The Horror Of Tarminster Castle
Something for the oncoming Halloween! 'The shocking affair of the Dutch steamship Friesland' leads into an investigation for Holmes and Watson of a tragic death at an allegedly-haunted Cumberland castle. What is the truth behind the lies and the dark shadows that lie within?
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the established characters of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's legacy. No money is being made from this story.
Introduction:
'The Shocking Affair Of The Dutch Steamship Friesland'
From the records of John H Watson:
The most meticulous devotees of my records of the adventures I shared with my friend Sherlock Holmes have not failed to note that I have made accessible only a percentage of the total sum that I was party to. There are many reasons for this. A good number were devoid of singular features – which was a consequence of the actions of several mundane criminals and other individuals Holmes found himself up against. Another reason was that I was not as careful with my records as I should have been – some cases I dated erroneously, and some notes I lost over the course of time.
Another explanation is that I felt obliged to honour the confidentiality of the players in some of Holmes's cases – where the changing of names and other details, and the passage of years, would not have been enough to protect them from identification in the public eye had I published the accounts.
However, now – in my retirement and with more time available to me – I feel that I should attempt to recount a most extraordinary assignment that Holmes and I became part of. My friend himself would not look kindly upon my efforts, due to a certain factor that was ultimately revealed at the end of our investigation of the tragic mystery at Tarminster Castle. Nevertheless, I believe that the truth of this story, years after the events described, should now be known – before it becomes too late to write it.
In 'The Adventure of the Norwood Builder', I made reference to the 'shocking affair of the Dutch steamship Friesland, which so nearly cost us both our lives'. I will now summarise the points of this case – as they acted as a prelude to the adventure I will later relate.
The 'Friesland' was the vessel that in October 1894 transported the Dutch Foreign Minister on an official visit to Dublin. Holmes had been alerted – via one of his informants in the criminal underworld – that a pretender to the throne of the late Professor Moriarty had undefined designs on the boat in question.
That man was one Isaac Stroud. He was an educated business, with a widespread following along parts of the coastline of Lancashire, where he had been raised. He was officially known of the founder of a quasi-religious sect, 'The Order of Abraxas', based in his adopted city of Liverpool. In reality, the sect was a gathering of individuals – both men and women – who had leanings towards dishonest or criminal activities. Amongst their aims was that of expanding their influence further throughout society, particularly amongst the upper classes, where the profits and potential for power were greatest. And Stroud was especially driven by power.
At the end of Holmes's investigation into the plans of our formidable opponent, we discovered that Stroud himself, plus a couple of his followers, had taken the place of caterers who had been assigned to come onboard the ship at Dublin.
Holmes and I managed to board the Friesland when it had docked at Dublin, using aliases. During the return journey, Stroud and his men took over the ship, with Holmes, myself, and the other passengers taken as hostages. But a pair of British Navy frigates gave pursuit – courtesy of prior arrangements made by Mycroft Holmes within the government. Stroud was forced to turn the ship away from his intended destination of the Lancashire coast, and head north instead.
During the tense events on board, my alias was blown by one of the four Dutch crewmen who were in Stroud's pocket – men who had political reasons for their actions.
Eventually, with the frigates closing in on us in the Irish Sea – and with the Friesland gradually becoming trapped as we approached the Cumberland shore, in the fading light of the evening, Holmes helped to free the hostages, causing chaos and confusion for the enemy. Amidst the fighting that broke out, I was present in the lounge cabin, when Stroud ordered one of his Dutch conspirators to 'blow up the boat' and take us all with him. Horrified, I launched myself at the armed mastermind when Holmes distracted him – and between myself, Holmes, Stroud, and one of his henchmen, we all fought for control of the situation and the steering of the steamship. In the meantime, the renegade Dutchman named Van der Neer set off a crude explosive device in the engine room.
One of the clearest images I still retain in my mind of the moments before the blast is the sight of Holmes battling hand-to-hand with Stroud for possession of the man's pistol – and of the shock on Stroud's regal-looking face as Holmes's punch sent him tumbling through the hatchway and down the stairs leading to the lower quarters and the engine room.
The first deafening explosion engulfed most of the lower deck rapidly. In the desperate situation, Holmes pulled me up from the floor where I had fallen, bruised from the fighting. With no time to waste, we joined the exodus. Finding the last lifeboat already taken by the freed hostages, we both dived into the chilling waters of the Irish Sea along with the last of Stroud's men, the one I had tackled in the fight. Fortunately, Holmes and myself were able to reach the side of the nearby lifeboat, and be pulled to safety by those we had rescued earlier.
