Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Three: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition (Boxed Sets Book 3)

by Craig Stephen Copland

  Shortly after four o’clock in the morning, just as the first shades of dawn were seen on the eastern horizon, one of the hotel staff gave a shout. “There are the lights. They’re back. They’re safe.” A cheer went up that almost immediately turned to horrified silence. The tree guides appeared, running back up the steep path toward us. They were alone.

  The one in front was gasping for breath. He began speaking as he climbed back up the last part of the trail. “The fire’s already across the trail. We couldn’t cross it.”

  “Could you not get around it?” cried the innkeeper.

  “Tried. Impossible. The terrain is impassable and the fire is moving faster than we could. We had to turn and run for our lives. The only chance we have now is to run in from the north side. Sir,” he said, looking at the innkeeper, “we need your car. Can someone drive us around to Glossup? We will have to try from the Sheffield Road. It’s our only hope.”

  “Take my car,” shouted the innkeeper. “But that will take at least another four hours. When the wind comes up, the fire will move far too fast.”

  “Then you better pray,” said the guide, “for a change in the wind direction. Otherwise, they will all be roasted.” He turned and ran toward the garage. The hotel car was backed out, a driver got in along with the guides and they sped off toward Hayfield. Within a minute, the sound of the car engine had faded and we returned to our silent and fearful vigil.

  By five o’clock there was a faint light in the eastern sky and, as feared, the morning breeze from the west had begun to pick up. Holmes, the innkeeper and I continued to stand and look into the valley. I said a prayer for a change in the wind, but it was now beyond praying.

  “How many are there?” asked the innkeeper.

  “My information,” said Holmes, “is that there are thirty boys, aged between eight and twelve, four fathers who are the scout leaders, and four marines, who arrived just yesterday.”

  “The marines should be able to help,” I said, knowing at the time that it was a foolish comment.

  “They are good,” said Holmes, “in many places, but not much use against a raging forest fire. No one is.”

  For several minutes, no one spoke. We watched the fire creeping further up the distant hill, moving faster with each passing minute. To fill the silence, I spoke.

  “Had you suspected George Burnwell all along?”

  “He was certainly on the top of my list, along with the daughter. He could have just been a pawn for the thugs in the Beryl Anarchist faction. I could not tell. And it had not been possible to eliminate the brothers, nor the maid and her avaricious boyfriend, nor even the partner, Stevenson. It was obvious that Burnwell and the daughter had a passionate if illicit understanding going on between them. The brothers were clearly alienated from their father but would have to have been absurdly foolish to bring financial ruin upon him and thus lose their allowance and their inheritance. Hatred between family members does cloud rational thinking, but accepting those consequences requires a burning self-destructive desire for revenge and I just did not see that in them. The volumptumus maid is oddly astute but seemed to be far too interested in flirting with her daily admirers to be distracted with an intricate crime. The partner, Stevenson, would go down along with the Holder ship, so I eventually ruled him out.

  “That left Burnwell and Mary. The inevitable conclusion is that she had learned the combination of the safe, and, given her passion for him, had handed it over. I would deduce that he had promised her that they would both become fabulously rich, and that the only ones to truly suffer would be the local aristocrats who were hiding their shameful secrets.”

  “Given him the combination?” I said incredulously. “But you cracked that safe open in no time and proved that any one of a hundred thieves could have done it.”

  Holmes smiled grimly. “No Watson, I deliberately deflected attention from those responsible, hoping by doing so that they would become over-confident, play their next hand, and expose themselves. In truth, I said that I knew five men who could have opened it. Three of them are in prison, two as a result of my helping Lestrade. One has fled to America, and I am the fifth. Of the hundred locksmiths, I referred to only a handful have the requisite skill and they are of unquestioned character and bonded fully by Lloyds. Frankly, that safe was a miserable thing to open. It took me twenty full minutes of concentrated effort and even then, I nearly gave up.

