The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters (13 page)

Holmes then walked to some shrubs not far from the barn and examined them. I turned to Lestrade and Dunbar, who were watching the proceedings with what I took to be expressions of extreme boredom.

“And the prisoner,” said Holmes, returning from his foray into the bushes, and directing his attention to the two lawmen, “may I speak with him?”

“By all means, Mr Holmes,” said Dunbar, smugly, “if it’ll hasten your departure from our midst, you’re welcome to have a brief chat with him.”

It was now obvious that Lestrade and his new-found friend were enjoying themselves immensely at our expense. While this annoyed me no end, Holmes seemed to be oblivious to their attitude.

* * * *

When we arrived back in town, the lot of us descended upon the local jail. Edmund Collier greeted us in his cell with the enthusiasm of a condemned man resigned to his fate. He looked even more gaunt and frail than his portrait.

Holmes’s interview was short and seemed to add nothing of substance to the case. Afterward, Holmes asked Dunbar if he could recommend lodgings for the night. The Constable gave us the name of the town’s only inn and public house, The Harborview, which, it turned out, was a short walk away.

Once there and free from Lestrade and his shadow, Holmes seemed to relax a bit. In the public house we ordered poached cod for dinner and after it arrived, Holmes said, “We seem to have a most singular case, Watson, one filled with many twists and turns.”

“Despite Lestrade and Dunbar’s claims to the contrary,” I intoned.

“Neither of our friends seems to have the slightest concern with the fact that Collier, a man of no more than eight stone, is supposed to have taken on Harris, who was twenty stone, in a fight, using what was undoubtedly a blunt instrument—based upon my examination of the blood stains—and single-handedly overpowered him, removed the body, presumably for burial in some secluded spot, of which, incidentally, there are certainly are no shortage of in that region. And yet, all this was done clandestinely, without his daughter’s knowledge, consent, or cooperation.”

“She could have been lying,” I said, reluctantly.

“You don’t believe that any more than I do.”

“And that does not explain the arm.”

“No,” said Holmes, finishing his dinner. “If we are to believe Lestrade and Dunbar, a simple murder which was committed for no other purpose than to quell an annoying neighbour, resulted in a piece of the victim being found five miles away from the scene of the crime on the beach.”

“It does beg certain questions,” I said.

“Indeed, at the risk of repetition, such as how would a frail, slight fellow overpower a man three times his size, lift the body onto a cart, and—rather than bury it privately and conveniently in a secluded area—at enormous risk of discovery and capture, choose to cut the body into pieces and drive five miles to dispose of it in the ocean.”

“Quite a conundrum, indeed.”

“To say the least,” said Holmes, “but then I have neglected to mention one trifle. What do you make of this, Watson?” Holmes produced a small glass vial from his pocket and handed it to me.

“Where did you get this?” I asked, examining the ampoule.

“From the bushes near Harris’s barn, right from under the noses of Lestrade and his friend.”

There were bits of a brown residue on the glass, which could have indicated a number of substances, but the odour, though faint, was unmistakable. “It’s chloral hydrate.”

“As you know, it is a powerful, quick-acting tranquilliser.”

“Could Alvar Harris have been drugged, then beaten to death?”

“The idea does seem to complicate matters.”

“It also suggests a careful premeditation of the crime, which would appear to further rule out Mr Colliers as the perpetrator.”

“We may be approaching a record, Watson, for drawing the greatest number of similar conclusions on a single case,” said Holmes, smiling.

As we were paying the bill, Holmes asked the barkeep if he knew of any land in the nearby hills that was available for purchase.

“Now and again,” responded the ruddy faced man, “are you considering moving here, sir?”

“Yes,” said Holmes, “I have an idea to become a dairy farmer.”

“Oh?” said the barkeep, wiping his hands on his dirty apron, as he looked at Holmes incredulously.

“How is the farming here?” asked Holmes.

“The farming is fine,” said the barkeep, “but if you’ll be owning cows, my advice is to keep a good watch on them, as lately there’s been a rash of theft.”

“Cattle rustling?”

“From all accounts, done at night. Yet no one’s reported a local farmer with any more cows than their own.”

