The Lost Radio Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (28 page)

“We can take one
apiece, Mr. Holmes. Well, I’m glad to have met you both. I’ll probably see you
again. Goodbye.”

The young man
turned and, whistling loudly to himself, walked jauntily down the path.

“I don’t like
that fellow, Holmes,” I said, suspicion in my voice. “If you ask me, he’s the
man who has been frightening the poor girl that came to us. There was a
peculiar look on his face when you asked him if he was looking for Mary Victor.”

“There’s only
one person who can settle the question, and that’s the young lady herself. Come
on, Watson, let’s go back inside.”

“Wait Holmes,” I
interrupted, “here comes Wainwright, the owner of the canaries.” He was of
small stature, and yet his clothes seemed to fit him much too snugly. His large
head of graying hair was tossed to and fro by the swift breeze that had come up
from the sea.

“Good evening,
Mr. Wainwright!” I yelled at him as he came up to us.

“Good evening,
gentlemen.”

“This is my
friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the man I told you about yesterday.”

“I’m honored to
meet you, sir. Beautiful evening, isn’t it? I just took a stroll down to the
store to get some more bird seed. By the way, Mr. Holmes, I hope our canaries
don’t bother you. The little fellows are such a comfort to my wife and me.”

“No, no, not at
all, sir,” Holmes said. “I find their chirping very soothing.”

I looked at
Holmes in astonishment over this outright deceit, but kept my thoughts to
myself.

“I’m so glad,” Mr.
Wainwright said. “Good night, gentlemen.”

“Good night, Mr.
Wilson,” Holmes returned.

“Not Wilson, Mr.
Holmes. It’s Wainwright.”

“Oh, I beg your
pardon, I’m so sorry. I thought you said Wilson. Good night.”

Mr. Wainwright
looked suspiciously at Holmes, but turned away and went into the inn.

“That’s not like
you to mix up names, Holmes.”

“I didn’t mix
them up, Watson. I never forget a face. Mr. Wainwright is in reality Wilson,
the notorious canary trainer, whom I had the pleasure of sending to prison for
a seven year stretch in 1895. Some years later he made one of the most
spectacular escapes from prison in the history of crime, and has since managed
to evade all efforts to recapture him!”

“Great Scott!” I
exclaimed, “and he seemed like such a gentle old man.”

“Possibly he has
reformed, but I doubt it. Our stage is set for an intriguing problem, old chap,
and our cast is an interesting one. A frightened young girl, a diplomat of
uncertain integrity, and a noted criminal. Watson, I have a feeling that once
again the game’s afoot!”

“But Holmes, you’ve
come here to rest and work on your handbook,” I said in exasperation. “Now you
want to plunge right in to investigate some young girl’s problems.”

“Watson, you
amuse me. Vacation or not, I am at my best when I can use my mind to solve some
crime or, of more interest, some murder. It is even better if I can prevent a
crime from happening. The handbook be damned, I’ll finish it later. It’s
getting late. I shall go to our rooms and make some notes on the scant
information I have so far, then do some thinking on it over a good pipe.
Coming?”

“No. I want to
walk about a while. This sea air is invigorating. I shall join you presently.”

I walked for
some time, my thoughts tumbling through my mind in no particular fashion as the
gentle breeze coming off the sea continued to refresh me. I was disgruntled
that Holmes would prefer a pipe in a small room rather than enjoy the evening
outdoors as I was doing now. I stood on the path near the sand and watched as
the sun slowly set, filling the sky with a red glow that was magnificently
reflected off the clouds. I soon became aware it was cold out and quickly
returned to the inn. On my way to our rooms, I stopped for a moment and knocked
at Mary Victor’s door, but there was no answer. I returned to find Holmes
sitting by the window, gazing at the harbor in the last of the sunlight, his
pipe still lit.

“Well,
goodnight, Holmes. Still thinking about Mary Victor and her problem?”

“No. Just
relaxing a bit before bed. Goodnight, Watson.”

