Читать книгу The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters - Michael Kurland - Страница 8

THE TATTOOED ARM, by Marc Bilgrey

There are a number of cases that I’ve chronicled, involving my friend Sherlock Holmes that I have chosen not to publish. Some of these are of a very delicate political nature, and if they were released to the public, could seriously compromise the peace that exists between our nation and certain foreign powers. Other cases, I have also decided to keep in a locked box, in a bank vault, in Charing Cross, because, if the details of these were to come to light, they might potentially endanger the lives of a number of prominent public figures and their families.

There is one more class of case that I have kept private, due to the fact that they contain elements or events which I’ve deemed too sensational or fantastic to believe. The case which I’m about to recount, falls into this category.

It is fair to note that, in the years since these awful incidents occurred, the world has undergone many changes. While the passage of time has not dulled the impact of what transpired during those days, I believe that it has somewhat prepared the public to accept, or at least to approach, this case with an open mind. It is with this philosophy that I have decided to chance its release. Having made these statements, I must admit that, had I not personally witnessed all that I am about to recount with my own eyes, there is no doubt that I would consider myself a sceptic.

* * * *

The adventure began early one cold winter morning, while I was still residing in the rooms at 221B Baker Street. I was awakened by Sherlock Holmes, who urged me to dress immediately.

When I asked him for an explanation, he merely said, “Wear warm clothing, Watson, we are making a trip to the country.”

With that, he left me to obey his orders. I knew my friend well enough to know that it was useless to attempt to elicit information from him. He would tell me more in his own time.

I had no sooner finished shaving when the door was opened and Holmes stuck his head inside the room and said, “And do take your revolver.”

My curiosity now thoroughly piqued, Holmes and I set off in a cab for Paddington station. Once there, Holmes purchased our tickets, and a moment later, we stepped into a train car and sat down.

“How would you feel about a day at the seaside?” asked Holmes.

Though I’ve occasionally made mention of Sherlock Holmes’s bizarre sense of humour, in previous accounts, I suppose I shall never entirely get used to it.

“It’s February,” I replied, feeling like the straight man in a music hall routine.

Holmes smiled, removed an envelope from his coat pocket and took out a letter. “Our friend, Inspector Lestrade, has been kind enough to invite us to a scenic little coastal village in Cornwall, called Harbourton. It seems there’s been a murder there, one with some peculiar qualities.”

“Peculiar?” I said, knowing well Holmes’s interest in all things out of the ordinary.

It was then that Holmes began reading from the letter. “The victim was one Alvar Harris, a man of sixty-seven, who lived on a secluded farm, some five miles outside town. A week ago, a local woman, Millicent Stokes, who would periodically stop by Harris’s house to bring him groceries, found him missing. She had seen him alive only the previous afternoon, when he’d asked her to return the following day with the weekly newspaper, which she’d forgotten to bring him.

“After searching the property, Stokes discovered blood stains near the barn. Suspicion immediately fell upon Harris’s neighbour, Edmund Collier, who lived a quarter mile away. Harris and Collier had been known to detest each other. It seems that the reason for that contention is that Harris would let his cows graze on Collier’s land, despite Collier’s numerous pleas to the contrary.

“By all accounts, Harris was a taciturn man, with no living family, who seldom ventured into town. Collier, by contrast, is a retired Postal clerk, who lived with his own grown daughter, often socialized in the local village pub, and used his time to pursue his avocation, which is sculpting.”

I glanced out the window to see the buildings of London recede into the distance, as Holmes continued reading from the letter.

“Upon being questioned, Millicent Stokes was ruled out as a suspect. An extensive search of Harris’s house and grounds revealed no other evidence; nor did a search of Collier’s house. Other than the circumstances above, there seemed to be nothing to tie Collier to the crime.

“This changed two days later, when a human arm washed up on the local beach and was found by a passing fisherman. An examination of the arm revealed two tattoos, which a tearful Stokes immediately recognized as belonging to the deceased.

“Collier was promptly arrested, and another search of his house revealed a number of saws, which Collier claimed to use in his sculpting work. Due to the condition of the victim’s arm, which was severed with razor-like precision, it soon became obvious that we had our culprit.

“When presented with this evidence, Collier maintained his innocence. The matter might have ended there, were it not for Collier’s daughter, Katherine, who says that she and her father were home the entire night the crime was committed.

