The Lost Radio Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (9 page)

“Go on, talk, if
you know what’s good for you,” Holt said, brandishing the gun at Holmes.

“Oh, you are so
persuasive, aren’t you, Mr. Holt. Very well. Undoubtedly Julian Trevor’s death
last night was an accident. You fetched a doctor, Lady Broxton; a very natural
move, and later discovered that the doctor in question was the old friend of
Sherlock Holmes. You were all afraid that I’d become interested in your unusual
society, so you invented that very thin story about the accident being a
murder. You wanted to lure ME here, so that I could be disposed of. Then you
could all continue your nefarious works without hindrance.”

“Well, now, aren’t
we clever. And what is our nefarious work, may I ask?” Holt questioned.

“Your password
gave me a clue. ‘TO THE LANTERNS.’ The cry of the French Revolutionists. They
strung aristocrats up on lampposts; or shall I say lanterns? Then again, the
combination of curious costumes in a luxurious establishment in a low class
area posed another question: What political belief provides a common meeting
ground for misbranded aristocrats and dangerous commoners?”

“And how did you
answer that question?” asked Lord Cecil.

“Very simple, my
dear sir, in one word: NIHILISM. Its doctrine of assassination and overthrow of
government could find every chance of being put into practice by all of you at
the forthcoming jubilee celebrations to be held here in London! This would
account for your beggar’s clothes. A beggar would have greater freedom of
movement in a crowd than an ordinary person.”

“You’re a clever
man, Mr. Holmes,” Lord Cecil said coldly. “Too bad you’ll have to die. I’ll get
the rope.”

“What are you
going to do with him?” Lady Broxton asked in shock and bewilderment.

“Do?” Holt said,
“give him a first hand taste of Nihilism, of course. They can’t live. They know
too much.”

“You can’t
possibly do this,” I protested. “You know the police will track us here!”

“By the time the
police get here, you and your friend Holmes will be blown to kingdom come!”

Lord Cecil
returned with the rope. Holt tied Holmes wrists together.

“Ah, mind that
bandaged wrist of mine, will you? It’s confoundedly sore.”

“Now isn’t that
a shame,” Holt laughed, pulling the rope even tighter. “Is this any better? Tie
up the doctor, Cecil, while I bind up Holmes’ legs.”

“I can’t go
through with this!” Lady Broxton yelled, “I just can’t stand by and see two
innocent men murdered! Nothing was said to me of this. It isn’t right! If you
go on with this, I’m going to the police!”

Holt slapped
Lady Broxton across the face. I wanted to thrash the man, but could do nothing
as Lord Cecil finished tying my wrists and legs together.

“Tie her up as
well, Cecil. We don’t need any soft people in our midst. Now, Mr. Holmes, I’m
going to fetch a little invention. A little invention I’m sure you’ll be
interested in.”

Lord Cecil stood
over us, admiring his handiwork. Holmes, Lady Broxton and I were tied most
securely, our three chairs facing each other in a small circle.

“It’s a pity
both of you didn’t learn to mind your own business. Quite comfortable, all of
you?”

“You’re a filthy
traitor to your country,” I said bitterly, trying to release myself, but to no
avail. Lord Cecil merely laughed.

“There we are,” Holt
said, returning. “An example of Michail Petrov’s mechanical genius. This bomb
will blow the entire building sky high, and the three of you with it. I’ll just
set the clock mechanism for five minutes, which will give us plenty of time to
get out of here.”

Holt placed the
bomb on the floor in the center of our small circle so that we could all face
it and hear its deadly ticking.

“A charming
picture. The three of you bound hand and foot sitting together, watching a
bomb. Well, tah, Dorothy. Think of our cause during the five minutes. As for
you, Mr. Holmes, and your friend, good riddance to bad rubbish!”

With that,
Sidney Holt joined the others as they hurriedly left their secret hideout. A
deathly silence fell upon us. Holmes, confound him, sat quite serenely while I
continued to struggle with the ropes. Lady Broxton broke out into a terrified
fit of crying. I turned to Holmes, realizing it was no use to try and break
free. The ropes had been tied with an expert hand.

“Holmes,” I said
quietly, “I blame myself for this. If I hadn’t been so infernally noisy when I
recognized you, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“It wasn’t your
fault, old fellow; I’m sure they suspected me, anyway.”

“I must say, it
seemed to me that you told them a great deal more than was necessary about your
suspicions. Surely you could have pretended ignorance.”

“I suppose I
could have prevented their capturing me if I had planned more carefully, but I
was concerned for your safety as well as—”

Holmes was
interrupted by Lady Broxton’s hysterical screaming.

“I can’t die
yet, I’m not ready to die!” she screamed.

“Courage, Lady
Broxton, courage. Tell me, was I right in assuming that your associates are
Nihilists?”

