The Adventure of Hecate House
Chapter 21: Confessionem esse veram
There was nobody standing guard in the passageway. I slipped inside, keeping to the shadows, and softly closed the door behind me. With a coldly sickening feeling, I heard a low moaning from towards the end of the corridor. A hard, cold, but well-spoken voice struck up.
"Now, forgive me if I still don't believe you, Matey. Gents who've got lost fishing don't usually turn up here at three in the morning. So perhaps you might like to think...."
"No! NO!"
"...about telling me the truth. Hold him, Lads!" There was suddenly a horrible hissing sound, and another anguished scream as I crept down the corridor.
"Alright, ALRIGHT!" wailed a familiar voice suddenly, and began speaking very rapidly, barely pausing for breath.
"I'll tell you the truth, I'm a doctor, my name's Edmund Daley, I specialise in herbs and pharmaceuticals, my practise is on the rocks, years of study amounting to nothing, I'm at my wits' end, my creditors are hovering like vultures, I've had to pretend I've left the country, and I thought, if I could only see what Dr Raddison is growing in these gardens of his, with my skills, it would give me a clue as to how he does it, how he cures barren women, and I could start again, make my fortune, with a new name, in a new town. Please, I meant no harm, I was desperate – NO!"
For a brief moment, I had been lost in admiration of Watson's clever cover story, and his acting! I had never heard Watson act convincingly before, but the sharp, frightened ejaculation brought me back to my senses, as it dawned on me he probably wasn't acting at all. He was genuinely afraid for his life. I have to get him out of there, I thought frantically.
They were beyond the door at the end of the corridor – I assumed it was a large room spanning the width of the building. I peered through the keyhole. I could not see Watson, but there were two men standing with their back against the wall. Then there had to be the man doing the speaking, and the "Lads" to whom he referred: at least two, presumably. Too many to take on, even with Watson's revolver.
The cold voice broke into a harsh, unpleasant laugh.
"Can't stand the heat, eh, Doctor Daley? You should keep out of the kitchen garden then, shouldn't you?" He roared with laughter at his own witticism, and several of the others joined in sycophantically, one crowing;
"Nice one, Mr Castling".
So this was James Castling, who had cut open my helpful fisherman's head, and watched in enjoyment as young John Trebuthnot was beaten to a bloody pulp. His voice hardened further.
"Well, I call it a bloody cheek. Sneaking around, stealing other's work – shut up! We have ways of dealing with spies here. Show him what we mean, boys. Tan his hide for him."
There were scuffling sounds, then a sudden swoosh-crack! - and a stifled grunt of pain. They were horsewhipping my friend!
I would require a diversion, and quickly. I darted into the nest room, that facing towards the house. As quietly as I could, I inched open the window, wincing each time I heard the sharp report of the whip, and the increasingly loud cries that followed it, and I drew my secret weapon from my pocket.
It was a dog whistle.
Leaning out, I gave one long, loud blast, with all my strength. It was silent to my ears, but there was suddenly a distant mighty baying from the dogs at the front of the house. They heard it in the next room, and the laughter and jeering quieted. Then I heard Castling exclaim -
"There must be someone else about! Conrad, Bert, Alf, with me, we'll get over there, quickly, see what the dogs've got hold of, if there's anything left of him! Dave and Dan, truss this one up tight and get after us, we'll have the full bag!"
He was shouting this last over his shoulder as he raced down the corridor. I held my breath, holding the revolver at the ready, in case he should notice that the door was unlocked. Mercifully, he was too intent upon the chase, and I heard the sound of their retreating footsteps, and shouts outside, whilst grunts came from the end room. A rough voice said;
"Tha'll keep ye from foightin', Darcter! Now, ye stay there, loike a good boy, an' we'll be back!"
Laughing, they set off in pursuit of their colleagues. Then were no sooner out of the front door before I was running to Watson's side. I almost recoiled at the sight that met me on entering the room. It was a small gymnasium, and it appeared Watson had been held across the pommel horse; there was a large blood stain to mark where he had lain.
They had now trussed him up with his hands behind his back, and a cord running from his bound ankles, which were bent behind him, to around his neck. Any attempt to straighten from the excruciating position would have led to strangulation. My blood boiling, I drew out my penknife, and began feverishly sawing through the ropes, marking as I did so the numerous wounds upon his face, and – Oh God – his back.
It had not been an ordinary horsewhip that had made these horrible wounds, but something purpose built to cause damage, rather like a cat o'nine tails. The incongruity of anybody carrying such a ghastly implement around did strike me, but there was no time to dwell on this now. I also forced myself to ignore the longitudinal red burns upon his chest and neck, the work of an ordinary poker, heated in the room's little wood burner.
