“You are not a believer, Mr Robinson?” Holmes enquired.
“I grew up in the East End, sir. I seen enough of the rottener side of human life as a kid, that I’ve no need to make up worse now that I’m grown. But that’s the tale the locals tell, and you can take it or leave it, as you see fit.”
“And I’d advise you to take it, if you want to keep a grip of your soul!”
Forward’s voice broke across Robinson’s like a clap of thunder. “I saw you two gents on the train yesterday, did I not? And I told you then, the ghost is real as you or me.”
He slipped from his stool and moved to the fireplace, his pint jug still in his hand.
“Now this,” he said pointing to the left-hand carving, “is what he says it is. It’s the Baron de Trop – there weren’t no Lord in them days – in the catacombs that run under the manor. The top part shows him escaping from the heathen and hiding the ruby he’d stole from their godless temple. And t’other,” he indicated the right-hand side, “is the Baron riddled with swords, after they cornered him in the main hall and he wouldn’t speak a word to them.”
Holmes leaned forward in interest. “Is the legend so exact then, that it specifies exactly where he died?”
“Don’t know about exactly, but the truth is that once he finished whatever he was up to in the catacombs, he came back to the manor house to make his stand. Course he were only one man, and them a horde, so he never had a chance. But he said not a word to the buggers who had him. He never told them where he’d hid the jewel, though he were covered in blood and run through with steel. Bit his own tongue out, rather than talk.” Forward smiled thinly and tapped the middle of the right-hand carvings. “A right Yorkshireman was the Baron. Knew what was right and what wasn’t, and there weren’t no foreigner could make him do something if he’d set his mind not to.”
“You know, I believe you may be right, Mr Forward.”
Holmes’s reply, though barely audible, was loud enough that Forward heard it and grunted with satisfaction. “Course I am,” he muttered with ill grace. He drained his jug in one long draught and placed it carefully on the table. “There’s few know more about this area than I do,” he continued, turning the jug by its handle as he did so.
Holmes could take a hint as well as the next man. “Another drink for Mr Forward, landlord.”
I wondered if Robinson was put out by Forward’s interference; he glowered at the older man before picking up the jug and heading back to the bar. A moment later he dropped it on the table again, filled with ale, but he did not rejoin our company. Instead, he picked up a cloth and, positioning himself behind the bar directly opposite us, began to polish some glasses.
“Now, what else can you tell us about the catacombs? Mr Robinson said that the late Lord Thorpe investigated them some years since?” Holmes asked.
Forward drained half his glass before he said another word.
“He did. Forty years ago now, when he was a young man. It’s the tradition, see, or was then. Every new Thorpe, when he becomes a man, adds something to the manor. That’s another tradition that’s finished now, though, on account of him having no children.
“His Lordship said he was going to turn the caves into something. He never said what, though, and it came to nothing in any event.” Forward’s voice was bitter and hard. “Like everything he touched.”
“We heard that Lord Thorpe was not a popular man.”
“I’ll not speak ill of the dead, even one such as him, but I will say this, and you can judge for yourself. Ten years Walter Robinson’s run this pub, but he isn’t popular round these parts, just on account of him selling ale to the manor house.”
“Why should he not do that?” I asked, astonished. “He is a publican, after all. Selling beer is his trade.”
“That’s not for me to say. But he’s lucky there’s but the one pub in the village, or he’d be out of business long since.”
Holmes had observed this exchange in silence, but now he spoke up. “Lord Thorpe chose to stop his operations in the caves? Or did something happen that prevented further exploration?”
I thought I knew what Holmes was thinking. “Do you think he might have been seeking the ruby, Mr Forward, and having found it, ceased his endeavours?”
The effect of my words on Forward was as immediate as it was unexpected. With a curse, he jumped to his feet, knocking the table and causing his glass to tip on its side, spilling ale onto the floor.
“Who knows what he was looking for, or what he found!” he snarled. “He were a weak man, and a fool, and everyone who crossed his path ended up the worse for it. All I know is there were plenty of us went to work for him, digging all day, neglecting our own work, and then one day he upped and sacked every man, and locked himself away. That was a hard year for lots of families hereabouts! And that’s all I have to say!”
Holmes and I made efforts to placate him, but he was not to be calmed. With a final angry growl, he pulled a hat from his pocket, jammed it on his head, and strode out of the pub.
I confess I was at a loss. Holmes, too, seemed bemused by the old man’s reaction and merely raised an eyebrow when I wondered aloud what had prompted him to react so violently. The answer – or at least an answer – came from the unexpected source of Walter Robinson.
“Forward was the gaffer of the team that worked the caves for Lord Thorpe all those years ago. He was the one who convinced the men to leave the fields and come and help with the excavations. Looks like you touched a nerve with your talk of his Lordship finding the lost ruby. If anyone knows that, it’d be him.” He sniffed and looked across at the door through which Forward had exited. “I heard him tell you I’m not well liked hereabouts, on account of selling the manor house a barrel of beer or two every month. And no more I am – though I’d like to know how they think a publican can make a living in this tiny place without selling where he can.