I slept deeply
that night, waking totally refreshed to find that Holmes was already at
breakfast. I joined him as quickly as I could, then, after a very good meal, we
strolled down to the pier, not far from our lodgings.

“Holmes,” I said
with curiosity, “why are we strolling along the pier instead of staying at the
inn? I thought you said that you were expecting trouble?”

“I am, old chap,”
he said cheerily, “and I’m sure it will find us out.”

“You know,
Holmes, I’m still completely mystified by the behavior of that girl Mary
Victor. I knocked at her door last evening and again this morning just before I
joined you for breakfast. I couldn’t get any answer.”

“And the
landlord told me that she was not seen anytime last night, nor this morning,
and yet her room has not been vacated. Curious.” Holmes added.

As we walked
along, both Holmes and I noticed the village constable sunning himself on the
pier.

“Good morning,
Sergeant Blake!” Holmes called out.

“Mr. Holmes,
Doctor Watson, how are you, gentlemen?”

“Splendid,” I
said, “and very appreciative of the weather that you’ve provided for us.”

“Think nothing
of it, sir. We always arrange that for our really distinguished visitors,” he
said laughing. We all joined in.

“Holmes, look
there,” I said pointing, “that figure standing by itself at the end of the pier.”

“Well, our
friend Wilson, the canary trainer.”

“He’s got a
revolver,” I added excitedly.

“We don’t want
any of these goings on in Kingsgate,” Sergeant Blake said nervously. Almost by
instinct the three of us hurried towards Wilson.

“Here you!”
Sergeant Blake shouted. “What are you doing waving that revolver about!”

“Keep back, the
three of you!” Wilson yelled, as he brandished the revolver at us. We stopped
not more than ten feet from him.

“I’m the law
here,” Sergeant Blake continued, “don’t you tell me what to do!”

“Keep back, I
say. I’m not afraid to fire!”

“Better do as he
says, Sergeant, he’s not one to trifle with. Just exactly what are you up to,
Wilson?” Holmes asked.

“You’ve caught
up with me once again, Sherlock Holmes, but this time you’re not going to send
me back to prison, and maybe the gallows! If I can’t escape you, then I’ll take
my own way out with this revolver!”

“Wilson? What in
thunder are you talking about?”

“The murder at
the inn last night. I did it! I’m confessing in front of the three of you, so
you leave my wife alone. She didn’t know anything about it. And now, I hope you’re
satisfied, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!”

Wilson raised
the revolver and placed the barrel to his temple.

“Wilson!” Holmes
shouted, suddenly running forward. “You fool, stop it!”

But it was too
late. A shot rang out and Wilson went limp, as his body fell over the side of
the pier and into the water.

“Strike me pink,
he done it!” Sergeant Blake exclaimed in amazement.

“Get help,
Sergeant, it’s possible he isn’t dead!”

“Holmes,” I
said, “let me help. I can look at the body.”

“No, Watson, the
Sergeant will take care of Wilson. I want you with me. We have a lot to do,
come on!”

“What the devil
do you have up your sleeve, Holmes?”

“First, Watson,
we must go to the telegraph office down the street, and then, back to the inn.”

With a
determined air about him, Holmes strode before me, his keen senses alerted, his
mind working at full power. The game was more than afoot, for Holmes and I had
actually been witness to a suicide. I had not encountered an actual death by
gunshot since my days in India during the Second Afghan war, and I must confess
I was quite shaken by the suddenness of the event.

We entered the
telegraph office where Holmes quickly wrote out a message to be sent, and as
quickly, we were again on our way to the inn.

“Holmes,” I
asked, “what was the telegram you sent off just now?”

“A message to my
brother, Mycroft. The innkeeper informed me just before breakfast that Basil
Carter, the young diplomat we met yesterday, left the inn rather hurriedly in
the early hours of this morning. I expect Mycroft will fill me in shortly on
some details about our mysterious Mr. Carter. Come on, let’s go upstairs.”