“It is Katherine Collier who insisted that I contact you, Mr Holmes, with the hope that you could perform a miracle and save her father from the gallows.” The letter ended there.

“It seems that Lestrade is satisfied that he has the guilty party, and that the case is solved,” I said.

“When Lestrade feels satisfaction, the world trembles,” said Holmes, with a half smile, then took a few photographs out of the envelope in which the letter had come.

“I must caution you, Watson, despite both your military and medical experience, you will find these photographs nothing short of gruesome.”

Holmes handed me the pictures. Given his usual flair for the dramatic, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but in this instance, he was not exaggerating. I stared at the photographs with revulsion.

Each was a picture of the severed arm, taken from different angles. I took note of the particularly strange manner with which the arm had been cut, then at the two tattoos on the upper biceps. The top one was of a nearly rectangular shape, the one below was an illustration of two intertwined vines. Further down, I noticed three dark circles, which were not tattoos, though exactly what they were, I wasn’t sure, perhaps wounds of some kind. Then I saw an area of blackened puffy skin, which is common among drowning victims.

“What can you tell me about Mr Harris from looking at his arm?” asked Holmes.

“It is the arm of a healthy man, if not somewhat overweight,” I said, “The fingers have calluses, so it stands to reason that he worked with his hands.”

“Excellent, Watson.”

“The tattoos, are, of course, distinctive. Perhaps he was a lover of the art, or merely a follower of fashion. Since a number of royals created the vogue, the public has, as they always do, followed suit.”

Holmes glanced at the photographs, then said, “The victim weighed twenty stone, stood six feet tall, had grey hair, spent much time outside, (no doubt tending to his animals). He was a widower who lost his beloved wife not more than five years ago, after which he sought seclusion. But, while many men who find themselves in similar circumstances turn to drink in an effort to quell their sorrows, Harris indulged himself with cakes, tarts, scones, pies, cookies, and eclairs. All of which came naturally to him, as his profession was that of a master baker. Since his wife’s death, he has had no other romance in his life. He was a compulsive man, whose outward anger masked his inner emotional pain.”

“How could you possibly know all that, Holmes?” I asked, stunned.

“The circumference of the arm indicated his girth, and from there one has only to gauge the proportions of the body and reconstruct it exponentially, much the way a naturalist, who specializes in palaeontology does, when unearthing a new dinosaur bone. The hair colour is evident by small follicles that are still intact. The dark complexion indicates someone who has spent much time in the sun. The fourth finger on the left hand has a lighter colour around the third knuckle, obviously from the impression of a wedding band which was only removed within the last few days. If that wasn’t enough to declare his eternal love, the tattoo of the intertwining vines, a popular image symbolizing such everlasting devotion, removes all doubt.

“As for his weight being a product of his own overindulgence, the illustration above the vines is that of a loaf of bread. A tattoo proclaiming one’s profession is not uncommon, especially among certain classes. His anguish and compulsion is evident by the condition of his fingernails. They have been bitten, a nasty habit, which would suggest that he was alone, as few women would put up with such unhygienic and socially unacceptable behaviour in their man.”

“Astounding,” I said.

“At the risk of repeating myself, Watson, it’s really quite elementary. However, having said that, these photographs raise more questions than they answer. Would you care to speculate on what sort of instrument could have been used to sever this man’s arm?”

“Other than perhaps having been caught in the gears of some large factory machine, of which I am unfamiliar, and even then, I’m frankly at a loss to explain the odd uneven nature of the cut. It appears unlikely that even a surgeon’s knife could have achieved these results.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“It’s not often we agree on something.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Watson, your observations are invaluable.”

I looked out the window as the countryside went by and thought about poor Mr Harris.

* * * *

A few hours later we arrived at Harbourton, and were met at the station by Lestrade and the local constable, a dour looking man called Dunbar. We were escorted to a carriage, then driven through the sleepy little village into the hills beyond. A quarter hour later we turned onto a secluded road and stopped at a cottage, which we were informed belonged to Edmund Collier, the man in custody. The door to the cottage was opened by a beautiful woman of no more than twenty years with pitch black hair.

“Mr Sherlock Holmes, I presume,” she said, curtsying, as if she were greeting a visiting noble. “I am Katherine Collins.”