Lady Broxton
calmed herself as best she could, even though we were all deathly aware of the
ticking bomb.

“Of course, they
are,” she said, “they are planning to assassinate the Prime Minister during the
Jubilee celebration.”

“The Prime
Minister!” I yelled. “Great Heavens, Holmes, we’ve got to get free!”

“Assuming that
some miracle happened,” Holmes went on, still addressing Lady Broxton, “and we
did get free, and your former associates were arraigned in court, would you
testify against them?”

“Of course, I
would. But what chance is there of that? That clock, that devilish clock, why
doesn’t it stop ticking!”

Lady Broxton was
beside herself with anguish.

“If it bothers
you that much, Lady Broxton, I’ll stop it for you.”

With that,
Holmes gently removed his hands from where they had been tied and reached for
the bomb.

“Holmes, your
hands are free!”

“Of course they
are, my dear fellow. The bandaged wrist I mentioned to Holt concealed a razor
edged blade. I cut through the ropes almost before our friends had left the
room.”

Both Lady
Broxton and I looked at Holmes in total disbelief.

“Then why did
you keep us in this suspense, Mr. Holmes?” asked Lady Broxton who, for the
first time, began to return to her old self.

“I wanted to be
quite sure that you testify in the forthcoming trial, Madam. There we are, that
renders the bomb harmless. An interesting device, but of simple construction.”

Before Holmes
had even finished his words, we could hear police whistles outside.

“Ah ha,” he said
smiling, “those whistles mean the police have sprung the trap that I have set
for your associates, Lady Broxton. It’s lucky for you that you’ve had a change
of heart, otherwise I suspect that, once free, you would try to escape, and
there would be one more to receive a full sentence.”

Lady Broxton
lowered her head in shame as I turned in joy to my friend.

“Holmes, you had
the place surrounded with police when you came in here.”

“Of course I
did, Watson. Here, let me undo your ropes.”

“No wonder you
were so calm. No wonder you told them so much. You wanted them to show their
hand!”

“Precisely, old
fellow, and they obliged me most satisfactorily. They attempted our triple
murder, and are self confessed anarchists. With the evidence of Lady Broxton, I’m
sure that we can put them where they all belong. Considering it’s barely noon,
I think you’ll agree, Watson, that this is a very comprehensive morning’s work!”

With Lady
Broxton turned over to the police to await her testimony at the trial, Holmes
and I caught a Hansom and went home. It was still pouring outside, but as we
gained the entrance to our lodgings at 221 B Baker Street, the warmth of a
fire, I for a cup of hot tea and a pipe for Holmes, all seemed well. And well
they were.

Return to table of
contents

I

“FOR goodness
sakes, Holmes, I insist that you stop your constant fiddling with those
chemicals and potions and come with me now!”

“Later, Watson,
later,” he returned as he poured a brackish substance from one test tube to
another.

“Just look at
the weather,” I persisted, pointing to the window. “It is beautiful out. This
the first year of the new century, and one of the finest September’s we have
ever had, with fresh air and blooming flowers, and all you wish to do is sit
here with your smelly bottles and experiment. Outrageous!”

He said nothing,
but went right on with his work. I stood there a moment demeaned by his total
indifference towards me.

“Holmes,” I
said, restraining my rage, “just look at you. You haven’t stopped this for
weeks. You’ve stayed up for days on end working with all this and spent even
more time on that new invention Scotland Yard calls ‘FINGERPRINTS.’ You’ve got
bags under your eyes, you’ve lost weight and you’ve hardly touched any food
Mrs. Hudson and I have offered you!”

He looked up
from his work and faintly smiled.

“And I’ve
enjoyed every minute of it, Watson. Or would you rather I turn to my seven
percent solution out of boredom than tackle some project that may save a life
sometime in the very near future?”

“That tears it,
Holmes! As your friend, as well as a doctor who can see an attack of nerves and
total breakdown approaching, I must insist you come with me!”

With that I took
the test tube out of Holmes’ hand, put it back in the rack and grabbed his hat
and coat.

“Here, take
these; we’re leaving this afternoon. I’ve already booked a train for Eastbourne.
As your doctor I must demand immediate rest for you.”

“My dear Watson,
what ever shall I do without you to look after me? Still, I have so much work
to do and—”

“As I thought,” I
interrupted. “Well my fine friend, I’ve put out all necessary clothing on your
bed with a suitcase beside them. Arrangements have been made and we are off for
a fortnight’s vacation. It’s that or Hospital for you, Holmes!”

That was how I
forcibly persuaded my good friend Sherlock Holmes to accompany me on a
well-deserved rest. The first few days of our vacation were spent in soothing
idleness. Once persuaded to take this vacation, Holmes began to enjoy himself.
Both of us were regaining the energy that only rest can provide.

