The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters. Michael Kurland
Читать онлайн книгу.
* * * *
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