The Great Detective: His Further Adventures. Marvin Kaye
or real. Yet she held herself erect and took a step down the path.
“Very well then. But I certainly have no need of an Englishman to guide me.”
As we walked, Holmes continued to question the woman, his voice and manner no longer hard but casual.
“Did Mr. Wolkner hunt often?”
“Many mornings in the spring and fall. Often he would stay overnight in the cabin so he could be out at the crack of dawn.”
“But this is midsummer?”
“Yes, sir, but he said he had spotted some grouse the other day while walking in the fields.”
When we neared the spinney, I saw a large cabin with a porch that looked out over the meadows and some low rolling hills beyond. Next to the cabin was a thick pillar about five feet high with carved markings like the Ogham stones back at the manor.
“Where was the body when you found it?”
“Over there.” Miss O’Brien pointed at the edge of the spinney where there were some downed trees. Holmes set out towards them, the woman following behind him. I brought up the rear in case she tried to run off. After a hundred or so paces, we reached one of the fallen trees.
“There,” she said. “On the other side of that log was where the body lay.” She made no move toward the spot. Holmes again gripped her elbow and prodded her forward until they were standing in front of the log.
“How did you come to find him?”
“My mistress sent me to fetch him for tea.”
“Yes, yes, we know that. But how did come to find him in this exact spot?” As he asked the question, Holmes was not looking at the woman but instead was gazing intently into the spinney.
“I called for him but there was no answer. I went into the cabin but it was empty, so I walked into the fields and called again. There was no one, not even a bird. I walked all the way around the edge of the meadow and as I made my way back toward the spinney, I almost tripped over him.”
“Was he face up or face down?”
“Face down.”
“And where was his head and where were his feet?”
“His feet were by the log and his head was pointing toward the meadow.”
“And his shotgun?”
“Lying on the ground, next to his right arm.”
“Did you touch the body?”
She shook her head.
“Then how did you know he was dead?”
She shuddered but said nothing.
Holmes turned his gaze away from the trees and looked directly at her for a long moment. “What did you do next?”
“I ran back to the manor and told my mistress.”
“Told her what, exactly?”
“That Mr. Wolkner, her husband, was dead.”
“How did she react?”
“She had one of her fainting spells.”
“I take it she was not in good health?”
“On, no, she is really quite fit for her age, if you know what I mean. It’s just that she’s given to what she call the ‘vapors.’ She would often collapse and gasp for breath when she became overexcited.”
“Poor woman,” I said. “Is she under medical care?”
“Dr. Sedgecombe treats her.”
Holmes smiled thinly at her. “I have no further questions at this time, thank you, but I will trouble you for the key to the cabin.”
She reached into the pocket of her dress and produced a sturdy brass key and handed it to him. Without saying another word, she turned and starting walking back in the direction from which we came. She had gone only a few steps when she stopped and turned once again toward us.
“It was the blood, sir. There was so much of it everywhere. On the grass, on the log, on poor Mr. Wolkner. That’s how I knew he was dead.” She turned again and walked away.
Holmes nodded at her receding figure and walked up the steps to the cabin door and unlocked it. Inside, we found a large room with a stone fireplace and a few chairs and a small dining table. There were smaller rooms on either side of the large room. One was fitted as a kitchen with a stove, a wash basin, a counter, and some cupboards. The other room contained a large bed.
“Seems like something out of one of those American wild west dime novels, podnuh,” I said to Holmes, trying to make a small joke.
“Very much so. What do you make of those?” He pointed to a wall with a series of hooks from which a conglomeration of clothes hung. There was an army uniform with unpolished buttons hanging from one hook. Army boots and a pair of Wellingtons were beneath it on the floor.
“Sloppy soldiering,” I said.
“Not at all, dear friend. There were not to be worn at tattoo but for hunting. If the buttons were polished, their brightness would scare away the birds.”
I also saw a patched woolen loden hunting jacket, its bright green long faded from use.
“What do you deduce from the hunting jacket, dear fellow?”
“That our late Mr. Wolkner was not a man to spend money unnecessarily. It looks like something one would find at the old clothes market on Gloucester Street.”
“Quite so. Anything else?”
“I hadn’t thought he was that smallish,” I said, noting the jacket’s size.
“Precisely.” He took his pipe out and filled it. “I want to sit outside for a while and calculate. Would you be good enough, old boy, to rummage around and see if there’s any tea and put a kettle on?”
While I ransacked the cupboards. Holmes dragged one of the chairs out onto the porch. When I brought him his tea, his pipe was lit and he was lost in thought. Without saying a word, I set the cup down next to him and went back inside and poured myself a cup. I had brought a recent treatise on gunshot wounds and blood poisoning to read on the train, but the tale Holmes related was so fascinating, I had left the little monograph untouched. Sitting in one of the chairs, I now pulled out the treatise and began to read. Some time had passed, I knew not how much for I had become as lost in thought as my colleague, before I noted his presence back inside the cabin.
“Watson, I have considered much here and there is still much more to consider. I think I’ll have a short lie down.” He walked into the bedroom and closed the door behind him. By the time he awoke, the afternoon had grown late and we immediately set off for the manor. When we reached the house, it was almost dusk. Our driver and the hansom cab were nowhere to be found.
Anger flooded through me. “Good lord, Holmes, how on earth are we to get back to Dorchester? And our luggage? It is gone. What are we to do?”
My colleague appeared unperturbed by the matter but I persisted. “Perhaps someone in the village can drive us? Let us ask Mrs. Wolkner.”
Essie answered the door and ushered us in. I saw our bags resting on the floor and immediately felt relieved. “Look Holmes, our bags. Perhaps the driver has not left us after all?”
“I’m afraid not, sir,” Essie said to me. “When I returned from the cabin, the driver and the cab were gone. Only the bags were there, sitting on the ground, so I brought them inside.”
“Thank you, dear woman,” I said to her. “But how are we to get back to Dorchester? Is there anyone in the village who can drive us?” As I asked the question, Mrs. Wolkner came down the stairs, hobbling slightly and assisted by a splendid looking brass-topped walking stick.
“I