The final explosion of the sinking Friesland sent twisted metal flying out in all directions. One such piece struck the head of Stroud's aide, and he slipped senseless from my grip, into the cold, grey depths. He never reappeared.
The affects of the horrific incident are well known to the public. The Dutch Foreign Minister and his wife were saved, but a number of his entourage was killed – either by execution, or by drowning. Only two of Stroud's men were captured. As for Isaac Stroud himself, the facts determined that he had been claimed first by fire, then by the sea.
As a result of wounds, concussion, and exertion – Holmes and myself were escorted to the port of Whitehaven, in order to recover. There, the police and government authorities would later hear our accounts of the Friesland's final voyage.
Chapter One:
The Statement Of The Case
In the early part of November 1894, severe winds and rain affected the north-west of England – blowing trees onto both roads and railway lines. Also, the main track to Liverpool had been flooded in parts. For a time, we were both obliged to stay in a hotel in Whitehaven. Fortunately, Holmes's brother Mycroft had arranged from afar to help cover our expenses – aided by the grateful Dutch government. And the management of the Solway Hotel was honoured to have esteemed guests such as ourselves. We were both placed in the most prestigious suite – which consisted of a private lounge, in addition to a twin bedroom, bathroom and toilet facilities.
It was six days after our arrival in Whitehaven that a most remarkable series of events began to unfold. Little did we know what we were letting ourselves in for, when – shortly after breakfast – there came an urgent knocking at the main door to our hotel rooms.
"Who is it?" I called out, hurriedly dressing myself again. I had been about to take my shave for that morning – whilst Holmes was sitting, cross-legged on his bead, having just injected himself with a shot of cocaine, as was his occasional want when long-term boredom set in. Even after fourteen years, Holmes would not always listen to my medical protestations.
"Please let me in! I must see Mr Holmes!"
To my surprise, it was not the voice of either a guest or a member of the hotel staff, but that of a young lady – a child, in fact. Having made myself presentable, I opened the door to the corridor, and saw a girl of approximately fourteen years of age, dressed neatly in a blue-coloured pinafore and skirts. The design of the elegant material told me she was from a family with wealth.
Her striking blue eyes were wide with agitation and fear – and she gave a quick glance along the corridor. The young face, with its proud-looking features, was framed with long chestnut-brown locks that reached past her shoulders.
"What on earth is the matter?" I spoke firmly, but gently – eager to keep the girl quiet, yet realising that she was afraid of…something.
"I must see Mr Holmes! I may not have long to speak… My governess will be looking for…"
Her breathless, urgent tirade was interrupted by a languid drawl behind me.
"Let her in, Watson," Holmes requested.
And so the young lady entered our guest hotel rooms. My friend ran his eyes up and down at our unexpected guest, reading what he could from her appearance, clothes, and emotional bearing. He gestured for her to take a seat, and she did so. I prudently fetched a glass of water, and the girl accepted it gratefully. Holmes pulled up one of the room's wooden chairs – and I did so also, leaning against the side of the dressing table, for it was clear that we had a potential client. Certainly, our visitor was in need of help.
"Now, judging from the splashes of puddles on your boots, the glow of your face, and your laboured breathing, you have hurried to see me here." Holmes leaned forward, his elbows resting on the knees of his grey suit trousers. "I heard you mention your governess – so I infer that you may have journeyed together into Whitehaven, only for you to bolt for this hotel. Is that correct?"
"Yes, sir." The girl nodded. "I discovered your presence in our fair county, thanks to the local newspaper – detailing the events that brought you here. I waited until myself and Miss Kaplan were due to make our next visit to town. I pressed upon my governess to part from me for an hour – whilst I saw to private errands. Once I was alone, I ran over here straight way."
"So what is so important for you to risk Miss Kaplan's anger, by acting in this underhand way?" I enquired. "And who are you, young lady?"
She turned to me and recovered some of her bearing. "My name is Lauren Cavendish. I am the daughter of Lord Cavendish, of Tarminster Castle – which lies on the coastline some miles south of here. I-I take it you are Doctor Watson?"
I inclined my head. "I am, Miss Cavendish. And, of course, my friend here is Sherlock Holmes."
She gave a smile. "I am honoured to meet you both. I only wish the circumstances were better."
Holmes rose and walked over to the window of the room. He glanced outside to look down upon the street running in front of the hotel, and then turned to our guest. "What are the circumstances, Miss Cavendish?"
"The night before last…" Lauren Cavendish's voice faltered, as she fought to control her composure. "…my friend, Violet Boyd, wa-was found dead. In the courtyard in the castle."
Holmes's eyes shone with a gleam of sharp interest. "Watson, I have been rather amiss in reading the local newspaper, whilst I've been mentally composing a little paper on the variations of stains from different British soils. I trust you know something of this matter?"