“Miss Collier,” said Holmes, “this is my friend and associate, Dr Watson. I take it that you are already acquainted with Inspector Lestrade and Constable Dunbar.”

“Yes,” she said, looking none too happy.

We stepped into the living room, and Holmes walked over to a painting that hung above the mantle—a portrait of a gaunt, frail man in his sixties dressed in a plain, white shirt and dark trousers.

“Your father,” said Holmes.

“Yes,” said Miss Collier, “he traded with a local painter for a sculpture he’d made of the man. A portrait for a portrait.”

“You contend that on the night of the murder you were here?” said Holmes.

“Yes,” said Miss Collier, “I was with my father the entire night. When we heard the news the next day from the constable, it came as a complete shock to us both.”

“Is it possible that your father could have gone outside that night without you perceiving him?” asked Holmes.

“No, Mr Holmes. Even if I had not seen him, I certainly would have heard him leave, since I have the room next to his and am a very light sleeper. In addition, the floorboards groan, and the doors and windows squeak when opened. Though, as I understand it, whoever did perpetrate this heinous act would have needed more than a few minutes to do it.”

“Quite so,” said Holmes, “may we look around?”

“Of course,” replied the girl.

I accompanied Holmes through the house’s few rooms, each of which contained wooden sculptures. Most of them were busts, or small figurines. In a shed behind the house, we found a workroom with a table on which rested a number of saws of various sizes, as well as hammers, axes, and other craftsman’s tools.

From there, we went outside and saw a horse and cart. Here, Holmes knelt down and examined the cart’s wheels. After a moment or two, he stood up and met the gazes of Lestrade and Dunbar, who were standing a few feet away, watching us.

Katherine Collins went over to Holmes and said, “Is there any hope for my father?”

“If you’re asking me if I believe that he murdered Mr Harris, the answer is no.”

“That’s preposterous,” said Lestrade.

“We have the right man,” said Dunbar, “of that you can be certain.”

“When it comes to crime, nothing is certain, except uncertainty,” said Holmes. “ Keep your spirits up, young lady. I expect to bring you good news soon.”

* * * *

On the trip up the road in Dunbar’s carriage, I wondered if Holmes should have been so optimistic. I’d seen nothing that cast doubt on the official version of the case, let alone that would point to Edmund Collier’s innocence. But once Holmes had an idea in his mind, there was no talking him out of it. My concern was for Miss Collier. I didn’t want her to have unrealistic expectations, and as a result, subsequently be disappointed.

In five minutes time we stopped in front of another cottage. This one was bigger than the previous one, and the grass in front of it a bit overgrown.

“We’ve preserved the scene,” said Lestrade, as we walked up the path to the front door, “for what it’s worth.”

Holmes turned to Lestrade seemingly unamused. Dunbar unlocked the door, and we went inside.

The living room was simply furnished with a wooden table and a few chairs. On a cabinet were some framed photographs of a fat man—presumably Harris—with a plump woman—presumably his late wife.

A search of the pantry turned up tins of dried fruit, chocolate, and some jars of jam. On a counter were a stale loaf of bread and a few traditional Cornish pasties which, judging by the smell, had gone bad.

Then we went outside and walked to the barn, which was empty. On the ground in front of it, were the blood stains that Lestrade had mentioned in his letter. Holmes examined them, then gave his attention to a horseless cart that stood nearby. As he had done at the previous cottage, he inspected the cart’s wheels then seemed to take notice of a small wren that had landed on a nearby log. The bird was eating a worm.

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.

“Before you view these, Dr Paxton, I must warn you of their graphic nature.”

“I’m a man of science, sir,” said Paxton, blinking.

“Very well,” said Holmes, “if you’ve read the local newspaper in the last few days, you’ll have heard of the human arm that was found on the beach, not far from here.”

“I’m afraid I’m much too involved in my work to keep up with the news.”

“I’d like you to look at these photographs and give me your professional opinion. Is there any sea creature you know of that could have done this to a man?”

Holmes gave Paxton the photographs. Paxton studied them carefully, then said, “There are no teeth marks that would indicate a shark, rare as such an attack is on humans. Even so, it would not be so smooth a cut as this.”

“Could a whale have been responsible?”

