Mrs Schell reported that her husband continued to be unwell and would skip dinner entirely, while she and Hopkirk went for a moonlit walk around the lawn. Now that Holmes had pointed out their relationship, it was difficult for me to miss the little indications of their affection.
Unexpectedly, Amicable Watt turned out to be a keen chess player, and challenged Pennington, who was also an enthusiast, to a game. Within half an hour Watt had won three times and the judge, apparently not a good loser, had stormed off to his bed. Watt, with nobody else willing to play, did likewise soon after. Any hopes I had harboured of a few convivial evenings in the country were rapidly evaporating.
Even Buxton deserted us, pleading the need to return to his history, though he did promise to show us the remainder of the estate’s more interesting features first thing in the morning.
Left to our own devices, Holmes and I quickly settled into a mirror of our life back in Baker Street. We sat on either side of the fireplace, whisky to hand, and smoked our pipes, talking over old cases. The snow was still falling outside, and the warm room felt far more inviting than it had done the previous night. Only when I heard Hopkirk and Mrs Schell return and go upstairs did a less agreeable recollection come to mind.
“I believe that Hopkirk would have killed Salah with that pottery shard, Holmes. Admittedly, Salah had his hands on his throat, but a man of his military training could easily have broken free without recourse to deadly force.” I leaned forward and tapped out the bowl of my pipe against the grate. “There was real hate in his eyes. I think he had so lost control that he wanted to kill him.”
“In the heat of the fight, both men had lost control,” Holmes agreed. “Has Hopkirk seen action, do you know? It might be that he has experience of battle in the farther-flung reaches of the Empire, and this has left him less sensitive than most to the taking of a life.”
“That is no excuse, Holmes!” I countered, a defensiveness on behalf of my fellow soldiers animating me to protest. “Exposure to the worst of mankind does not require one to join their throng.”
“You are quite right, Watson, and I apologise for any offence caused. I simply wondered if perhaps – with his blood running hot – Captain Hopkirk might have associated Mr Salah’s face with that of the enemy, and so reacted without rational thought? But that question lies most properly with either a military or a medical man, so you are certainly best placed to judge.” He smiled, defusing any remaining tension between us, and stretched out his hands to warm them at the fire.
I sat forward in my chair, reaching for my tobacco pouch where it lay on the floor. “Perhaps I could engage Hopkirk in army shop talk in the morning?” I suggested, lazily settling back into my seat. “It has always been my experience that young soldiers, even more than old, need little encouragement to discuss their past victories.”
Holmes nodded. “If the chance arises, why not, Watson? It is a trivial matter really, but though Mr Salah is not an especially likeable man, I would not have thought him so reprehensible as to invite murder so easily.”
He rubbed his eyes, and climbed slowly to his feet. “For now though, I must leave you to your own devices. This country air is exhausting for those of us used to London, and I am in need of sleep.”
I bade him good night, then sipped at my whisky and lit a cigar, watching the flames dance in the fire, content in its warm glow. Soon afterwards, I felt my eyelids begin to droop and my head to loll back. The clock chimed a quarter to midnight, and I emerged from a half-doze with a start.
Pausing only to drop my cigar butt in the ashes of the fire, I grudgingly heaved myself to my feet and shuffled towards the door. As soon as I ventured a few feet from the warmth of the fireplace, however, the room turned icy cold, and I increased my pace and hurried into the gloom of the unlit hall, keen to reach my room as quickly as possible.
The combination of haste, poor lighting and my own drowsiness meant that I failed to see Alim Salah until I was almost on top of him.
He stepped unexpectedly from the shadows at the side of the staircase, muttering to himself in his own language, and I barrelled into him, neither of us able to stop our forward progress in time to prevent the collision.
I began to apologise, but he uttered a curse and pushed me hard in the chest. Caught unawares, I stumbled backwards across the hall, all my efforts now expended on maintaining my balance. I banged painfully against an umbrella stand and muttered a curse of my own. Rubbing my hip, I strode back towards Salah, my initial intended apology forgotten in view of the excessive force of his reaction.