When we had exited the public house, I turned to Holmes and exclaimed, “What was that all about?”

“Just a theory I’m pursuing,” he replied, smiling, “no need for concern, I have no immediate plans to move from our lodgings at Baker Street any time in the near future. Now come, Watson, it’s imperative that we get some salt air immediately.”

It was late afternoon, as Sherlock Holmes and I walked through the cobble-stoned village streets, and in a short time found ourselves on the town’s rocky beach.

Other than a few fishermen sitting near beached boats repairing their netting, the place was deserted. The sky was overcast, and a cold north wind blew across the ocean before us.

Holmes wandered off, looking in all directions. I glanced at the village behind us, then to the right, and, in the distance, saw a rather imposing manor house high atop a cliff overlooking the water.

When I noticed Holmes staring at it as well, I went over to one of the fishermen and said, “Pardon me, but would you happen to know who lives there?”

The craggy faced man, barely looking up from his mending, responded, “It belongs to Dr Phillip Paxton, my biggest customer.”

“He eats a lot of fish?” I asked.

“Not ’im, ’is pets.” When the man noticed my perplexed look, he added, “He’s a scientist Keeps aquariums of fish, big ones too, and even seals. Bloody hungry, they are. In the last two months, he’s doubled his orders. I provide ’im with at least a hundred pounds a week lately, as does my friend over there, and so do some of the other men, too.”

I thanked him, then rejoined Holmes, and we returned to the inn. When we were back in our room, I recounted my brief exchange with the fisherman, as Holmes lit his pipe, and to my surprise, replied,

“Dr Phillip Paxton,is the scion of the tea-importing family of the same name. At one time, he was a prominent naturalist and marine biologist with the public aquarium at Regent Park Zoological Gardens. However, he was expelled by the Marine Biological Association and forced to resign from his position at the aquarium due to his unorthodox theories on ocean life. Keep in mind that many a scientist whose ideas were scorned in their own lifetime, were then accepted by later generations.”

“How is it that you are aware of such a man?” I asked.

“Watson, I make it my business to read the newspapers. When I received Lestrade’s letter, I recalled that Paxton had left London to live in his ancestral home in this part of Cornwall. As I’ve told you upon occasion, when I explain my methods, they seem much less dazzling—not unlike a stage magician revealing his illusions.”

I took a sip of brandy from my flask and reflected upon what we’d learned in the last few hours. Holmes went to the window, took a puff from his pipe, and looked out at the now darkened sky. On the table, I noticed a copy of the local newspaper that had probably been left by the maid when she’d turned down our sheets. The headline read, Local Man Held On Murder Charges.

Holmes turned to me, and said, “I suggest that we get some rest We have a most busy day ahead of us, and we will need to get an early start.”

“But,” I said, “haven’t we already questioned everyone connected with the case and looked at the scene of the crime?”

“There is much that remains to be done,” said Holmes, in his usual cryptic way.

I knew better than to ask him what would be on tomorrow’s itinerary. Instead, I had another sip of my drink and readied myself for bed.

* * * *

When I awoke in the morning, Holmes was gone. The moment I finished dressing, he burst into the room.

“There you are, Watson! Put on your coat and hat, and we’ll be on our way.”

Outside the inn was a waiting trap and driver, and we got inside.

“I thought of someone whom we haven’t spoken to,” I said. “Millicent Stokes, the woman who reported Harris missing and found the blood in front of the barn.”

“I questioned her before you arose,” answered Holmes, while the driver guided his horse through the cobblestone streets. “As I had thought, she had no relevant facts to add to our investigation, but I would have been remiss if I hadn’t consulted with her.”

“Oh,” I replied, crestfallen. For an instant I felt as if I might have actually stumbled upon an idea that Holmes had somehow overlooked.

“You’ve no doubt visited the aquarium at Regent Park,” said Holmes, abruptly changing the subject.

“Certainly,” I replied, “As a school boy I went quite often. I was fascinated by watching the fish, as are most children.”

“Today we will be visiting what I surmise will be a miniature version of that great ‘fish house,’ as it’s called by the public. We’ll be paying a call on Dr Phillip Paxton.”

“Presumably, this is in connection with the case.”