“I dare say not. Once again, in the few documented cases I know of there would be signs of biting and the skin and bone would be jagged. Even piranhas—which are native to South America and are never found in these cold waters—would leave traces of their tiny, razor-like teeth. I see no evidence of anything of the sort here. I know of no fish or ocean mammal capable of inflicting such damage in precisely this way.”

Paxton returned the photographs to Holmes, who stood up promptly and said, “Thank you, Dr Paxton, you’ve been of invaluable assistance. Come, Watson, our driver awaits.”

We returned to the village and stopped in front of the inn, whereupon Holmes told me to go up to our room and wait for him, as he had “some errands to attend to.

I stepped out of the carriage, and it pulled away quickly. As I walked through the simply furnished lobby and up the stairs, I wondered what my friend was going to do. Once in our room, I passed the time by reading a book I found on a shelf about tin mining in Cornwall. Though I found the style somewhat dry, to say the least, the subject was surprisingly engaging.

* * * *

It was past dusk, when Sherlock Holmes returned, and in a very excited state.

“Come Watson,” he said, “and bring your revolver. We are rapidly approaching the dénouement of our case.”

“But how—?”

“There’s no time to explain, every moment we delay may cost lives.”

We rushed out of the inn, into the same trap that had taken us to the manor in the morning. It was now night, and a full moon hung above us.

“We’re off to the manor,” whispered Holmes, presumably so the driver would not hear him.

“At this hour?” I replied.

What was Holmes getting us into? I thought. By his tone, I suspected we would hardly be attending a formal dinner party. Though the reason for our nocturnal visit eluded me, my confidence in Holmes’s ability to prevail was unwavering.

When we were halfway to the manor, Holmes instructed the driver to take another route to the left, bringing us back inland. I was completely perplexed, as we were now heading away from the manor. The road turned again, and we entered a thick grove of trees. Fortunately, the moon provided us with some light, or we’d have surely been lost.

Suddenly, Holmes commanded the driver to come to an abrupt halt. Then he struck a match, lit a lantern, and instructed me to step out of the carriage. When I had done so, he exited as well, and dismissed the driver. The carriage sped off, leaving Holmes and me alone in a dense forest.

“Follow me,” whispered Holmes, holding the lantern.

I couldn’t help asking myself the obvious questions. Where were we? Why were we here? And what in blazes were we doing? We walked for a few minutes. In the subdued light, I stumbled in some ruts in the hard dirt.

Soon after, we reached a boulder that resembled an apple. Then Holmes reached into his coat, removed a rolled-up paper, and held the lantern up to it. After a cursory glance, he pocketed the paper, walked a few paces, and turned around.

“Here, Watson, follow me, and stay very close behind.”

At this I could take no more. Patience is a virtue only up to a point. “Now, Holmes, I think it’s about time—”

“You’re quite right, Watson. When this manor was built, over four hundred years ago, there was much concern over the then very real possibility of sieges, and the masons who built it were instructed by their lord and master, to provide an escape tunnel into this forest.”

“Ingenious, but how did you know about its existence?”

“There’ll be plenty of opportunity to go into that later, but right now time is of the essence.”

He held up the lantern, which revealed a set of stone steps that were all but covered by thick foliage.

“Keep your revolver handy, Watson,” he said, as we descended the stairs and came to a rusty iron door. It was padlocked. Holmes pulled out a set of keys, selected one, slid it into the lock, and it snapped open. Then the door followed suit with a soft, creaking sound.

Holmes held up the lantern, and I saw a tunnel directly ahead of us. I removed the gun from my pocket and held it tightly, as we stepped into the cavern. It was dark and smelled of mold. The lantern lit the way, as we trod through the seemingly endless tunnel. It’s been said that man’s most primal fear is darkness, and at that moment I had no doubt of it.

Eventually, the passageway became narrower, and then, at last, we came to an opening. Here Holmes turned to me and whispered, “Do not speak, Watson. Now we must wait.”

Holmes doused the lantern and through the entrance in front of us, we saw a vast cave unfold that was illuminated by an eerie, flickering light. There was a narrow ridge immediately outside the opening where we stood. We walked a few paces, stole a quick glance over the edge. There, some twenty-five feet below, was an immense grotto filled with water.

We returned to the tunnel. All at once I heard voices. They were muffled at first, but I recognized Dr Paxton’s above the others. “That’s it,” he said, “come on now, let’s not keep her waiting.”