"Why, yes! The news has just been reported today." I unfolded the newspaper, and quoted from the main article on the front page. "The headline reads 'Tragic Accident at Tarminster Castle'."
"Pray recite the essential details." Holmes returned to his seat, and – as I had seen him do so many times before – pressed his fingertips together close to his face, and closed his eyes.
"Well, to condense the narrative, the paper reports that there was a gathering of guests for the night, by invitation of Lord Algernon Cavendish – the owner of Tarminster Castle. These guests included the prospective next Tory member of parliament for this constituency – Sir Tristram Blanchard – and Captain Alistair Kendrick of Her Majesty's Calvary.
"After midnight, the body of Miss Violet Boyd was discovered in the courtyard. There had been rain during the preceding afternoon – and the battlements above where Miss Boyd was found were declared to be wet and slippery by those first upon the scene. To quote the report, 'At this stage, it is believed that Miss Boyd's fall from the battlements was an accident, as no one else was present at the time of the young lady's death.'"
"And who…was…Miss Violet Boyd?" Holmes asked me, opening his eyes.
"The eighteen-year old daughter of Lord Cavendish's secretary," I replied.
"She was my best friend!" our guest wailed. "She lived in the castle, along with her parents. Please, Mr Holmes! I want to know the truth behind her death!"
"Then you do not believe that it was an accident. That the report is wrong," Holmes put to her.
"There is a lot that the newspaper does not say. Papa would've only al-allow the reporters certain facts regarding what was happening that night."
"But you can tell us more." I looked directly at Miss Cavendish.
She nodded. "In the first place, I should explain that my mother died six years ago, of ill-health. Papa has never really recovered from the loss – and some months ago, my gov-governess has encouraged him to develop an interest in spiritualism and the possibility of the dead returning – in accordance with her own professed beliefs. Tarminster Castle has borne a long tradition of being haunted – though I myself have never experienced anything more than the occasional presence, some years ago."
"Ha!" Holmes gave a snort of derision. I already knew of my friend's opinions in regard to anything pertaining to the supernatural. Indeed, one of our most perplexing – and famous – cases led us to investigate the spectre of the Hound of the Baskervilles, the results of which are well-known to those who have read my account of that grim series of events.
Miss Cavendish, however, stared at Holmes through her hooded eyelids with a perplexed look.
"I apologise for my conduct. Pray continue." Holmes gestured to our guest. "You spoke of your father withholding information from the newspapers reporters."
The young lady nodded briskly. "The gath-gathering of friends and acquaintances that night was for the pur-pose of holding a séance and a ghost vigil," she explained to use, still stuttering occasionally. She took another sip of her water and gradually became more composed. "Violet and my-myself were excluded from attending, on papa's orders. We always had been – but Violet had recently turned eighteen, and had hoped to be included in the proceedings on this occasion.
"And so, we were meant to be in our rooms, in bed. Violet would not stand to be excluded, however – and we had already conspired that day to wander the castle at night, dressed in black gowns that would hide our faces. Working together, we gave one of the guests, Captain Kendrick, a scare when he was outside during part of the ghostly vigil. That was about an hour before midnight.
"I should mention that the castle, although it has been renovated in stages during the last ten years, is still ruined in part. The north side, and the Keep, in particular has crumbling stonework – and some parts are marked with wooden barriers that workmen have erected, on papa's instructions to them. Violet wanted to sneak off around the area – she being older and more daring than me. But I was wary, having once slipped on the crumbling stonework next to the Keep, a month or so ago. That was why papa brought in the workmen again – to prevent another accident."
"And what happened later?" Holmes peeped keenly at Miss Cavendish.
"Violet and I split up, in our ghostly garb – to tease those moving around the castle. We both knew all the ins and outs, and the castle walkways – and I was able myself to give Violet's father the slip, after he spotted my fleeting form and became alarmed." A smile – the first – appeared on our guest's lips. Then her face turned serious again. "Violet and I later got together – when I realised the first vigil was over. Everyone else had gone inside. We knew they would be out again for the next vigil – but not when. In any case, Violet and I separated at quarter to midnight – and we agreed to meet in the courtyard, beneath the clock at the gatehouse, at quarter past.
"It was just after midnight when I began to get cold. The damp air was rising from the lawn next to the courtyard, after the rain from earlier that day. I could feel a chill from the sea beyond the west curtain wall, too. I was concerned about Violet, hoping that she was taking care around the north-west tower – the Keep. Apart from the sea waves, it was quiet, Mr Holmes. So dark and quiet! I was hiding just inside the chapel, underneath the west curtain wall. Then suddenly I heard a scream which chilled me far more than the cold air. It was Violet – I am certain of that.
