The Lost Radio Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (19 page)

“But Holmes, we’re
not armed,” I exclaimed. “They certainly are. They probably won’t even let us
in.”

“Yes they will,
Watson. We have an infallible key to entry. A woman’s vanity. Come on.”

Quickly taking
the initiative, Holmes walked straight up to the door and knocked, Le Villard
and I behind him. When the door opened, it was Miss Favisham we saw once again
standing before us.

“Oh,” she said, “so
you came back. I thought you wouldn’t be able to resist my challenge to a
pistol match, Mr. Holmes.”

“Exactly, Miss
Favisham. We had difficulty in finding a cab and decided to take a train back
to London. The schedule meant an hour’s wait, so I thought I’d accept your
challenge.”

“Good. Come in.
We’ll go into the back garden. Don’t talk loudly, uncle is trying to sleep in
the next room.”

“Doris,” came
the familiar voice of Quilter, “don’t bring anyone into my room. I want to sleep!”

“If your uncle
wants to sleep, it seems an odd sort of lullaby, shooting pistols,” I
proffered.

“He’s used to
that, doctor. This way, gentlemen.”

The four of us
entered the garden, proving to me that, indeed, Miss Favisham and the man we
had called Quilter had not seen us when we were searching the grounds only
moments ago.

“Here we are,” Miss
Favisham said, “this is a fifty yard range, Mr. Holmes. Three shots. Best
accurate score wins. How much do you want to bet?”

“You name the
stakes, Miss Favisham.”

“A sovereign?”

“Certainly. Now,
won’t you please take the first three shots?”

“Very well.
There are six bullets in this revolver. All right, here I go.”

Miss Favisham
paused for a moment to steady herself, took careful aim, then slowly fired.
One. Two. Three shots.

“Bravo, Miss
Favisham, Bravo,” I said. “A splendid job.”

“A bull’s eye
and two inners. I could do better. Your turn, Mr. Holmes,” she said.

The door to the
study opened and a small man came forth, a stern look on his face.

“Doris,” he
said, “who are these men?”

“Friends of mine,”
she returned, “I’ll introduce you in a minute, Jeffrey. We’re in the middle of
a match at the moment. Your turn, Mr. Holmes.”

“Revolver,
please.”

“Here you are.
You’re sure you know how to handle a revolver?” she asked.

“Oh, quite sure,
thank you.”

“Then why are
you pointing it at me?”

“Because I want
you to raise your hands above your head, Miss Favisham. You too, whatever your
name is!”

“Doris, who are
these men?” said the man called Jeffrey.

“Put up your
hands!” Holmes insisted with cold determination, “I shan’t hesitate to shoot, I
assure you!”

“What in Heavens
name do you think you are up to?” said Miss Favisham in anger.

“Finding out
what became of the real Mr. Quilter,” Holmes replied. “Search the man, Watson.
Le Villard, go in the house and check everything, please.”

“Holmes,” I
exclaimed, “this man had a revolver on his hip!”

“Keep him
covered with it. Now, sir, who are you? From your resemblance to the man in the
wheelchair that we saw earlier, I should say you’re a member of the same family.”

“We’re both
relatives of Mr. Quilter,” Miss Favisham said.

“That’s right.
My name’s Davies. I’m from the Australian branch of the family.”

“Relatives. Yes,”
Holmes said, “and doubtless you stood to inherit his estate in the event of
Quilter’s death. You moved in on this defenseless old man, terrorized him,
lived off him and finally found it necessary to destroy him.”

“You’re . . .
you’re talking absolute rubbish,” yelled Miss Favisham.

“He’s telling
the truth and you know it. I can tell by your expressions,” I said, my anger
rising.

“Move back into
the house, both of you,” Holmes demanded, pointing the gun squarely at Davies.

Slowly,
deliberately, Holmes forced the two back into the house, never once taking his
eyes from them.

“All right, lead
the way to the study. The man posing as Quilter is still there. We heard him
call out as we came in.”

“Yes,” I added, “we
might as well confront the three of them together.”

We entered the
study, with Miss Favisham and Davies going on before us. There, in the wheelchair,
was Mr. Quilter.

“He’s still
seated in the chair, Holmes. Though he seems to be asleep,” I said.

“Le Villard!”
Holmes yelled, “did you find anything?”

“Not a trace of
the missing man, Monsieur Holmes,” he returned, joining us in the study.

Holmes turned
his stony cold eyes on the conspirators.

“Davies, what
did you do with Mr. Quilter?”

“I didn’t do
anything with him,” Davies insisted.

“Of course not,”
Miss Favisham added, “he’s sitting there in that chair!”