“Yes sir,” said another voice. This one had a tinge of North Country in his inflection.

“Careful with that,” said Paxton, “let’s not spill any.”

“It’s heavy, sir,” said another voice, this one distinctly Cockney.

“No back talk,” said Paxton sternly.

Then Holmes and I saw the three men emerge from another tunnel and stand on the ledge, not more than a few feet away from us. We pulled back to avoid being seen.

Besides Paxton, I recognized the other man as his servant (though he was now wearing a workman’s shirt and a pair of soiled trousers). Along with them was the man we’d seen on the ladder feeding the fish.

What followed next will haunt me till the end of my life. One of the men pulled up a bucket of fish and emptied its contents over the ledge into the water below. The other man took a second bucket and did the same.

For a moment there was silence, and then I heard splashing in the water. Then something rose out of the water the likes of which I’ve never seen before. It was a massive tentacle, of the sort one might see on an octopus, except that this was at least fifty feet high with the circumference of a large Roman column. It was covered with suction cups of various sizes.

A second tentacle of equal size appeared along its side, thrashed around in the water for a few minutes, and then they both vanished into the depths from which they had come. Before I could catch my breath from beholding such a sight, Paxton turned to his men and said, “Bring me the main course.”

At this, one of his henchmen disappeared from view, returning immediately with a portly man, whose arms were bound behind him with rope and whose mouth was gagged with a handkerchief.

Holmes took out his revolver, then gestured to me to step forward and reveal ourselves. We moved quickly into the open with our revolvers aimed at the trio.

“Good evening, Dr Paxton,” said Holmes.

Paxton and his men turned abruptly, as did their prisoner.

“You’re trespassing, Mr Holmes,” said Paxton.

“A small transgression compared to what you are engaged in,” replied Holmes.

“What do you know?” asked Paxton.

“I’m afraid I know everything, Paxton. Dr Watson and I just now witnessed your little pet.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Paxton.

“And now,” said Holmes, “I must ask you to unhand that man and step aside.”

“On the contrary, Mr Holmes, “said Paxton, holding on to the bound man, “if you or Dr Watson, advance even one step, I shall push this man over the precipice to his reward.”

“Then we are at a stalemate,” replied Holmes.

“Not quite,” said Paxton, “if you do not drop your weapons, I will make good on my threat regardless.”

“And if we obey, you will send this man to his doom nonetheless.”

“It’s a sad day when a man of science like myself is not trusted.”

“If you throw this man to your creature, I will subsequently shoot you, and then you shall join him.”

“I’m disappointed in you, Holmes,” said Paxton, “your reputation is that of a man of intellect, not violence.”

“And yours is of a genius gone wrong.”

“Your barb stings me,” said Paxton. “It sounds like something I’d expect from those narrow pinheads at the Zoological Gardens, or the Marine Biological Association.”

“To be fair, Paxton, “said Holmes, “I actually admire your theories.”

“Your insincere flattery is pathetic. You don’t even know my work.”

“I refer to your monograph on the mating calls of blue whales, your monograph on inter-species communication of sea mammals, your monograph on instinctual memory in dolphins, your monograph detailing—”

“I am most impressed, Mr Holmes, I see I have misjudged you.”

“It’s not your theories I quarrel with, doctor, it’s your methods.”

“Sadly, they are necessary to further my work.”

“The animal …” said Holmes.

“The animal, as you call her,” said Paxton, “is my affair, and one I choose not to discuss with outsiders.”

“Then allow me,” said Holmes, “this creature, whom Watson and I just witnessed, is a giant squid. It was long thought to be a legend, one that dates back to antiquity. For millennia, routinely dismissed as being the disturbed visions of intoxicated sailors. All that changed seven years ago, in 1888, when the carcass of just such a giant squid, washed up on a beach in New Zealand. Needless to say, it was quite celebrated news, not only in the scientific world, but internationally. However, a live one has never even been photographed, let alone captured. It is nothing less than a discovery of monumental and historic proportions.”

“You are correct,” said Paxton.

“You’ve had him for only two months,” said Holmes.

“How on earth did you know that?” asked Paxton.

“The local fishermen,” replied Holmes, “where you only recently increased your demand for their services. The amounts of fish you’ve been purchasing is not commensurate with the seals, dolphins, and others in your sea menagerie.”