"For a long moment, sir, I was frozen. Then I ran – realising that the cry came from somewhere around the Keep. As I emerged and reached the edge of the courtyard, I heard her scream again, and… Oh, dear lord! Mr Holmes… I was just in time to see Violet hit the ground!"
Miss Cavendish burst into tears and reached for a handkerchief inside the sleeve of her blouse. Holmes stood up quickly, and squeezed our guest's free hand with his own, as he did what he could to compose her without actually speaking.
After a minute, Miss Cavendish had recovered enough to answer my friend's next questions – which he put to her carefully, and with tact.
"You say you heard Miss Boyd scream twice?"
"Yes… I-I did. I am positive!"
"So far, so good. Now, if you can cast your mind back, Miss Cavendish… What period of time elapsed between those screams?"
"Oh…! It would be…something like fifteen seconds, Mr Holmes!"
"And you actually saw Miss Boyd land upon the ground?"
"Yes. Upon the grass at the edge of the cour-courtyard – underneath the nor-north ramparts!"
"Your clarity is admirable! What happened next?"
"I froze rigid for a long moment. I found myself unable to scream, sir. Next thing, I rushed straight over to Violet. I could tell she was dead – there was just enough light to-to see that the grass around the crown of her head was wet with her blood. And…in her right hand was a jewel. This jewel!"
Miss Cavendish reached into the inside pocket of her overcoat and produced a glittering ruby, which she held out on her trembling palm. With raised eyebrows and a low whistle, Holmes plucked it from her, and examined it against the sunlight from the window.
I put the pen down from my note-taking. "Miss Cavendish, was there anyone around in the courtyard?" I asked.
"Yes… I was about to tell you…" Her voice wavered. "I pr-prised this ruby out of Violet's hand. I thought I recognised it as being a part of the family jewels, and so I held onto it. Then I saw a shadow move, on the north ramparts where Violet must have fallen from. I took fright, and ran off – heading straight for my bedroom. Once I had locked myself in, I broke down."
I nodded gravely to her. "Quite understandably so, my dear," I replied.
Holmes was standing before Lauren Cavendish now – the ruby in his hand. "You say you believe this belongs to your family?"
"To my father, yes – it used to be worn by my mother. It was one of his gifts to her, I understand. It is called the Wexford Ruby. It is one of a pair – the other being the Wicklow Ruby. But that other one is no longer part of the castle's estate."
"I see. And you stated that your mother is no longer alive. I take it you have no brothers or sisters to confide in."
"None."
"Has the jewel been confirmed as missing from the family vault?"
"I have heard no such news, Mr Holmes! In the night, not long after I had retreated to my bed, papa knocked on my bedroom door to break the news to me of Violet's death. There has been considerable activity ever since breakfast yesterday – what with the guests being stunned by the news, and the reporters arriving. It has been horrid. But papa has said nothing about anything being missing from the vaults. Indeed, the only people who should have access to the vault are my father and his secretary. I do not know how Violet came upon this ruby! But I do know that Mr Boyd, the secretary – Violet's father – was due to conduct a periodic inventory of the vault with papa. In light of what's happened…"
"…possibly no check has been carried out," Holmes concluded. "And you did not tell your father of your discovery?"
"I could not, Mr Holmes, without exposing my misdemeanours with Violet! Being outside, dressed as ghosts, when we were forbidden to leave our rooms by my father and Violet's parents… Papa is a good man, but strict. And I sometimes think that he considers my governess to be more important than…"
She broke off as I rose from my chair. Somewhat embarrassed, I bowed my head to our guest. "Do excuse me, Miss Cavendish. I need to use…" I pointed to the door that led to the toilet and bathroom.
"Oh! Please don't mind me."
I saw Holmes's lips twitch in amusement – then, as I pulled the door to, I heard him say: "Please tell me about the castle household, Miss Cavendish. And who came to Tarminster Castle for this 'ghost vigil'…"
I had to spend some minutes in the toilet, then the bathroom. It was whilst I was washing my hands that I heard a sharp rapping at the main door to our set of rooms. Holmes answered it – and I heard a woman's voice, riddled with indignation and passion.
"There you are, young lady! I have been looking for you! It's time to come with me."
"Miss Kaplan! I am sorry. I had to…"
"Had to do what…?"
"Good morning, madam," Holmes interrupted, in an attempt to pacify our latest newcomer. "Your young charge has been most distraught by her friend's death. She felt that there might be reason for me to…"
"What reason could there be for you to be involved, sir? It was an accident Everyone, including Miss Violet's parents have accepted that."