  “I elected to let the blackmail against the Hairfields go ahead, thinking that there would be a protracted series of negotiations, during which I would find enough clues to identify the thieves.”

  “But,” I said, “you had not anticipated such enlightened and opportunistic victims.”

  “Correct. And neither did I expect that Mr. Atherley would be such a jingoistic fool as to refuse to enter negotiations when his daughter’s life was in the balance. I am afraid that I shall have to live with that one.”

  For another ten minutes, he was silent and then he spoke in a whisper. “And I did not, in all my days upon this earth, expect that I would be present and witnessing the most horrific slaughter of innocent children since the days of Herod. Within an hour, all of those boys and men will be burned alive. They will die in unimaginable panic and pain.”

  He fell again into silence. A few of the hotel guests had learned of what was taking place and stood with us at the edge of the valley, all thrilling with horror but too transfixed to turn away.

  By six in the morning, the sun was up and the breeze had stiffened. The line of the fire, now a raging inferno, was within a few hundred yards of the top of the Kinder Scout peak. Within another hour, it would be over the peak and descending on those sitting defenseless and unsuspecting on the far side.

  We stood, all silently praying for anything … that the prevailing westerly winds would do an about face, or that a rainstorm would miraculously tumble out of a blue sky. I looked at the horizon, at least seven times, maybe more, but no small cloud like a man’s hand appeared. I stood in utter silence, the only sound I heard was my own heart pounding, and my labored breathing.

  And then I heard another sound.

  Chapter Ten

  A Bat Out of Hell

  AT FIRST, IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN a distant locust, quietly buzzing in a far-off tree. And then it increased and I thought that a swarm of bees must be close. But there were no bees to be seen and the sound was getting louder. It was coming from the village and increasing every second. Soon it became a mechanical roar, ever increasing until it was almost deafening. I looked at Holmes and he looked back, both of us clearly in total incomprehension.

  Then, entering into the long driveway of the hotel, there appeared a man on a large motorcycle. Behind him was another, then another, then another. An entire column of them was thundering toward us. “Get back!” I shouted at the small crowd. We parted and the first massive machine, the Brough 1200, raced past us. Hitting the edge of the trail at speed it lofted into the air, landing several yards down into the valley and spitting back waves of grit and gravel. The rider was dressed in full leather and his legs instinctively spread out and balanced the huge machine as it fishtailed down the slope. Right behind him came another motorcycle, this one a Norton Big Four, just like the one I had been on a few hours ago. It likewise sped over the lip on the valley and landed on the trail below. Then came another, and another. The combined sound was louder than anything I had ever heard since my time of being knocked off my feet by the explosions on a battlefield. The earth was trembling and the air was thick with grit, dust, and exhaust fumes. I was not counting but when the last one had leapt over the edge of the valley, I estimated that some forty Big Fours had roared past us.

  We all stood watching them as they disappeared into the forest on the near side of the valley.

  I heard Holmes whisper to himself, “C’est manifique, mais ce n’est pas la guerre. They are too late. The fire is already across the trail and they cannot drive around it anymore than the guides could run around i
t.”

  I dropped my head in despair, my heart palpitating with fear. Briefly, I lifted my field glasses and looked down into the valley. The entire column of motorcycles had stopped on the valley floor. In front of them was about a hundred yards of open flat trail, burned over but clear, and then came the zone of the inferno. I then pulled down the glasses and looked with my naked eyes, not believing what I was witnessing. Every one of the riders had pulled out a muffler and was wrapping it around the lower portion of his face.

  “Oh, dear God in Heaven,” I muttered quietly. “They are going to run the fire. They are going to ride into hell.”

  I handed the field glasses up to Holmes. He watched and slowly lowered them.

  “They have a chance,” he said. “The fire is mainly in the crowns of the trees. The line of flames is not wide. They odds are not good, but they have a chance.”