“Yes,” said Paxton, “by my estimation, she eats at least five hundred pounds of fish a day.”

“Perhaps you should amend that statement. As of late, the creature has been dining on a more varied diet of beef, by way of the livestock you’ve been clandestinely abducting from the local farmers. Then there’s the matter of the occasional human being, as well, such as Mr Harris and now this man, a recluse from the nearby hills, no doubt.”

“You claim to know my work,” said Paxton, “yet you fail to understand what a true pioneer and visionary must endure. What I have done will alter the course of modern marine biology. But before I reveal her to the world, she must be studied, tested—”

“And fed human sacrifices.” said Holmes.

“What is the loss of a few peasants in the name of science? Future generations will revere my name as the man who brought the feared Leviathan of the bible to humanity. Now then, Holmes, I suggest that you and your friend relinquish your firearms.”

Before Holmes could respond, a voice behind us said, “I have a gun trained at your backs. Do not turn around. Obey the doctor.”

Holmes let the revolver fall from his hand, as I did the same with mine.

“Gentlemen,” said Paxton, “may I introduce my man, Gregory. When running an operation of this size and complexity, I cannot stress the importance of having enough good help. Now then, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, will there be any further questions?”

“I have one,” I said, “How did you, in fact, capture this creature?”

“Sarah, for that is her name,” said Paxton, with an expression on his face I’ve seen on men extolling the virtues of their wives or mistresses, “came to me entirely by chance. This grotto has an opening that leads to the ocean.”

“Originally used to escape from invading Norsemen, then later used by smugglers,” said Holmes.

“Is there anything that you don’t know?” asked Paxton.

“Now it is you who flatter me, Doctor,” said Holmes.

“To continue,” said Paxton, “I have modified the cave opening with a door that opens and closes, remarkably quickly, I might add, using a mechanism of springs and pulleys. I open it slightly, once a day, to allow seawater to cleanse the grotto. In any case, I had baited a trap with fish, hoping to ensnare dolphins and seals—which I eventually did. But then I had the idea to set my sights on a whale.

“Instead, one night, to my extreme surprise and elation, I found this marvellous behemoth instead.” Paxton looked at Holmes and myself, and smiled. “Story time is over, gentlemen, and dinner time commences.”

I saw Holmes turn, duck, and pounce upon the assailant behind us. He subdued the man with a roundhouse punch to the jaw, knocking him cold. I grabbed our revolvers. Then Holmes and I faced our opponents once more.

“It seems that we’re at that impasse again,” said Paxton, “rather like a tedious game of badminton.”

Just then I heard footsteps. Paxton and his two men turned as I leapt and pulled the bound man toward us.

Lestrade and Dunbar appeared, with pistols drawn.

“It’s about time, Lestrade,” said Holmes, “how much did you hear?”

“Enough to be satisfied that Edmund Collier is innocent of the murder of Alvar Harris,” replied Lestrade. He turned to Paxton and his men. “Hands up, please. You will be so kind as to accompany us.”

“But what will become of Sarah?” asked Paxton.

“The monster will be turned over to the Regent Aquarium, no doubt,” said Lestrade.

“No, I cannot allow that!” Paxton roared. “That pack of imbeciles will not get my Sarah.” With that he took a step.

“Don’t move,” said Lestrade, brandishing his gun.

Paxton looked away, then abruptly ran past Lestrade. As he did, Lestrade discharged his revolver, hitting Paxton in the leg. Paxton stopped, clutched his wound, then reached out to the cave wall, on which were a series of levers. He pulled one down and we heard loud echoing noises throughout the cavern.

“He’s opened the door!” exclaimed Holmes.

“No one shall have my Sarah,” declared Paxton, looking as if he were in a trance.

“Come along now,” said Lestrade, “the hangman’s noose awaits you.”

“I shall not be punished for my genius,” said Paxton, who then ran to the precipice and leapt off it.

I watched in horror as he plunged into the water, then saw a gargantuan yellow eye—twice the size of an archer’s target—peer out from the muck. A mouth from a nightmare opened and issued a roar like thunder as a tentacle wrapped itself around Paxton, and dragged him under the churning depths. More tentacles appeared and flailed about, splashing and crashing, then slid under the water.

