whitewashed stone walls, stained yellow by smoke. Directly in front of us were a table and some chairs, with a mirror above, fastened in the angle where two walls met. A wooden bar ran almost up to this table, stopping only a few feet away, but taking up the rest of the length of the back wall, with another half dozen tables ranged in front of it. The entire room was laid out in dogleg fashion, and as we walked towards the deserted bar, more tables hove into view. I was not surprised, even at so early an hour, to see a figure hunched over a drink at the far end. I had never known a country pub which did not have at least one near resident present from opening to closing each day. I was surprised to recognise the man, though. It was our companion from the train the previous day, Simeon Forward. As we approached, he glanced up and nodded a greeting but otherwise seemed disinclined to talk.
The lack of patrons and the muffling qualities of the snow outside gave the place a peculiarly empty sensation and I was just about to say to Holmes that perhaps we should leave, when a door behind the bar swung open and a man I assumed to be the landlord appeared from the back rooms.
He was plump and of medium size, with a red face and a head of curly brown hair, which fell over his collar and past his ears. He wore a grey shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, with heavy brown leather strapping at each wrist. He smiled with pleasure as soon as he saw us, hoping, I expect, that we would prove to be new customers.
“Good morning, landlord,” Holmes said, as he removed his coat and draped it over the back of the nearest chair. “An uninviting day, is it not? Enough to keep your regulars indoors, I imagine.”
The man hesitated before replying, and his eyes flicked towards Forward, who gave no sign he was even aware that anyone was speaking. Finally, he appeared to come to a decision and agreed with Holmes that yes, the snow and wind could be a trial, even to the locals, at this time of year.
“But how can I help you gentlemen?” he continued in an unexpected strong London accent. “Perhaps a warm toddy to keep the chill out – but even if you’ve no mind to a drink, you’re very welcome to warm yourselves by the fire until you can feel your fingers again.” His eyes flicked towards Forward once more. “Indeed, I’d be glad of the company.”
I had failed to notice the fireplace when first we entered, as it was hidden away in the deep alcove which comprised the other end of the room’s dogleg. It was small and unimpressive and, I suspected, would give off little heat. Above it, a faded pennant, celebrating some long-forgotten triumph, and another mirror were the only decoration. However, as I hurried across, keen to warm myself as much as possible, I realised that it was flanked by the most extraordinary woodcuts, one on either side of the wide hearth.
The details were difficult to make out, for the wood was obviously ancient and had been rubbed smooth over the centuries, but the left-hand woodcut seemed to show a series of images: a man making his way through a maze, a shining light in one hand and a sword in the other. Behind him clamoured a mob armed with curved weapons, seemingly bent on his destruction.
The second woodcut was better preserved, and showed a man – the same one, presumably – on his knees, with several blades transfixing his body and what I took to be blood pouring from his mouth, then on his back, presumably dead.
I pointed out the carvings to Holmes, though he could hardly have missed them.
“Edouard de Trop, I suspect,” he said, tracing a finger across a crusader’s cross marked on the breast of the figure on the first carving. “But as to what he is doing…
“Landlord,” he called across, “could you spare us a moment?”
The man, I noticed, was watching us keenly. In response, he willingly dropped the towel he had been desultorily wiping across the bar counter. “As you can see, gents, I’m not exactly rushed off me feet,” he said, “and like I said, I’m glad of the company.”
He came round from behind the bar and stood beside us.
“Ah, it’s those woodcuts that’s caught your eye, eh? Been there for ever, the locals say.”
“You are not a local man?” Holmes asked w
ith a smile.
In turn, the landlord’s face split into a wide grin. “How could you tell? No, no, I’m no Yorkshireman. Born and raised in London, and only moved here a few years ago, on account of me lungs.” He held out a broad hand. “Walter Robinson, pleased to make your acquaintance.”
We each shook his hand, and Holmes introduced us (his own name eliciting no response from Robinson, to my surprise) before gesturing to the woodcuts once more. “Perhaps you could tell us what they show?” he asked.
“I’ll do me best, sir, but I can’t say as I know as much as I should, them being in me bar and all. This one,” he said, pointing to the left-hand panel, “is the evil Lord de Trop. The locals claim that he went crusading against the Musselmen back in olden times. As I heard it, that shows him being chased by a crowd of heathen through the caves round here – the catacombs, they call ‘em. And that’s the jewel he stole from the heathen king in his hand, they say, and the sword he took to the Holy Land in the other.”
“The catacombs?”
“Aye, least the locals call them the catacombs, though I can’t say what their right name would be, if they ever had one. Underground caves, anyway. They’re all round the place in this neck of the woods. They even run underneath Thorpe Manor, I heard.” He scratched at his neck thoughtfully. “The catacombs are famous round these parts. The late Lord Thorpe – him that’s just died – spent a pretty penny in his younger days excavating them. They say that’s where the ghost spends his days, walking the maze of caverns, searching for his lost jewel, and only coming out to terrify good Christian folk when he’s tired of searching.” His voice had fallen to a sardonic whisper as he ended his tale, and he glanced again at Forward, who I noticed had half turned on his stool.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--Sherlock Holmes and the Crusader's Curse Page 4