Watson took a long moment to focus upon me, cringing away initially. He then recognised me, and whimpered -
"Holmes. Oh, my God, thank you, thank you!"
"It's alright, old man" I soothed, as I severed the last of the bonds. "We're quitting this poor hospitality immediately. I'm so very sorry you have been so misused."
He was unable to stand, so I half carried him. I threw open the window, and managed to thread both Watson and myself through, avoiding the prying eyes that may have espied us had we used a more conventional exit. Watson landed rather heavily, and I felt a fresh stab of misery at his stifled moan. I assisted him to rise, hauling his arm up and over my shoulders, and we began an unsteady weaving run across the grounds, into the woods, and towards the cliff edge.
As we reached the narrow path down to the sea, I assessed Watson's condition, and deemed him to be incapable of negotiating it. He was sagging in my arms, almost fainting from pain, exhaustion and loss of blood. I threw him upon my back and lifted him bodily. I began to make my way down the cliff path.
I must confess to a weakness of mine. I do not like heights. It had made my escape from Reichenbach all the more unpleasant, and it was making life very unpleasant now. The cliff was steep and high, the path sheer, and a semi-conscious man makes a cumbersome load. My heart was hammering, my knees shaking, my mouth sticky and my vision swirling as I clambered downwards, each step mercifully lessening the chance that I should plunge both myself and my dearest friend to our deaths.
At last, we reached the rocks, and our boat, and now a new danger presented itself. I could hear the sounds of a hue and cry coming from the grounds above. Any moment now, they would find their bird was flown, and the dogs I could hear baying would give chase, following our trail with ease. Men who carried cat o-nine tails about with them may well also be armed with guns, and if I did not put enough distance between us and our assailants, we would be sitting ducks.
I lay Watson on his side in the bottom of the boat, pushed off quickly, and began to row for all I was worth. I constantly looked over my shoulder at the cliff top, and soon, I saw the shapes of four men and three dogs silhouetted against the moonlight. However, we were some distance away now, and I no longer feared an immediate ballistic reprisal. I do not think they could see us as easily as I could see them. They disappeared again, and I was able to turn my attention to Watson.
He was shivering with cold and reaction. He gasped as I touched him, and his hand flew to his scarred shoulder with a little cry of pain. I removed my overcoat and tucked it around him, and my Guernsey, which I rolled and tucked under his head. His eyes flew open.
"Holmes?"
"I'm here, Watson. Try to stay still."
"Are you alright? You're breathing heavily."
I was almost unmanned at this point, that his concern for me should overcome the ills of his own body. I swallowed hard, and managed to reply with tolerable composure
"I have just performed a half-mile row in a time which would have me winning the blues boat race. Please do not concern yourself. I am going to get us home now. Try to rest."
Watson nodded obediently, and seemed to doze off as I rowed us back towards land. Several times, he awoke with a little cry of fear or pain, and called my name. Each time, I answered him soothingly, and he seemed to calm and settle.
The row was a longish one, as the cliffs extended for two miles in either direction around Hecate's grounds. Dawn was beginning to break as, at last, the cliffs ceased to loom, and we were approaching the harbour of a sleepy fishing village. I advanced with caution, lest Raddison's men should have predicted our destination and arrived ahead of us, but the harbour was as silent and sleepy as the grave. I tethered the boat to the far end of the jetty, and bent to wake Watson. He came to with a great start, followed by another yelp of pain as he jarred himself.
"Watson. We're on land, and away from Hecate House. You're safe. We're going to get you back to Baker Street and get those wounds treated."
"Very well, Holmes" he whispered.
I pulled him upright. "Can you walk at all?"
"If you help me, perhaps" he mumbled, his words slurred.
I supported him, and set off for the tiny railway station whose water tower could be seen at the top of a small hill half a mile away. Watson leant on me more and more, until he was dangling around my neck as I walked. I stumbled and almost fell over a pot-hole, and his head jerked up.
"Your own personal albatross, Holmes" he croaked. I was uncertain whether to be relieved his sense of humour had survived, or alarmed that his self esteem had reached new depths.
"My dear fellow, I have already told you that you are a stormy petrel. You cannot simply change species like this. Besides, a stormy petrel is a much smaller, lighter bird, and believe me, my Watson is no weight at all."
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Ouch! I have the distinct impression Holmes will not be very happy about the damage done to Watson. I hope he has a suitable revenge in mind.
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