The Great Detective: His Further Adventures. Marvin Kaye

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      “It was the blood, sir. There was so much of it everywhere. On the grass, on the log, on poor Mr. Wolkner. That’s how I knew he was dead.” She turned again and walked away.

      Holmes nodded at her receding figure and walked up the steps to the cabin door and unlocked it. Inside, we found a large room with a stone fireplace and a few chairs and a small dining table. There were smaller rooms on either side of the large room. One was fitted as a kitchen with a stove, a wash basin, a counter, and some cupboards. The other room contained a large bed.

      “Seems like something out of one of those American wild west dime novels, podnuh,” I said to Holmes, trying to make a small joke.

      “Very much so. What do you make of those?” He pointed to a wall with a series of hooks from which a conglomeration of clothes hung. There was an army uniform with unpolished buttons hanging from one hook. Army boots and a pair of Wellingtons were beneath it on the floor.

      “Sloppy soldiering,” I said.

      “Not at all, dear friend. There were not to be worn at tattoo but for hunting. If the buttons were polished, their brightness would scare away the birds.”

      I also saw a patched woolen loden hunting jacket, its bright green long faded from use.

      “What do you deduce from the hunting jacket, dear fellow?”

      “That our late Mr. Wolkner was not a man to spend money unnecessarily. It looks like something one would find at the old clothes market on Gloucester Street.”

      “Quite so. Anything else?”

      “I hadn’t thought he was that smallish,” I said, noting the jacket’s size.

      “Precisely.” He took his pipe out and filled it. “I want to sit outside for a while and calculate. Would you be good enough, old boy, to rummage around and see if there’s any tea and put a kettle on?”

      While I ransacked the cupboards. Holmes dragged one of the chairs out onto the porch. When I brought him his tea, his pipe was lit and he was lost in thought. Without saying a word, I set the cup down next to him and went back inside and poured myself a cup. I had brought a recent treatise on gunshot wounds and blood poisoning to read on the train, but the tale Holmes related was so fascinating, I had left the little monograph untouched. Sitting in one of the chairs, I now pulled out the treatise and began to read. Some time had passed, I knew not how much for I had become as lost in thought as my colleague, before I noted his presence back inside the cabin.

      “Watson, I have considered much here and there is still much more to consider. I think I’ll have a short lie down.” He walked into the bedroom and closed the door behind him. By the time he awoke, the afternoon had grown late and we immediately set off for the manor. When we reached the house, it was almost dusk. Our driver and the hansom cab were nowhere to be found.

      Anger flooded through me. “Good lord, Holmes, how on earth are we to get back to Dorchester? And our luggage? It is gone. What are we to do?”

      My colleague appeared unperturbed by the matter but I persisted. “Perhaps someone in the village can drive us? Let us ask Mrs. Wolkner.”

      Essie answered the door and ushered us in. I saw our bags resting on the floor and immediately felt relieved. “Look Holmes, our bags. Perhaps the driver has not left us after all?”

      “I’m afraid not, sir,” Essie said to me. “When I returned from the cabin, the driver and the cab were gone. Only the bags were there, sitting on the ground, so I brought them inside.”

      “Thank you, dear woman,” I said to her. “But how are we to get back to Dorchester? Is there anyone in the village who can drive us?” As I asked the question, Mrs. Wolkner came down the stairs, hobbling slightly and assisted by a splendid looking brass-topped walking stick.

      “I am afraid it’s too late to return to Dorchester. You will not find a coachman willing to navigate these treacherous country lanes at night. But there are guest rooms here at the manor, and it would not be an inconvenience to put you up. In the morning, I will send Essie into the village to find someone to drive you.”

      Holmes gave a little bow to the woman. “That is very kind of you, Mrs. Wolkner, but the hunting cabin will be sufficient. There is a fireplace and wood outside.”

      “Very well, Mr. Holmes. I will have Essie pack some food for you and prepare a lantern, for the walk at night is not easy.” She gestured at her ankle. “As you see, a turned ankle can happen anywhere.”

      Holmes smiled thinly. “Yes, I do see. Thank you, you are most generous with your hospitality.”

      * * * *

      “That blasted coachman.” Anger had flooded me because of the situation he placed us in. Mrs. Wolkner was right. Even though the path was clear and we had trod it only an hour or so ago, the walk was dangerous in the pitch black night. And carrying our luggage and the basket of food made it even more dicey.

      “Now, dear fellow, is that anyway for a physician of your stature to speak?”

      “If you twist your ankle like Mrs. Wolkner, ask me that question again.”

      My anger was soon tempered, however, by the delicious food Essie had prepared for us. In the basket was a roast chicken, boiled potatoes, and a wedge of Stilton cheese, two bottles of beer and a bottle of port. While I set out the dishes, Holmes prepared a fire and we ate and drank as fine a meal as Mrs. Hudson had ever prepared for us at our lodgings.

      Afterwards, I made tea and Holmes poured the last of the Jameson into our cups and we drank.

      “What do you make of Mrs. Wolkner?” he asked after a long stretch of silence.

      “You already asked me that.”

      “No, I mean her state when we saw her tonight.”

      “She seemed to be holding up well; nerves calm considering the death of her husband and now the injury to her ankle. I must say, that was an exquisite walking stick she was using. I have never seen one like it. With a brass top. Oriental, I gather?”

      “Quite so. Teak with Buddhist carvings, but its head is gold-plated.”

      “Fascinating.”

      “I agree, Watson, I agree. Fascinating.” Holmes finished the last of his tea and Jameson and stood. “I think I will take a walk outside and look at the Ogham stone.”

      “It’s a shame that Essie O’Brien doesn’t understand them. For your curiosity about them seems rather high.”

      “Not to worry, Watson. For during my self-exile on Inis Oírr I met the most wonderful and delightful intellect I had ever come across, an erudite monk named Brother Kenneth who, when in his cups, wrote the most lovely Erse poetry. There were many the stormy nights when Brother Kenneth and I sat by the fire with cups of hot tea and Jameson and discussed Ogham and the Ogham stones. Not only did my knowledge of that ancient language expand, but by delving into the mysteries of the Ogham Stones, I was able to satisfy my ongoing interest in codes and ciphers. And the Ogham Stones proved to be the most difficult ciphers of my career. Yet, as I expected, I eventually cracked them. I certainly shall have no trouble understanding this one.”

      Holmes СКАЧАТЬ