“But Simeon Forward’s not held in much higher esteem neither. He sits in here most days by his self. His wife and daughter’s dead, and he’s no friends, for they blame him for the bad year that followed the cave workings closing down. And they blame the old Lord for closing them down, and they blame me for selling ale to the man who closed them down.” He placed a final glass on the shelf and folded his cloth neatly before stowing it under the bar. “They don’t have much round here, Mr Holmes, but it seems to me there’s always enough blame to share around.”
With that, he fell silent. We finished our drinks and, the wind having died down a little, we left the little hostelry and stood in the street once more. Looking back, I thought I saw Robinson watching us through a window, but it was only for a moment and it could as easily have been a shadow.
Holmes spoke suddenly, and I refocused my attention on him. “An interesting encounter, but now back to the manor, I think, Watson. I believe a tour of its more unusual features is in order. Perhaps the little maid can act as a surrogate guide in Buxton’s absence.”
Chapter Six
The Crystal Palace
The walk back was no more pleasant than the journey to the village. The wind came in gusts which bit through our thick coats, and even with gloves on and my hands rammed deep in my pockets, I felt my fingers go numb with cold. Holmes trudged through the drifts in front of me, whistling a low tune which I could not quite make out.
The sight of the manor house ahead of us was, therefore, most welcome. The curtains were still drawn, I noticed, but at least one other guest was up and about, for Reilly stood in the doorway, wrapped in an enormous fur coat and with an unusual fur hat on his head, from the sides of which large flaps fell down, covering his ears and tied beneath his chin. Even so, and in spite of the fact that technically he was still inside the house, I could see he was shivering from ten yards away.
“You would be better off in the dining room,” I suggested to him, but he shrugged and shook his head.
“It makes no difference, Dr Watson. Whether I am in the dining room or out i
n this icy wasteland, the cold is like nothing I have ever experienced. The water in my bedroom was frozen over!” He shook his head again. “I had thought that these garments—” he indicated his coat and hat “—would be enough to keep me warm, even in England’s notoriously cold climate, but apparently they are insufficient. It is simply not possible to stay warm here!”
He stamped his feet – I noticed with amusement that he wore enormous fur-covered boots too – and glared past me at the snowy fields, as though they had personally offended him.
“And the man Buxton informs me that this is not unusual for the area at this time of year! I must admit, Doctor, that I am having second thoughts about spending my twilight years in Thorpe Manor.”
“Buxton is here?” Holmes asked, ignoring Reilly’s other comments entirely. “That is capital news.”
“He is,” Reilly responded sourly. “He is in the main hall with that impertinent foreigner. That is my only consolation,” he added with an unpleasant barking laugh. “Salah finds the cold even more painful than I do. If I thought he would have to live here himself, I might even let him win the auction, just to teach him the lesson that pride comes before a fall. But that seems unlikely, so I am even more determined to ensure the estate does not fall into alien hands.”
The thought appeared to embolden him. “Perhaps a walk around the house will get my blood flowing again,” he said. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen.”
We watched him tramp off along the path that ran beside the house, then Holmes expressed a desire to speak to Buxton at once and, glad to be out of the snow, we went inside.
* * *
Whatever business Salah had with Buxton was over by the time we made our way to the main hall, and of the two only the historian remained, now speaking to Mr Amicable Watt. I doubted it had been a convivial meeting, for Buxton’s face was flushed with anger and Watt was plainly doing what he could to calm the older man down. We had barely taken our seats when Buxton launched into an impassioned tirade.
“The cheek of the man!” he began, banging his fist against the arm of his chair. “The confounded cheek! Do you know what Mr Salah has just had the effrontery to say to me, Mr Holmes? I, who have dedicated years of my life to building a detailed history of Thorpe Manor and its people? A history which, I hope I may say, will be of immense utility to future scholars. A history which encompasses both low and high, great men and peasants. Which…” He stumbled to a halt, apparently having lost his thread of thought. “Do you know what he said?” he repeated, then answered himself before we could say a word. “He said that he considers my work – my notes, my essays, my papers – to be part of the property of the estate and that, as such, he will take possession of them in toto, in the event that he wins the auction.” Buxton’s fingers dug into the arm of the chair until his fingers whitened, and small specks of saliva formed at the side of his mouth. “And then he said… and then… then he said that his people would extract any information relating to the ruby and the remainder would be burned!”
The effort of spitting this final word out was too much for the man, and he fell back in his chair, eyes bulging.
I have remarked before that Holmes, while often monomaniacal when involved in an investigation, was capable of great feeling for his fellow man, and so it proved on this occasion. He leaned forward and laid his hand on Buxton’s arm. His voice was soothing as he reassured the distraught historian that he was certain such an outcome could be avoided.
“I cannot be specific, since Mr Thompson requested our circumspection regarding the precise reason for our presence here, Mr Buxton, but you are aware that we are not interested in purchasing the estate, and so I think I can rely on your discretion to a certain degree.” He turned to Watt, who cupped his hands around his ample middle and smiled widely. “I hope I can similarly rely on you, Mr Watt?”