Again, however, anything I wished to say was curtailed by Salah’s intemperate actions. I was still several feet away from him when he swung a thick wooden walking stick in my direction.
I jumped back, wishing I had a weapon of my own, for clearly the fellow was either mad or drunk. He did not press his advantage, however, but stood where he was, the stick still grasped in his hand but now pointed to the floor.
“Must I be expected to turn the other cheek to every Englishman who assaults me!” he snarled in the darkness. “I am no Christian, sir, and will not act like one!”
I could not see his face, but I caught a whiff of whisky in the air and was slightly reassured. A drunk can be more easily reasoned with than a madman, all things considered.
“Salah…” I began, but for the third time in as many minutes the words I wished to say went unspoken. Without warning, he pushed past me and set off up the main stairs. I considered allowing him to go, but considering his words in light of his recent fight with Captain Hopkirk, it would have been remiss of me to allow him to proceed upstairs, possibly drunk and certainly armed.
“Why don’t you give me the walking stick, old chap,” I said. “You won’t need it tonight, will you?”
He stopped and turned back towards me, staring down at the stick in his hand as though seeing it for the first time. Then he loosened his grip and let it fall onto the carpet, where it slowly rolled down the steps until it lay at my feet. Without another word, he turned his back and disappeared into the shadows at the top of the stairs. A moment later I heard a bedroom door slam shut, and then nothing more.
I picked up the stick and dropped it in the umbrella stand. My hip had begun to ache painfully, and I stood rubbing it in the darkness, toying with the idea that I should take a glass of whisky up to my room in case I needed to numb the pain during the night.
I was forced to acknowledge that there was little legitimate medicinal benefit to be had from such a plan, however, and I had just placed my foot on the bottom stair when an unusual sound disturbed the silence. It reminded me of something, but try as I might I could not place it, not until Alice the maid slowly emerged from the darkness of the kitchens, with a lantern in one hand and the other wrapped around the handle of a voluminous canvas bag, which she was dragging laboriously towards the staircase.
I hastened to help her, taking the handle from her grip and heaving the bag towards me. The pain in my hip flared with every movement, but within a minute at most I had it positioned where she required, at the foot of the stairs.
“What on earth have you got in here, my dear?” I asked.
In reply, Alice handed over the lantern, and wordlessly gestured that I should see for myself. I bent down and angled the light into the top of the bag.
Somewhat prosaically, it was full of boots. Half a dozen pairs at least, of varying types and sizes. I recognised the pair that I had worn earlier.
“I’ve been cleaning them, sir,” the girl explained quietly. “On account of the snow.”
“Can I take them anywhere?” I asked.
In the half-light cast by the lantern I was just able to make out the shake of her head. “I’ve not finished yet,” she said. I placed the light on the table that had until recently held a ceramic vase, and bade her goodnight. It was late for so young a girl to be up and working, but with only one servant in the house it must be a long day for her. At least she was being well paid
for her troubles, I thought, as I climbed the stairs, yawning and eager for sleep.
It was only once I was in bed and on the verge of sleep that I realised I had completely forgotten to ask Holmes what he had meant when he said he had found the Thorpe Ruby.
Chapter Eight
The Mausoleum
The next morning dawned bright but cold. The snow had finally stopped during the night but still covered the land as far as the eye could see. Alice had evidently been busy, for there was a pair of boots outside every door. As Holmes met me in the corridor, I handed him his pair.
“Buxton’s doing, I assume,” he said with a smile.
“Indirectly,” I replied, and recounted my meetings with Salah and Alice the previous night. He shook his head at my description of Salah’s antics, but made no comment.
Buxton was already in the dining room when we entered, halfway through a plate of sausages and eggs.