Holmes laughed. “Surely you don’t think all this salt air has made me balmy, do you Watson? I believe that Dr Paxton’s scientific expertise may be able to shed some light on this case.”

Then Holmes fell silent, as the carriage went up an incline. A few minutes later, we came to a stop in front of Phillip Paxton’s manor house. Judging by its fine stone work, it looked to be at least three hundred years old. Holmes instructed the driver to wait for us, even though it might be some time till we returned. The driver nodded, and Holmes and I walked toward the house.

As we did, I couldn’t help admiring the breathtaking view of the ocean below. The house’s huge door was answered by a gruff looking butler, who looked more in build as if he belonged in a pugilist’s ring than in a gentleman’s residence.

When Holmes mentioned that we were acting in an official capacity on behalf of the local constable, the man’s expression softened, and we were invited into the great hall and seated on chairs that looked as old as the house itself. The servant asked us if we’d like some tea. When we politely declined, he bowed and left.

The great hall had high stone walls on which were hung medieval tapestries, crossed swords, and a family coat of arms. Ancient, ornately carved wooden tables stood against a number of the walls, as did oversized vases which held dried plants. The only anomaly was—where one might traditionally have expected to see framed oil portraits of ancestors—there were elaborate paintings of fish. I saw tuna, herring, sole, bluefish and cod.

Before I had time to fully contemplate their significance, a man in his sixties wearing a white surgeon’s coat walked into the hall.

“I am Dr Phillip Paxton,” he said, “and you must be Sherlock Holmes. Of course, I have read a number of your cases. And this must be your chronicler, Dr Watson.”

“We’ve come to discuss a matter with you, with which you may be of some assistance,” said Holmes.

“Indeed,” said Dr Paxton. “I’d be most pleased to help in any way I can. But first, would you please indulge me? I insist upon showing you my little laboratory.”

We went down a wide corridor. On the walls hung more paintings of fish. Within a moment we were in a vast gallery which contained massive glass aquariums which—as Holmes had predicted—easily rivalled the ones at Regent Park.

“Here are my friends,” said Dr Paxton, gesturing at the first aquarium.“These are some of the local species: mackerel, cod, and bluefish.”

We passed one tank after another, each one larger than the last, till we came to a stop in front of an aquarium that was the size of a house. Inside it, grey seals swam about as if they had not a care in the world. A muscle-bound man appeared with a ladder, and placed it on the side of the tank. He then took a bucket, climbed up, and dumped fish into the water.

Dr Paxton watched the seals for a moment, then turned to Holmes and myself.

“I’m researching every aspect of these beautiful creature’s lives. I’m sure, Mr Holmes, if your reputation is accurate, that you may have heard about my, uh, differences with the institute.”

“Small-minded thinkers, no doubt,” said Holmes.

“Ah,” said Paxton, “I see that you grasp the situation fully. But here I have no one to answer to, no need to please would-be benefactors. Those relics back in London scoffed at any idea that didn’t fit into their narrow views of the world. Science should not have to bow before the feet of bankers in order to march forward.”

“Well put,” said Holmes. “I need not remind you, it was only a short time ago that Mr Fulton’s steam engine was the subject of similar derision by the same sort of self-appointed experts.”

Dr Paxton seemed very pleased by Holmes’s comments, as he took us to one more aquarium. This was double the size of the previous one. In it were dolphins.

“Bottle-nosed dolphins,” said Holmes. “Magnificent animals. There are those that contend that they possess a certain innate intelligence.”

With this, Dr Paxton’s eyes lit up. “You surprise me, Mr Holmes.”

“I have found that many worthy ideas start at the fringes of society that are initially rejected by the mainstream,” said Holmes, “only to be eventually accepted by the very same naysayers and disbelievers, who then attempt to claim credit for them.”

“I suspect that law enforcement’s gain is science’s loss,” said Paxton as he led us back through the glass gallery.

“This is the entirety of your sea menagerie?” asked Holmes.

“Yes, excluding those organisms on the slides under my microscope.”

It was an amazing collection, I thought. I couldn’t imagine that there could be another one like it, in private hands, in all of England. We returned to the great hall and sat down. Then Holmes produced the photographs he’d shown me on the train.