“We’ll have to
break the news to Mrs. Wainwright, I suppose,” I said as we entered the inn.

“Before we do
that I think we’ll see if Miss Victor is in her room. Which one is it?”

“Here, at the
top of the stairs.”

Holmes knocked
on the door, but there was no answer.

“I think we’ll
take the liberty of looking in. Ah ha, as I suspected, the door is unlocked.”

We entered the
room to discover it was completely disheveled.

“Good Lord, what
a mess,” I said, “clothes strewn all over the place, open suitcases, and no
Miss Victor.”

“Looks as if the
young lady planned for an immediate departure.”

“But Holmes,
where can she be? No one has seen her since last night.”

“Is that you,
Mary?” came a voice from the hall. Holmes and I turned to see a stately woman
enter. I recognized her instantly as Mrs. Wainwright.

“Hello, doctor.
I beg your pardon, gentlemen, I thought I heard Mary Victor come in. You must
be Mr. Holmes. I’m Mrs. Wainwright.”

“Mrs.
Wainwright, I’m afraid we have some rather bad news for you,” I said.

“Your husband
shot himself a short while ago at the end of the pier, and his body fell into
the sea,” Holmes said quietly.

“Is he dead?”

“We must presume
so, madam,” Holmes continued. “I had the police sergeant bring help and I
suspect they are searching for him now. Sergeant Blake should be back here at
any moment now.”

“So he did it,
after all.”

“You don’t seem
very surprised, madam,” I said.

“He threatened
to do it,” she said, a look of disgust on her face.

“Mrs.
Wainwright, before your husband shot himself, he confessed to committing a
murder in this inn last night.”

“A murder? Whose
murder?”

“At the moment,
we’re not quite sure,” I said.

“He must have
been out of his mind,” she replied.

“Mrs.
Wainwright, I’m afraid I must ask you some rather painful questions. Are you
aware that your husband was a criminal, that he served a prison sentence under
the name of Wilson?”

“Yes, I knew
that, Mr. Holmes. He told me when we were married two years ago, but he said
that he’d changed his ways ever since he came out of prison. That’s why he
changed his name. He was trying to make a fresh start.”

“You know no
reason for his planning to kill anyone at this inn?” I asked.

“None. And
unless you find someone murdered, I wouldn’t give much thought to it.”

“Yes, if you’ll
forgive my saying so, madam,” Holmes said coldly, “you seem remarkably unmoved
by your husband’s tragedy.”

“Why should I
pretend. We were very unhappy together. This might be the best way out of it
for both of us. My husband carried quite a large amount of life insurance. In
the event of suicide, would that be payable?”

“That depends on
the policy, madam, but from your attitude, I begin to doubt that your husband
is dead.”

“What do you
mean?”

“I mean that if
Mr. Wilson,” Holmes said with a touch of disgust in his voice, “or if you
prefer it, Mr. Wainwright, wished to disappear in spectacular style, what could
be simpler than to pretend to shoot himself, drop into the sea and—”

Holmes was cut
short as Sergeant Blake came rushing up the stairs to join us.

“We found him,
Mr. Holmes,” the Sergeant said, quite out of breath. “We fished him out
straight away. Dead as a doornail. Shot himself right through the head, he did.”

“Well, that
disposes of your last theory, Holmes!” I exclaimed.

“Did you find
the revolver, Sergeant?” Mrs. Wainwright asked.

“Yes, madam, got
it right here with me. One bullet missing. Mr. Holmes, have you found out if
anyone here’s been murdered?”

“I found out
very little, as yet. Wait a moment, listen.”

The four of us
stood there, but it was deathly quiet.

“I don’t hear
anything,” I said.

“Exactly,” Holmes
added, “you hear nothing, and yet we’re within a few feet of the Wainwright’s
room. There is one sound we should be hearing very clearly at the moment. The
sound of the canaries, chirping. We’ve heard little else for days. Come on,
Watson!”