On the morning
of the third day Holmes, a dash of color back in his cheeks, and a hint of the
old sparkle in his eyes, suggested that we should call on his good friend Evan
Whitnell, curator of a nearby museum. And so, just after lunch on that
September day, we hired
a
carriage and soon found ourselves in Professor Whitnell’s private
office at the museum.

“My dear friend,
Evan,” said Holmes, “your recent discoveries in this part of England have made
you world famous instead of just nationally famous. My congratulations.”

“Why thank you,
Holmes. Thank you very much,” Whitnell said, beaming at us.

“Professor, I do
wish you’d tell me about your discoveries.”

“With pleasure,
Dr. Watson. Less than two months ago I was excavating on the downlands in this
neighborhood, when I was fortunate enough to discover a number of underground
caves. Caves saturated with a heavy deposit of lime that gave clear evidence of
having the property of rapidly mummifying any flesh, human or animal, deposited
in them.”

“Extremely
interesting,” I said, “and what treasures have you unearthed, Professor?”

“A number of
mummified specimens of animals clearly belonging to bygone eras. My prize
specimen is the body of a large wolfhound. The inscription on its collar
identified the animal as having belonged to some local squire in the year 1748!”

“Amazing! I didn’t
know limestone had such qualities of preservation.”

There was a
knock on the door and Professor Whitnell’s assistant came in.

“It’s Lady
Clavering, Professor. She asked me to tell you that she was in the museum.”

“Oh, yes, I
almost forgot. Show her up here,” said the Professor, who then turned to us,
a
great smile on his face. “I’m most anxious for
you both to meet her, and she, in turn, is even more anxious to meet you. I
dined with her last night, and when I told her that you were coming here today,
Holmes, she insisted on meeting you.”

“Whitnell, you
scoundrel,” Holmes said laughing, “there’s a twinkle in your eye. I suspect
that Lady Clavering is here to consult me in my professional capacity, and that
you engineered the meeting.”

“Well, Holmes,
perhaps I might have dropped a hint,” said the Professor with genuine
amusement.

“I warn you,
Professor,” I said sternly. “Holmes can not become involved with another case.
He’s completely run down and needs the rest.”

“Don’t worry,
doctor, all that Lady Clavering requires is a little advice. I knew you wouldn’t
mind, my dear Holmes.”

“Of course not,
Whitnell.”

Another knock on
the door and a most beautiful young lady came in, dressed in quite fashionable
clothes.

“Ah, there you
are, Helena, my dear.” said the Professor, who then introduced us to her.

“Please sit down
here,” he went on, “I may as well tell you, Helena, that our little plot has
already been discovered.”

“Oh dear, and I
was just getting ready to exert all my feminine wiles in an attempt to persuade
you to help me, Mr. Holmes.”

“The Professor
tells me that you are in need of a little advice, Lady Clavering.”

“Yes, Mr.
Holmes. I put my problem simply: Five years ago my husband, Sir George
Clavering, left me. I haven’t seen or heard tell of him since. I now wish to
remarry, but of course I cannot do that without having my husband declared
legally dead.”

“My dear Lady
Clavering, I can’t help feeling a solicitor is the proper man to consult, not a
detective such as I.”

“Perhaps,” I added,
“you are suggesting there might have been foul play in connection with your
husband’s disappearance?”

“No, Doctor
Watson. The Claverings are a strange family; self-willed and head-strong.
George and I were not happy together and I believe he disappeared deliberately.”

“You’ve reported
his disappearance to the police, of course?”

“Yes, Mr.
Holmes, but they have never been able to trace him.”

“This kind of
thing has happened in the family before, Holmes,” said the Professor. “Tell
them about Sir Nigel, Helena.”

“He was one of
my husband’s ancestors. He walked off one day in 1777 and was never seen again.
George knew of the legend, and he often threatened to do the same thing himself.”

“But your
problem, Lady Clavering, is not that of your husband’s fate, but rather of your
own freedom.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes stood, a
wry grin upon his countenance, as he pulled forth his pipe.

“Well, I’m
afraid my advice can be of little consolation to you. The law has specified the
number of years that must elapse before anyone disappearing can be declared
legally dead. I would suggest that you possess your soul in patience until that
period has passed.”

“Oh dear,” Lady
Clavering said in great disappointment, “and I was hoping you would be able to
think of some terribly clever way of getting round the law, Mr. Holmes.”

“Lady Clavering,”
Holmes said in consternation, “sometimes, perhaps, my methods may be
unorthodox, but I assure you that ‘getting round the law,’ as you put it, is a
procedure I do not indulge in.”

“Now I’ve
offended you, Mr. Holmes, and it is the last thing on earth I meant to do, I
assure you.”