“Excellent,” he exclaimed when he saw the boots we carried. “I hoped that Alice would remember to put those out for everyone. In spite of everything, I should like to make an early start!”
We quickly filled our plates, and took seats beside him. Almost before we had sat down, however, he blurted out a question which had obviously been troubling him.
“I must ask you, Mr Holmes, if you were serious yesterday when you said that you might be able to prevent Mr Salah from buying the manor house? The idea of handing over all my notes to him has kept me awake half the night. It has left me in a terrible state, I’m not ashamed to admit.”
Now that I was able to study him more closely, Buxton was looking rather ill. He was exceedingly pale, his eyes were bloodshot, and his fingers tapped incessantly on the table as he spoke. He had not shaved – or rather, he possibly had, but so unevenly that there were patches of his face which looked untouched, alongside others still marked with drops of dry blood where the razor had nicked him.
I glanced across at my friend. He gave a tiny nod – he too had noticed the change in Buxton.
“I did not say quite that, Mr Buxton,” he began, in a quiet, measured tone. “I simply said that I hope soon to be able to answer the question of the lost Thorpe Ruby. Having done so, Mr Salah will have no need of your notes.”
Buxton shrugged unhappily. “I can only pray that that is the case. That history is my legacy, Mr Holmes. Without it, the years I have spent here will have been entirely wasted.” He let his fork fall noisily onto his plate and crumbled a bread roll in his hands. “As I mentioned last night, I had hoped to conduct a formal tour of the house and grounds for all interested parties this morning. However, it seems the snow has rendered that prospect less appealing than it might otherwise have been. Mr Schell has asked his wife to stay here with him, so they will not be joining us, and Mr Reilly says he has seen quite enough of the grounds.”
“And the others?” I asked.
“I have yet to speak to either Mr Watt or Judge Pennington, and I am pleased to say that Mr Salah will not be joining us. But Captain Hopkirk says that he will meet us here in half an hour. He is not yet dressed, he says, and has still to shave, but is very keen to see the mausoleum.”
“The mausoleum?”
Buxton nodded. “The family mausoleum. Every generation of Thorpes, from the first baron until the middle of the last century, was interred in the oldest building in the grounds, the Thorpe Mausoleum. In recent years, however, the family have been buried in a small graveyard in the East Gardens.” He sniffed sadly. “Nothing is as it once was.” He stood and brushed crumbs from his waistcoat. “But if you will excuse me, I have some work to do. I shall meet you in the hall in half an hour, if that is acceptable?”
“It is,” Holmes confirmed, then continued, “I had hoped to have a little time in which Watson and I might return to the model Crystal Palace, in any case. I have been thinking about ghosts, you see.”
The look Buxton gave him was a mixture of sudden anger and disappointment. “Ghosts, Mr Holmes?” he snapped, his temper flaring. “I had thought you were earnest in your claim that you could help, but if this is your idea of a joke, I assure you it is in very poor taste!”
Holmes was placatory. “Not at all, Mr Buxton. I am entirely serious, I assure you. Watson will confirm that I rarely joke, and never about an investigation.”
I nodded, though I was as much at a loss as Buxton. For his part, he looked between Holmes and me for a moment, then his shoulders sagged as though all fight had gone out of him again. He gave Holmes one last imploring look, then turned and shuffled from the room. I listened to his heavy tread on the stairs, and watched Holmes chew on a piece of toast.
“Really, Holmes?” I said eventually, “Ghosts?”
In reply, Holmes merely took another bite and smiled.
* * *
So cold was it outside that I almost decided to stay in the house by the fire. Only Holmes’s direct request that I accompany him convinced me to don boots and a heavy coat to tramp once more far across the snow-covered garden.
Not unexpectedly, the palace was unchanged since the previous day, which made the reason for a second visit so soon after the first perplexing to me. I said as much to Holmes, as he led us on a complete circuit of the peculiar structure, before coming to a thoughtful halt at the front, directly in front of the building’s stone section.