“It’s no good
lying to us. We know that man’s an imposter,” I said.

“But this is a
fantastic situation,” Holmes exclaimed in disbelief. “Nobody’s left this house
since the telegram arrived and nobody has entered it. And yet, Mr. Quilter has
vanished.”

“Good Lord,” I
said, quite perplexed, “how can that man sleep through all this talking. You’d
think he’d been drugged.”

“Le Villard! We’re
idiots!” Holmes exclaimed, “you are unquestionably the most promising detective
in France, and some people have been kind enough to grant me a similar status
in England, and yet my old friend Watson has just solved the case!”

“Really, Holmes?
What are you talking about? How could I solve it? Explain yourself,” I asked,
completely dumbfounded by Holmes’ words.

“Listen, Watson,
listen to the breathing of that man in the chair. He
has
been drugged! There sits the real Mr.
Quilter, the persecuted victim who sent a cipher message for help!”

“But Holmes,” I
said, “the man we spoke to earlier?”

“Was you, Mr.
Davies, impersonating Quilter. After you had received us, you took off your
disguise, adopted an Australian accent, and hid your drugged victim by placing
him in his own wheelchair, knowing that would be the last place we’d look for
him!”

“They would have
kept him here until we’d gone, and then murdered him,” Le Villard said.

“What a devilish
plot, Holmes!” I exclaimed.

Suddenly, Miss
Favisham, trembling and near to tears, spoke out.

“It was Jeffrey’s
idea, not mine,” she said frantically. “I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“That’s a dirty
lie! You’re in this as much as I am,” yelled Mr. Davies, his hands clenched in
rage as if he were ready to strike her.

“Oh, that’s
splendid,” Holmes managed with disgust. “Yes, it’s really charming. Please
continue the argument, won’t you? It will make interesting evidence in court.”

“You can’t take
us to court!” Miss Favisham yelled.

“Of course you
can’t,” added Mr. Davies. “What’s the charge? Quilter’s still alive, isn’t he?”

“When Mr.
Quilter revives, under Dr. Watson’s ministrations,” Holmes said calmly, “you
will be charged, I have no doubt, with attempted murder, abduction, duress, and
probably several other counts. Monsieur Le Villard, if you’ll find us a cab, we’ll
take these miscreants to Scotland Yard. Our work is done!”

Return to table of contents

TOWARDS
the end of November in the year of 1896, a dense yellow fog had
settled over London. For almost a week it was impossible, from our rooms in
Baker Street, to see the outline of the houses opposite. It was a most
depressing time for Holmes and myself. Oftentimes, if I was not working upon a
story about my friend Holmes, I would mull over the events in the
London Times.
It was as if the entire city had
come to a standstill, the fog never lifting for a moment, day or night.

To me, it seemed
especially hard on my friend Holmes, for he has always been of a restless,
surging nature, and to be so trapped in his own lodgings was tantamount to
being exiled from the world of crime detection that was so dear to his heart.

The first day of
the fog Holmes spent at cross-indexing his huge books of criminal references.
On the second and third days he tried to patiently occupy himself with a
subject he had recently made his hobby, the music of the Middle Ages. But, on
the fourth day when, pushing back his chair after breakfast, he saw the heavy
fog, laced with factory soot swirling past him, Holmes’ impatient and active
nature could no longer endure this drab existence.

He paced
restlessly about our sitting room, chaffing against the inaction. After several
minutes of these perambulations, he turned to me and spoke.

“I take it there
is nothing of interest in the paper, Watson?” he said nervously.

“There’s news of
a possible revolution, and an impending change in the government. Nothing to
interest you, though. No crimes of any importance.”

“It seems the
London criminal is certainly a dull and unenterprising fellow these days. Look
out of the window, Watson. See below, how the figures of people loom up, are
dimly seen and then blend once more into the foggy depths. What a day for a
thief or a murderer! He could roam London as the tiger does the jungle, unseen
until he pounces, evident only to his victim.”

“That’s a
cheerful thought,” I said facetiously.

At that moment,
Holmes and I could hear the doorbell below.

“Hello, I wonder
who that is? You expecting someone, Holmes?”

“No. It’s
probably a visitor for Mrs. Hudson, or perhaps the local plumber has finally
condescended to pay some attention to the faulty gas jet in our hallway.”

“I don’t think
you’re right on either count,” I interjected. “I can hear Mrs. Hudson’s
footsteps on the stairs.” In a moment Mrs. Hudson knocked on our door and then
entered. She announced that there was a gentleman to see Holmes.

She handed him
the man’s card, which he quickly glanced at, a genuine smile of surprise
crossing his face.