Watt’s smile grew wider. “You can that, Mr Holmes. If there’s one thing I’m good with, it’s a secret. You don’t get far in business if you’re a blabbermouth.”
Holmes appeared satisfied with this assurance. “Very well,” he said. “Rest assured, Mr Buxton, that I will do everything in my power to ensure that there is no question of Mr Salah, or anyone else, looking for the Thorpe Ruby, no matter who wins the auction next week.”
I cannot say that I saw hope rekindle in Buxton’s eyes, but Holmes’s words certainly had a positive effect on the man. He sat up straighter and ran his hands through his hair, before blowing his nose noisily on his handkerchief.
“It is good to hear that, Mr Holmes,” he said earnestly, “I cannot deny it. And in turn, I can admit to you now that I am not entirely in the dark concerning yourself and Dr Watson. I myself pay little attention to events beyond the local area, but Mr Watt was kind enough to share with me the information that you are a well-known figure in London circles. A type of policeman, he said?”
Only one who knew Holmes well would have noticed the slight flicker in the corner of his eye at that moment.
“A type of policeman…” he repeated coldly. “That is one way in which an ill-informed man might describe my role, I suppose, though it is not an accurate one. Better to say that I am able to assist the police force from time to time in their more important cases. The current situation is not, I would stress, such an occasion, but rather is by way of a private commission.” He held up a hand to forestall any questions. “I can say no more than that, I’m afraid, but I will repeat that I have every hope that there will be nobody in need of your notes, next week or any other.”
Buxton, aware that he had made a gaffe of some sort, but uncertain as to exactly what, nodded his thanks. “That’s all I need to know, Mr Holmes. But is there anything I can do to help you in your… investigations?”
“A tour of the house and its grounds would be most helpful,” Holmes replied. “We have been told that there is, or perhaps was, a tradition incumbent on the male heir of the Thorpe name upon reaching his majority? One which led the late Lord Thorpe to excavate the catacombs, which riddle the nearby countryside. Perhaps you could shed some light on that, to begin with?”
“That I can,” said the historian eagerly, automatically reverting to a lecturing tone as he was asked to expound on his area of expertise. “You must understand that the Thorpes have always been an eccentric family, though it would not have done to say that to his Lordship’s face. They were all given to puzzles and games and the like, if you take my meaning, and that extended early on to architectural fancies, such as the pillars you noticed yesterday by the front door. Those were installed by the ninth baron in 1356 when he assumed the title. Over time, the idea evolved until it became the rule that the eldest Thorpe scion should create some new addition to the estate by his twenty-first birthday.
“Some of the improvements were remarkably modest – a new ice house, for example, but most were more… fanciful. We have a boating pond in the shape of a ruby, a maze with two miles of paths within it, and a statue of the third Lord Thorpe dressed as a Roman senator.
“Robert Thorpe, his late Lordship, came into his majority already Lord Thorpe, following the untimely death of his father. He was apparently a young man of exceptional intelligence and drive – this was before my time, you understand, so I am merely repeating what I was told – and had just completed his undergraduate studies, though he was not yet twenty-one. He returned to Thorpe Manor and announced that he would contribute to the family tradition by having the catacombs that adjoined the house opened up and made accessible to all. This made him popular locally, as he employed local men to do the work, and all seemed well. Until one day, with the work only partially complete, he sent all the workmen home and, the project abandoned, brought in a firm from London to build something else…”
“Something else?”
Buxton smiled, with the pleasure of a teacher able to surprise his pupils.
“Indeed, Mr Holmes. But I think it would be advisable to show you, rather than try to explain. It is no great distanc
e, but the snow is deep in the grounds, so you had best borrow some Wellington boots.”
* * *
It was certainly more comfortable to traipse through the thick snow to the rear of the house in Wellington boots, and I silently cursed that we had not thought to ask for them before setting off for the village (I feared my brogues were ruined).
In daylight, the irregular shapes I had seen shadowed by the glimmer of dusk were revealed to be a collection of the most extraordinary buildings. Without obvious pattern, each one had been constructed with no thought to the others, either in terms of location, size or type. A Chinese jade pagoda stood cheek by jowl with a mock Cleopatra’s Needle, a Greek temple was flanked by a bridge to and from nowhere and, in the near distance, what appeared to be an ancient and ruined monastery turned out, according to Buxton, to have been constructed from whole cloth only a century before. There was even, as he had promised, a statue of a portly man with extravagant side whiskers in a Roman toga.
Watt, who had invited himself along with us, whistled at every new exhibit. “So this is how the idle rich spend their money?” he chuckled as we passed the entrance to a maze, carved in the shape of a giant head. “I always wondered.”
He appeared to take genuine delight in everything he saw, and to wish everyone in his company to share in that delight. It was both an appealing and a wearisome characteristic. There is only a finite amount of bonhomie that any man should be expected to suffer, and after Watt’s booming laugh punctuated a fifth eccentric building in as many minutes, I began to wish that I had left Buxton to walk with him and had taken my customary place at Holmes’s side.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--Sherlock Holmes and the Crusader's Curse Page 5