  The man with the first motorcycle, the Brough, raised his hand and gave a wave to those behind him. His bike took off like a shot and by the time it hit the inferno zone, it must have been moving at near to one hundred miles an hour. It disappeared into the blaze. I stopped breathing. It was a very long seven seconds and then I saw the bike blast through the wall of smoke on the far side. He continued on up the hill until the other riders could see him. The first in line gave another wave and took off. One by one they tore into the wall of flame and one by one they appeared on the far side. Within five minutes all of them were straddling their bikes above the zone of the flames. I could see some of them clasping their hands together, reaching from one bike across to the next. I shouted a spontaneous hurrah and gave Holmes a slap on the back.

  Holmes looked at me but was not smiling. “They still have to find the boys and get them out of there. The only way out will be to run them down the north side. There is no trail there. The bikes will be useless. The fire is moving far too quickly. I would not get my hopes up.”

  He was right. These courageous men had ridden through the flames but were still not likely to be able to save those on the far side of the peak. I looked up to the top of the peak, now fully exposed in the morning sun. It was a foolish act, as I knew there was no way I could see over to the far side, but I looked all the same.

  I lowered the glasses and, one more time with my naked eyes, stared in disbelief. I handed the glasses to Holmes. “The top of the peak,” I said. “Look. Now!”

  He did and handed the glasses back and I looked again. Coming along the path over the top of the peak was a column of people … on foot … marching. They were walking toward the bikers and no more than a hundred yards separated them.

  “What is happening up there?” I asked, looking at Holmes.

  “Somehow,” said Holmes, “they not only knew to get moving, but they knew to march directly toward the forest fire. Perhaps you did not notice, Watson, but every one of those motorcycles that roared past us had a blanket or two rolled up and lashed behind the driver.” Here he paused and looked again through the glasses. “They are going to run the boys back through the fire.”

  He handed me the glasses and I observed that the now assembled scouts, bikers, and marines were moving quickly. The marines and fathers were lifting the smaller boys onto the seats behind the drivers and folding their legs up so that they sat cross-legged, protecting their bare lower legs. Embers from the fire were falling on them and they kept whisking them away before the lads could be burned. The older boys were climbing on behind other drivers and pulling a blanket around them. Then the marines and fathers finally climbed on behind the small boys and pulled a blanket tightly around the two of them. One after the other they took off toward the encroaching wall of flame.

  Now the run was downhill. It took less than five seconds for each of them to appear in the burnt-over area below the fire. One by one they came through and they kept going along the floor of the valley and turned up and into the forest just below us. Soon they had all departed from the area just above the fire … except for one lone bike. It was hard to tell, what with the smoke now obscuring my vision, but the occasional flashes of sunlight reflecting off the chrome said that the big Brough had not yet begun its return. Through the waves of smoke, I could see two figures, one with his arm around the other, helping him. He lifted the chap on to the back of the big bike, wrapped a blanket around him, climbed on and immediately disappeared into the fire. A few seconds later the Brough emerged from the other side of the fire and came flying along the floor of the valley.

  It was another ten minutes before the first bike appeared at the top of the valley and came to a stop in the parking area where we were waiting. The blanket had been discarded and I could see a big marine, his muscular arms surrounding a small boy in a scouting uniform. He hopped off his seat and lifted the lad onto the ground. The boy’s eyes gave evidence that a few minutes ago he had been crying. Now he ran back to the edge of the valley and watched the rest of his troop arrive on the remaining bikes. He ran back to the marine and with a beaming face, said, “Crikey, that was terrific. Thanks, Captain Osmond.”

  “Captain Osmond,” I said to the marine. “How could you possibly have known to get the boys up and marching toward the fire?”

  “The woman,” said he. “In the middle of the night, this woman came running through the camp like a bat out of hell, screaming at us to get the boys up and get out of there. She’s screaming at us about a forest fire, but then she becomes calm and forceful and says that the rescuers are on their way, but we have to march toward the fire. If we try to go north, we won’t have a chance. I ran up to the top of Kinder Scout and I can see that she is right. So, we started marching straight toward hell.”

  “Where did she come from?” I asked.

