The Great Detective: His Further Adventures. Marvin Kaye
here at the manor, and it would not be an inconvenience to put you up. In the morning, I will send Essie into the village to find someone to drive you.”
Holmes gave a little bow to the woman. “That is very kind of you, Mrs. Wolkner, but the hunting cabin will be sufficient. There is a fireplace and wood outside.”
“Very well, Mr. Holmes. I will have Essie pack some food for you and prepare a lantern, for the walk at night is not easy.” She gestured at her ankle. “As you see, a turned ankle can happen anywhere.”
Holmes smiled thinly. “Yes, I do see. Thank you, you are most generous with your hospitality.”
* * * *
“That blasted coachman.” Anger had flooded me because of the situation he placed us in. Mrs. Wolkner was right. Even though the path was clear and we had trod it only an hour or so ago, the walk was dangerous in the pitch black night. And carrying our luggage and the basket of food made it even more dicey.
“Now, dear fellow, is that anyway for a physician of your stature to speak?”
“If you twist your ankle like Mrs. Wolkner, ask me that question again.”
My anger was soon tempered, however, by the delicious food Essie had prepared for us. In the basket was a roast chicken, boiled potatoes, and a wedge of Stilton cheese, two bottles of beer and a bottle of port. While I set out the dishes, Holmes prepared a fire and we ate and drank as fine a meal as Mrs. Hudson had ever prepared for us at our lodgings.
Afterwards, I made tea and Holmes poured the last of the Jameson into our cups and we drank.
“What do you make of Mrs. Wolkner?” he asked after a long stretch of silence.
“You already asked me that.”
“No, I mean her state when we saw her tonight.”
“She seemed to be holding up well; nerves calm considering the death of her husband and now the injury to her ankle. I must say, that was an exquisite walking stick she was using. I have never seen one like it. With a brass top. Oriental, I gather?”
“Quite so. Teak with Buddhist carvings, but its head is gold-plated.”
“Fascinating.”
“I agree, Watson, I agree. Fascinating.” Holmes finished the last of his tea and Jameson and stood. “I think I will take a walk outside and look at the Ogham stone.”
“It’s a shame that Essie O’Brien doesn’t understand them. For your curiosity about them seems rather high.”
“Not to worry, Watson. For during my self-exile on Inis Oírr I met the most wonderful and delightful intellect I had ever come across, an erudite monk named Brother Kenneth who, when in his cups, wrote the most lovely Erse poetry. There were many the stormy nights when Brother Kenneth and I sat by the fire with cups of hot tea and Jameson and discussed Ogham and the Ogham stones. Not only did my knowledge of that ancient language expand, but by delving into the mysteries of the Ogham Stones, I was able to satisfy my ongoing interest in codes and ciphers. And the Ogham Stones proved to be the most difficult ciphers of my career. Yet, as I expected, I eventually cracked them. I certainly shall have no trouble understanding this one.”
Holmes went out and I stoked the fire and finished the monograph before retiring. I awoke the next morning to a steady drumbeat of rain on the roof and the comforting sound of the kettle on. Holmes was already up and had shaved and was pouring our tea. He drank his tea quickly, oblivious to the heat, and stood. Seizing an umbrella that was by the door, he thrust the portal open and looked outside.
He then turned back to me. “The rain is bearable. Finish your tea, old boy, and come take a walk with me. I have something to show you and I would like your opinion about it.”
“My opinion? Is it a medical matter?”
“Not in the least. Nevertheless, any conclusions you draw may prove to be invaluable.”
Always ready to render assistance to my colleague, I followed him out the cabin door, and hunching up next to him under the umbrella we headed toward the spinney. Once inside the grove, Holmes shut the umbrella and plunging ahead, used it to poke back the branches in our path. We soon reached a small clearing where in the center stood a wooden pole.
“What do you make of that?” he asked me.
I walked over to the pole and examined it. It had long perpendicular striations carved into it, and there were horizontal and slanted slashes running through the striations and from their sides.
“It looks like an Ogham stone, but the pillar is made of wood and the cuts are recent.”
“Excellent observations. Anything else?”
“It is crudely carved.”
“Jolly good observation.”
“What does it say?”
The thin smile reappeared on his face. “Like the stone pillar, it contains a message. But this message is gibberish.”
“Gibberish? Why on earth would someone carve gibberish in the middle of a Dorset spinney?”
“Let me give you a rudimentary explication of Ogham, dear fellow. The alphabet is based on the twenty trees that were sacred to the ancient Irish druids. Each slash or combination of slashes stands for one of the Ogham alphabet. Now let us return to the cabin, for I wish to have another cup of tea and wait.”
“Wait? Good lord, Holmes, wait for what?”
“Not what, Watson, whom!”
When we reached the cabin, there was a folded note pressed into the door. Holmes snatched it and began to read. “Aha. We must return to the manor house immediately. There is no time to lose lest we allow the murderer of Mr. Wolkner to escape.”
“Murder? How...when did you deduce his death was a murder?”
“I will explain later. Did you bring your service revolver?”
“It is in my bag.”
“Good. Fetch it and follow me. Quickly now.” Holmes pushed open the umbrella and set off down the path toward the manor house.
“But the umbrella...,” I yelled after him for he had left me with nothing to protect myself from cold drizzle. But he did not stop and soon he disappeared from view. I went into the cabin and retrieved the Colt. I tried to catch up but it was no use with my bad leg. By the time I reached the manor house, the front door was open and I plunged through it without knocking. I could hear voices in the library, and I slid open the door to find my colleague and Mrs. Wolkner, sitting and leaning on her walking stick, being served tea by Essie.
“Ah, Watson, Just in time. I was about to relate an interesting tale to our hostess, and it should interest you as well.”
“Won’t you join us for tea, doctor? I am sure you are as interested in what Mr. Holmes has to say as I am.”
I sat and waited while Essie poured my tea. When she had finished Holmes began.
“My story starts two decades ago in America. It is a tale that should curdle the blood of any decent human being. A story about a vivacious young woman. A woman who wanted and expected everything that a life of leisure could give her. She was an actress. No, not the kind that appears on the stage to delight audiences. For this woman’s stage was the boudoir, and her audience consisted of rich young men, sons of successful Southern planters. Have you ever heard of Miss Annabelle Portia Perkins?”
I shook my head for I hadn’t the foggiest notion who he was talking about.
“Perhaps you might remember her by the infamous name her notoriety bestowed upon her. The Black Widow of Virginia. Does that jog your memory, Watson?”
“Yes, I do remember something about a woman called that, but that was some years ago, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, many years ago.