“Mortimer
Harley, eh? Show him up, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Very good, sir,”
she returned, then went to fetch Mr. Harley.

“Mortimer
Harley, and who might that be, Holmes?”

“I’ve not had
the pleasure of meeting him personally, but I’m quite familiar with his
scientific reputation.”

“Well, don’t
keep me in suspense, Holmes, tell me about him. In what does he specialize?”

“I suppose one
might refer to him as one of the greatest authorities on all matters pertaining
to the occult.”

“You mean the
fellow dabbles in supernatural stuff, and all that sort of thing?” I asked, my
curiosity peaking.

“I mean, my dear
Watson, that Mortimer Harley is an extremely intelligent man with a thoroughly
comprehensive and scholarly knowledge of his field, and an intense belief in
the existence of the supernatural force.”

Holmes had just
finished his words to me when Mr. Harley was ushered into our rooms. In the
short moment it took for Mrs. Hudson to leave us alone with this prospective
client, I had occasion to observe the man. He was of slight build, impeccably
dressed and, although in his later years, seemed quite fit for his age.

“You are Mr.
Sherlock Holmes?” he said, in a quiet and most cultured voice.

“Yes, and this
is my colleague, Dr. Watson.”

“How do you do,
Mr. Harley, won’t you sit down?” I said, gesturing to a chair.

He seated
himself across from Holmes and I, carefully adjusting his clothing before
turning to us.

“Well,” he said,
“you are probably wondering who I am and, and what’s brought me here.”

“We’re not
wondering who you are, Mr. Harley,” I said. “My friend Holmes was just telling
me of your scientific eminence.”

“I am certainly
flattered that you know of me, Mr. Holmes; just the same, you may be wondering
why I am here.”

“Please, be so
kind as to inform us of your problem,” Holmes said, leaning back in his
favorite chair and casually lighting his pipe.

“Mr. Holmes,
have you ever heard of the Headless Monk of Trevenice chapel?”

“Yes indeed, Mr.
Harley. An apparition to be counted among our more ‘intangible’ national
treasures,” Holmes commented with a certain amount of sarcasm in his voice.

“I am sorry to
appear stupid, gentlemen, but I have never heard of the Headless Monk of
whatever-it-is chapel.”

“Well, then, let
me tell you about it, doctor. Trevenice manor, in Cornwall, was once an abbey.

“It was
appropriated during the reign of Henry the Eighth, and several of the monks
were killed in some of the ‘minor difficulties’ attendant on such an act. But
one of the murdered monks, a certain Brother Hugh, the chapel organist, was
persistent. He still haunts the chapel today, and still plays the organ. And
since he was beheaded, he always appears headless.”

“A charming
little story, Mr. Harley,” I said, quite amused, “but you don’t expect us to believe
it’s anything but a legend, surely.”

“Ah, a skeptic,
eh? How about you, Mr. Holmes?”

“I’m extremely
curious to know why you would come to see me, Mr. Harley.”

“I’ll tell you
why. I have a rare opportunity to investigate the phenomena. You see, the son
of an old friend of mine, a young fellow by the name of Leonard Miles, is
secretary to the owner of Trevenice manor. It was he who asked me to stay
there, and I find the invitation irresistible. Particularly since the phenomena
have curiously increased of late, Mr. Holmes. Almost as though some, well,
mortal agency was motivating the appearances.”

“Now I see why
you have come to me, Mr. Harley.”

“I knew you
would understand, Mr. Holmes. You see, I’m like my good friend and fellow
investigator, Tarnacci. I believe in being prepared to meet phenomena on either
the natural or the supernatural plane. If the phenomena are real, then they
fall legitimately in my field—”

“Whereas,” Holmes
interrupted, “as I am sure you suspect, they are being contrived by human forces,
then you think that is more in my department.”

“Exactly.”

“What do you
say, Holmes,” I broke in with excitement. “A little trip to Cornwall would make
a nice few days. We’d probably escape this blasted fog down there!”

“To blazes with
the weather, Watson, I’m much more concerned with the fog that surrounds the
appearances of the Headless Monk of Trevenice Chapel. Mr. Harley, I accept your
invitation, with pleasure! There’s still time to catch the Cornish express, and
we can be at Trevenice Manor before the moon is up!”

Allowing us no
chance to reply, Holmes had already dashed into his bedroom and pulled down his
Inverness cape and deerstalker cap.

“Watson, be sure
to bring along your medical bag. We may find need for it. Hurry everyone, the
game’s afoot!”