"Perhaps…" Holmes fell silent. In the meantime, I had turned off the tap and now stood as silently as possible. I thought carefully. I knew Holmes would not want to reveal anything in detail to the governess that Lauren Cavendish had stated to us in confidence.
"I am sorry, Mr Holmes. I have been so eager to see you, since you were in the vicinity, that I've allowed my imagination to run away after Violet's sudden death. Please forgive me," our young visitor announced.
"Certainly, Miss Cavendish. I will dismiss the issue from my mind. Good day to you both."
"Good day, Mr Holmes!" And with those final, stern words, the governess left our presence – taking Miss Cavendish with her.
With the coast now clear, I walked back into the main room and addressed Holmes. He was lighting a cigarette.
"Upon my word," said I. "And what of the ruby?"
Holmes took it from behind the cushion of his chair. "It is here. Thankfully, Miss Kaplan did not see it – otherwise, she may well have taken it, along with our prospective client!"
"An underage client, at that."
"But a brave and perceptive young lady, Watson! She told me plenty when you had to relieve yourself. And yet, I fancy, she did not realise the value of everything she told us. However, first of all, did you believe her story?"
"Why, yes. Incredible as it was, Miss Cavendish was struck me as a genuine witness. And you, Holmes?"
"Myself, also. But now let us start to examine what she told us. What strikes you as most singular about Miss Cavendish's account?"
I looked over my jottings carefully as I sat down.
"She heard her friend scream twice. Two cries – around fifteen seconds apart."
"Precisely! Why was that? I suppose that it is possible that Violet Boyd slipped on the ramparts and cried out, but held onto some support before falling to her death. Alternatively, was she startled by this shadow that our new friend saw – only to scream again as she fell? I need to examine the scene for myself, Watson!"
I tapped at my notes with my forefinger. "How did Miss Boyd come to be in possession of that ruby? It was in her hand when Miss Cavendish took it from her."
"Prised it from Miss Boyd. That was the term the young lady used. The deceased was clinging to that jewel when she fell. It was important enough for her to not let go of it – even in her final moments on this earth!"
"By Jove, Holmes! You are right! If we can only identify who was the moving shadow that Miss Cavendish saw, we could be identifying a murderer. It's likely to be manslaughter, at the least!"
Holmes was now standing by the window, carefully peering around the curtain. I joined him, to see a tall, smartly-dressed woman, aged somewhere in her thirties, pulling at the hand of Miss Cavendish as they briskly headed along the road leading to the centre of Whitehaven. In spite of her feathered hat, I saw a glimpse of curling reddish-brown hair.
"But we do not have carte blanche to investigate, Watson. The best thing to do first, I think, would be to discuss matters with the local police." Holmes walked back to the centre of the room, where he stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray. "Then there is the matter of Sir Tristram Blanchard."
"Ah yes… I saw a gleam in your eyes when I read out his name from that newspaper article," I replied. "What do you know of him?"
"Do you recall Sir George Burnwell?"
After some thought, I responded. "Yes! He was involved in the case I wrote down at 'The Beryl Coronet'! Did you ever track him – or his accomplice – down?"
"No. I never had reason to. But I did know something of his social circle, years ago. Sir Tristram Blanchard was – and for all I know, may still be – a close friend of Burnwell's. They were certainly of similar temperament, before Burnwell went into hiding. And now I learn Sir Tristram's aiming for parliament! Ha! Blanchard's name has come to my attention more than once in the past few years. He's a card shark, and a mischief maker, Watson! But come. Let us see the local constabulary and find out what we can." With that, Holmes adjusted his collar in front of the mirror, and retrieved his coat. I did the same.
We were in for a surprise at the police station. In one of the cellars, where the amiable Inspector Mackenzie led us to, there laid the body stretched out on a stone slab, with the obligatory sheet covering it. Both Holmes and I gave a start when we saw a familiar-looking figure sat on a wooden stool next to the deceased Miss Boyd. At our approach, the man raised tear-stained eyes to us. He quickly rose as he made himself presentable – clearly just as taken aback to see us, as we were to see him.
"Why, Inspector Hopkins!" Holmes cried out, shaking the hand of the Scotland Yard detective. "What brings you to Cumberland? Surely the train line to London isn't clear yet."
"Mr Holmes, Dr Watson! I wasn't aware you would be here. As for me, I was working on a major case in Newcastle, when I received the wire to come to Whitehaven."
"And am I right in thinking that you know the deceased?" Holmes narrowed his gaze.
"Yes, sir. The mother of Miss Boyd here, is my sister. I am Violet Boyd's uncle!"