“My friend’s a
little touchy about matters concerning his professional honor, you know.”

Holmes laughed
loudly and joyfully.

“Nonsense, my
dear Watson. I’m not touchy, and I’m not offended. Now may I suggest we all
examine the Professor’s latest treasures? And after that, perhaps, he’ll take
us for a stroll on the downs. I’m most anxious to examine those lime pits of
his.”

With the relaxed
atmosphere that Holmes now evoked, we spent some time with the Professor in
looking over the vast treasures housed so carefully in his museum. In a short
while, the Professor took us on a stroll of the downs, where a gentle breeze
and the bright and warm day mixed with the delightful songs of various birds
lifted us into a most pleasant and relaxing mood.

“The lime pits
are about a mile from here,” said the Professor, pointing up ahead. “It’s a
nice walk across the cliff tops.”

Holmes had lit
his pipe and seemed intensely interested in the surrounding landscape.

“I’m sorry Lady
Clavering didn’t want to come with us. A charming woman, even though she did
rub you up the wrong way, Holmes.”

“A beautiful
woman, Watson, but I must confess her charm eludes me. Her lack of concern
about her husband’s fate seemed completely unnatural.”

“Not if you’d
known her husband,” the Professor chimed in, “He was a tyrant and a bully, both
in his home life and in the village!”

Nothing more was
said as we continued our walk through the beautiful downs. Shortly, some
distance ahead, we saw a figure approaching. It was a young man, in simple
clothes, who whistled as we walked.

“Hello,” I said,
“who’s this coming towards us?”

“It’s Timmy.
Daft Timmy they call him in these parts. He isn’t quite right in the head, poor
fellow, but he’s perfectly harmless. Has two passions in life: Birds, and
bonfires. Hello, Timmy.”

Timmy approached
the Professor, clutching his cap in his hands.

“I’ve got
something beautiful to show you. Oh, it’s so beautiful.”

“Well, what is it,
Timmy?” asked the Professor.

“Look. It’s in
my cap. See. Oh, isn’t it lovely!”

There, nestled
gently in Timmy’s cap, was a small bird’s egg.

“It’s a robin’s
egg,” Holmes said, quite delighted.

“I found it when
I was bird nesting. Did you ever see such a blue egg?”

“It’s a beauty,
Timmy,” I said. “Where did you find it, my boy?”

“Down by the
lime pits. Oh, I’m going to build a lovely fire on the downs tonight. I’ll let
you come and watch it if you give me a shilling.”

“Now you be
careful, Timmy,” the Professor said sternly, “or you’ll be in trouble again.”

“Timmy doesn’t
get in trouble anymore, now. Not since he had Sir George carried away.”

“Sir George
Clavering used to whip Timmy when he found him on the downs,” the Professor
whispered in an aside to Holmes.

“Timmy,” said
Holmes with great curiosity, “tell me, how did you have Sir George, as you put
it, ‘carried away’?”

“I told my birds
about him. I told them how he used to beat poor Timmy, and they said they would
carry him off and drop him over the cliffs! And that’s what they did, because
he never came back again.”

The sound of
hoof beats reached our ears, and we turned to see a great hulk of a man come
riding up. With a massive head of red hair flowing in the wind, I could just
make out the deep set, burning eyes and the angry face as he moved towards us.

“Oh Lord,” said
the Professor in dismay, “here comes Harry, Sir George’s brother. Now there
will be trouble. Timmy, you had best run.”

“No,” said Timmy
in fear, “Timmy can’t run. He’ll break his pretty blue egg.”

In a flourish of
flying dirt, Harry Clavering pulled his horse up to an abrupt halt before us.
He stood up in the saddle, now looking even more menacing, as he scowled at
Timmy.

“Timmy! Get off
my land! If I catch you here again, I’ll take my riding crop to you!”

“But he hasn’t
done anything!” objected the Professor.

“Go on, be off
with you, do you hear!”

“I’ll tell my
birds about you, that’s what I’ll do,” said Timmy backing away. Then he turned
to us with a smile.

“Don’t forget my
bonfire!” he yelled, and off he went across the downs, clutching the robin’s
egg close to his breast.

“Infernal
scoundrel! Hello, Whitnell.”

“Hello, Harry.
Have you met Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson?”

Harry Clavering
looked down at us from his horse, utter disgust on his face. I wanted to thrash
the man for his insolence to poor Timmy.

“Oh, Sherlock
Holmes, the professional nosey parker, aye? Yes, Helena was just telling me
about you. I’m very angry with her for talking to you about my brother. It’s a
private affair, and I intend it shall remain one, you understand, Holmes?”

“The devil with
your brother, sir, and with you! And I’d advise you to remember that you are
not addressing a half-witted villager who can’t defend himself!” Holmes burst
forth angrily.