Holmes knew that
I relished the chance to get away from London at every opportunity, especially
when on a case. I hardly had time to pack my bag before I found myself and Mr.
Harley being pushed by Holmes out the door and down the stairs. A short few words
to Mrs. Hudson explaining what we were up to, then out the front door as Holmes
hailed a Hansom.

Within minutes
we saw Victoria station loom up out of the swirling fog. The three of us had
just enough time to purchase our tickets and board the express.

Holmes, of
course, had been right. The moon was just making its appearance as the three of
us walked up towards the manor house. Mr. Harley gestured for us to follow him
as he turned towards the chapel.

“Don’t you think
that we should go to the manor house first, Mr. Harley?” I said, puzzled by his
action.

“No I don’t,
doctor. We’ll see enough of the others later. I simply can’t resist taking a
look at the chapel in moonlight. You understand, don’t you Holmes?”

“Yes, perfectly.
I must say it’s a fascinating piece of architecture.”

“It’s
practically a ruin though,” I added. “I don’t imagine it’s been in use for some
time.”

“And yet it’s
been standing for well over four hundred years, I should say. Let’s explore
inside, shall we?” Harley said in excited tones.

I stopped
suddenly at the foot of the great stone stairs leading into the chapel, for I
saw what appeared to be a dark and massive figure moving towards us.

“Hello, what’s
this coming towards us?”

“If I hadn’t
heard the sound of his footsteps,” said Harley, “I’d believe it was a psychic
manifestation.”

“He certainly
looks as if he came from beyond the grave!”

“Who be ye,
gentlemen?” said the man looming up before us. “Where be ye goin’?”

“Supposing you
tell us who you are first, my good man,” I said, somewhat taken aback by his
size.

“Who be I? I be
David Pendragon, sir, that’s who I be! Stable hand here at the manor. Now I ask
you gentlemen again, where you be goin’?”

“We’re staying
at the manor. We’re just going to take a look at the chapel,” Harley said
reassuringly.

“Oh, don’t ye do
that, sir. People ’at go in there don’t often come out the way they go in, sir.
Don’t ye do it, gentlemen!”

“What are you
talking about, my good fellow?” I said.

“I be talking
about the ghoulies, and the ghosties, and the organ music that comes out of the
nowheres.”

“You . . . you’ve
heard it,” Harley said excitedly.

“Course I heard
it, sir. Just like I seen the poor monk walkin’ around without his head on!”

“Take us into
the chapel, will you, and show us where you saw the figure.”

“Ah, that I will
not, sir, not for all the gold in Porthcall will I go back and chance seeing
the poor lost soul wandering about without his head on! If you gentlemen know
what’s good for ye, you’ll not go in there either! Mark my words! Don’t ye go
in that chapel!”

He turned and
walked away, his large and bulky frame casting a deep shadow across us. Night
was fully upon us and a cold and cutting wind had risen.

“What an
extraordinary chap. Seems really frightened of the place!”

“Yes,” Harley
said, “but it’s more than blind superstition that accounts for his reluctance.
Let’s go inside, shall we, doctor?”

As we moved into
the chapel, we found ourselves surrounded by deep and black shadows. Even
though outside it was dark, in the chapel it was even darker, and it took a
moment for our eyes to become accustomed to the meager light the moon cast
through the stained glass windows. Suddenly, the sound of an organ filled the
room, drawing me up short.

“Great Scott,” I
said, “listen to that! The ghost is playing the organ!”

“We’re extremely
fortunate. A psychic manifestation as soon as we entered the chapel!”

It was then,
amidst the dim light, that I noticed the organ and the figure playing it.

“Psychic
manifestation . . . rubbish!” I exclaimed, relaxing. “Look who’s sitting at the
keyboard. It’s Holmes!”

We rushed
forward until we stood by the organ, Holmes playing gently upon the keys.

“Holmes, you
frightened us to death. Didn’t he, Harley?”

“Speaking for
myself, doctor, he disappointed me. I thought it was a genuine phenomenon.”

“What do you
think you’re doing, Holmes? I was wondering where you were. I thought you were
still behind us.”

“I’m sorry if I
frightened you, Watson. I was curious about this organ, so I slipped in by the
side door ahead of you and tested the instrument. It’s in astonishingly good
condition for a disused chapel, don’t you think, Harley?”

“Yes, I do,
Holmes.”

“One might
reasonably presume that someone tends it with great care. In fact, I would go
further and say—”

“Who are you?
What are you doing in here!” came a woman’s voice out of the darkness. Holmes
turned towards where the voice had sounded, his eyes trying to pierce the black
shadows for some sign of its owner.

“We are guests
at the manor house, and we decided to pay a visit to the chapel before we paid
our respects to our host.”