  “Like I said sir, a bat out of hell. She had run through the fire.”

  Within a few more seconds, the cub scouts were all gathered together and laughing and talking. Some were pointing out places on their uniforms where embers had burned through. A couple of the women who were guests at the hotel were going over the bodies of the lads, making sure that they were not injured. There were one or two who had suffered small burns, but not so badly as to interrupt their whoops and laughter.

  Some of the older boys and the fathers were not so lucky. They had been wearing scouting shorts and their lower legs could not be covered by the blankets. Several had quite serious burns and, not having my medical bag with me, I did what I could and immediately had some cold water poured onto the worst sports. We were under an hour by car from the hospital in Manchester and, if necessary, they could be sent there for treatment. Some were sent off but none, however, were anxious to leave the place where all had now crowded together.

  The last bike now slowly pulled over the edge of the valley. The passenger was still clutching a blanket. The driver got off and helped the chap behind him do the same. Someone pointed them over to me, and I heard the word “doctor.” The passenger chap must have been injured as he was limping badly. But he had enough strength to unfasten and remove his leather helmet and I watched in shock as a large volume of blonde hair fell out. The goggles were removed and I recognized the face of Miss Mary Holder. She had several severe burns on her face and hands which I knew would not be serious to her health but would leave disfiguring scars. I could see by the bulge in her riding boot that something untoward had happened to her ankle. I took my penknife out of my pocket and slowly cut down on her boot until it could be pulled off. Her teeth were clenched in pain and I knew that along with the pain from the burns she might be close to passing out. Instead, she took a deep breath, extended her hand to the man who had driven her, now standing without his helmet and obviously Mr. Arthur Holder. He helped her over to a car that was waiting to take those who needed medical treatment into Manchester. He made as if to get in along with her but she waved him off and the car departed, leaving Arthur Holder standing alone.

  Two local police constables had arrived at the hotel and had given instructions to everyone involved that they could not leave. The
y would all have to be questioned. Officers from Scotland Yard were on their way. Terribly sorry, of course, but such things cannot be avoided. The hotel would provide cold drinks and snacks.

  Chapter Eleven

  Let the Fire Take Me

  “COME, WATSON,” SAID HOLMES. “We need to have a word with Arthur Holder.” We walked up to the chap who was still looking in the direction of the car that had recently departed, taking his step-sister to the hospital.

  “Arthur Holder, my name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my colleague, Dr. Watson. Might we have a few words with you?”

  He looked at Holmes and smiled. “Of course, Mr. Holmes. If it were not for you, some forty people would now be dead, along with the woman I love. So how can I help you?”

  “A conversation over an ale would be in order,” said Holmes. We entered the hotel bar and found a quiet section, fortunate that the Boy Scouts had a strict abstinence policy that rendered them all stuck in the breakfast room.

  “I must admit,” began Holmes, “that I was surprised when you and your friends arrived here. Would you mind explaining just how that came about?”

  “Happy to. A few hours ago, I got a phone call from my sister saying get my arse and my bike and my friends over to Kinder Scout right way. So here we are.” He grinned and took a sip on his beer.

  “Perhaps,” said Holmes, smiling in return, “you could back up just a little. A few more details from the past would help to tell your story; from the beginning.”

  “Right sir. I suppose then that I should start when Eric and I got back from the war. No, maybe before we went off to war. Yes. I can start there.” He paused and reflected.

  “In fact, before that. I’ll start the day our mother died.

  “It was the summer of 1893. Eric and I were just thirteen and Mary was no more than four. Dad and our mother, and Uncle Phil and Aunt Lillian, and Eric, Mary and I were on a beach holiday down at Brighton. The children were left with a governess and the adults all went out boating. A storm came up and they capsized. My aunt and uncle drowned, leaving Mary an orphan. My mother drowned, but dad was a strong swimmer and he made it to shore. Maybe it was not fair of us, but Eric and I have always believed that dad could have saved them all and that he was a selfish coward and only saved himself.