All was quiet. Holmes, Lestrade, Dunbar, and Paxton’s men stood silently transfixed. After a few moments, we turned, went into the tunnel, and quietly made our way through it. When we emerged in the forest, there was a police wagon waiting, accompanied by a few sturdy looking men.

“What will you tell the Yard, Lestrade?” asked Holmes.

“Oh,” said Lestrade, still apparently quite shaken, “I…I’ll tell them about the gang of cattle thieves, of course. But what I don’t understand, Holmes, is how you knew that Paxton—?”

“You supplied the photographs, Lestrade, of the tattooed arm. Between the dark circles, which I immediately surmised were the marks of the creature’s suction cups, and the odd angle of the cut…”

“The cut?”

“How the arm had been severed. There were no signs indicating that a saw or similar instrument had been used, nor were there any teeth marks that would suggest an animal, either a land or an aquatic one. That ruled out all the obvious possibilities, however, it occurred to me that the damage to the arm resembled nothing so much as the effect of the plates in a bird’s beak, its rhamphotheca.

“Birds tear or crush their food. Yet, of course, no bird of that size is known to exist. But a squid processes a beak, which has been duly compared to that of a bird. Then I thought of the find in New Zealand seven years ago. When Paxton looked at the photographs of the severed arm and denied any knowledge of it, I knew we had our man. The impressions of the creature’s suction cups alone should have elicited comment. The arm itself was released unknowingly through the grotto’s door, upon one of Paxton’s admitted daily cleansings.”

“Amazing,” said Lestrade.

Lestrade and Dunbar got into the wagon, as did Holmes and I, and we started off, back to the village.

* * * *

The next morning, we checked out of the inn, and were met at the train station by Katherine Collier. She thanked us profusely for clearing her father of the murder charges. Then Holmes and I climbed aboard the train, and it pulled out of the Harbourton station.

We were well on our way back to London, when I turned to Holmes and said, “So, Paxton’s men had been ordered to find cows to feed the creature?”

“Yes, and poor Mr Harris happened to stumble upon them one night as they were engaged in the act of stealing a couple of his Guernseys and paid the ultimate price. Since he had been their first human casualty, they weren’t sure what to do with him, and decided to bring him back to their master.

“Paxton then, it seems, had the idea that fat men might, shall we say, round out the creature’s diet. My examination of the suspect’s wagon wheels proved that his vehicle hadn’t been employed in the crime. The wheel tracks were not deep enough to account for the additional weight of Harris, Paxton’s men, and the cows.”

“The cows?”

“That’s correct. Paxton had his men inject them with a tranquilliser in order to take them clandestinely. That’s why none of the local farmers or anyone else ever saw or heard any of them being abducted. They were unconscious and lying flat in a wagon.

“For the same reasons, I knew that Edmund Collier couldn’t have done it either. His wagon was too small, and the ground showed no signs of being employed in such a venture. However, on the way to the siege tunnel, Watson, you lost your footing in the deep impressions of Paxton’s wagon tracks. And we’ve previously discussed the absurdity of Collier lifting Harris.”

“What a vile and horrible evil lived within Paxton,” I said.

“Odd how evil can sometimes cohabit very amiably with genius.”

“And Paxton’s house?” I asked, “You knew it as if you’d lived there.”

“You can thank my brother Mycroft for that. After I left you yesterday morning, I sent him a telegram with instructions to contact one of his highly placed Masonic associates. The house dates back five hundred years, and as a result, I suspected it would have a siege tunnel. Mycroft received the architectural plans immediately, then dispatched them by courier, whom I met at the train station.”

“This was quite a singular adventure, to say the least.”

“Perhaps, you’d do well not to relay this one to the public, Watson. I wouldn’t want your readers to think that you’d taken to flights of fancy like those of the French novelist, Jules Verne.”

“You have a good point,” I said as I watched Holmes light his pipe and stare out the window at the passing countryside.

I looked through the opposite window while I pondered the fate of Dr Paxton. With his death, what great discoveries would the world be deprived of? Then I thought of the creature and its return to the primordial waters from which it had come. Would humanity ever see its like again? Or was it destined to remain an elusive phantom for all eternity?

I was reminded of something that Sherlock Holmes had once said to me upon the completion of another case. “With even the most satisfying answers, there are always more questions.”