“We have returned because this building hides its mystery in the open for all to see, but even so I fail to see it. I am like a newly deaf man to whom a friend wishes to tell a great secret. He shouts and shouts but is not understood. This Crystal Palace shouts to me, Watson, and it irritates me greatly that I cannot hear it.”
“It shouts to you, Holmes? In what way? And what is this mystery that you cannot see? I must admit that, to me, it appears much as the same as every other oddity in these gardens; a ridiculous folly constructed to amuse those who should know better.”
“It can be both, Watson,” Holmes chided me. “Both a folly and a mystery. But what it is not is the same as the lake and the maze and the others. Their purpose is solely to entertain, in one way or another. Consider this Crystal Palace, though,” he said, waving his hand in a wide arc to encompass the whole structure. “What stands out so clearly that it cannot be ignored?”
I looked, but as before it appeared to be nothing more than a copy of the marvellous glass edifice I had seen at Sydenham. “If you are deaf, Holmes, then I must be blind into the bargain, for I confess I can see nothing,” I said.
“But its very name gives it away!” he cried in exasperation. “It is a palace made of crystal. Every inch of the original is comprised of clear glass panes, and yet this imitation only mimics that in part. The wings,” he gestured left and right, “are as expected, and if you peer through them you can see there is nothing inside. But the centre section… why build that of stone, if the intention is not to hide something within it? And if there is a vault inside, it must be possible to gain access to it.” He groaned and kicked at the moss-covered ground in frustration. “I thought that approaching the matter afresh this morning might provide new insight…”
His voice tailed off and his eyes took on the hooded aspect that was a reliable indicator he was now deep in thought. He pressed his hands against the stonework, then his face, pushing his cheek hard against the brick as his fingers slowly stepped from stone to stone. I edged towards him, curious to see what he was doing, and he hissed for me to be still. So intense was his concentration that I found myself holding my breath as he shut his eyes and continued his exploration of the palace.
“It is a lock!” he cried at last, stepping back from the wall. “This whole section is a lock!”
I heaved in a deep breath with some relief and raised an eyebrow. “How so, Holmes?” I asked. “What kind of lock?”
He laughed with the delight of discovery and beckoned me towards him. “Come closer, Watson, and rest your ear lightly on the brickwork here,” he said, indicating a spot to his left. “Now listen very carefully.”
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br /> I did as he asked. Slowly, he laid the palm of his hand on the nearest of the stone “panes” which decorated the palace’s central section, and gently pressed inwards. Faintly, as though the sound were coming from far away, I heard a soft click, followed by a brief and swiftly cut off ticking sound. Holmes moved his hand to the next “pane” and repeated the exercise, with the same results.
“Six rows of four squares mimicking individual panes of glass,” he said, “plus two more at the bottom, representing the doors in the original structure. And twenty-six letters in the alphabet. This is a coded lock, Watson, I am sure of it. It obviously works on the same basis as the combination of a safe, only using letters rather than numbers. Once you press the panes in the correct sequence, a mechanism opens an entrance of some sort.” His admiration was plain. “Quite ingenious, and virtually impossible to crack, as we have no way of knowing the combination, nor even how long it need be.”
“Could we not break it open?” I asked. “I assume you think that the missing art collection must be hidden there. Or the Thorpe Ruby!”
Holmes laughed. “Not the ruby, Watson. This was only built forty years ago, remember!” His face clouded. “As for breaking it open, I am not sure that would be a good idea, even if it were possible. These walls are thick, and a great deal of force would be required to break through them. If, however, the missing works of art are indeed inside, the risk of damaging them would be equally great. No, I think it best that we report our findings to Mr Thompson when we leave, and allow him to take such action as his employer directs.”
While he spoke I had idly been trying some of the more obvious combinations, and now I saw that Holmes was observing me with a sardonic smile playing about his lips.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--Sherlock Holmes and the Crusader's Curse Page 7
