AUTHOR: © 2003 *Mists of Time*
DISCLAIMER: The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are the created property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All inventive characters as mentioned are the property of this author. Any original characters resembling persons existing or deceased is purely coincidental.
SUMMARY: The famous detective of all time, Sherlock Holmes, must travel with his faithful companion, Dr. Watson, to the sleepy village of Northbourne to investigate the mysterious spirit of a young woman haunting the hillside cliffs, who had died a year earlier, a death believed by some to have been murder.
RATING: PG-13



THE SPIRIT OF THE MISTS
Chapter Three:
Journey to Northbourne


I arrived at Paddington Station at precisely eight o'clock on the dot. Holmes was nowhere to be seen. After paying the cab driver, I clutched my valise and approached the ticket booth to pay for my ticket.

"One for Northbourne, please," I told my destination to the ticket master behind the glass booth. "Coach." As the ticket master was printing my information on the admission, I felt a hand placed firmly upon my shoulder. A cold, heavy hand that made me break out in a frigid chill; it startled me to no end. I froze momentarily, but with the thought that no harm could come to any man buying a ticket at a train station, I mustered enough courage to look up- and saw the reflection of Sherlock Holmes staring back at me.

My sigh of relief must have been heard all the way to the end of the platform.

"Oh, it is you, Holmes," I breathed, hoping he would not notice the beads of sweat forming upon my brow.

"We are not in Dover, Watson, so you mustn't frighten over any ghosts just yet," Holmes replied, as the ticket master handed me my ticket, unaware of the harrowing experience I had just been through, right outside his very own booth!

"The train leaves at 8:15," I said, as Holmes bought his ticket. I grazed at my watch; the time read 8:08. "We have less than seven minutes to board."

"Calm yourself, Watson. We shall make the 8:15 train," Holmes uttered readily. "I had some business to take care of, mainly to send a telegram ahead of us to Northbourne to explain our arrival."

Holmes received his ticket, and we approached the train to board. After finding a carriage that was empty, we settled into the two corner seats, and for the first time since yesterday morning, I proceeded to relax.

The train jolted us with a lurch at exactly 8:15. It began to rumble heavily, but soon, we were rolling smoothly out of London and into the countryside. I stared lazily out the window, watching the picturesque landscape unravel before my eyes. The beauty of the terrain was improved by thick, verdant fields, adorned with a bloom of wild flowers. At times, it appeared as if a painter had taken his brush and sprinkled the fields with various colours of scarlet, azure, and gold.

Remembering the flower that had arrived with the letter, I searched the inside pocket of my coat and pulled out an unsullied handkerchief, which contained the delicate evidence. The flower was too satiny to crumple; it had been pulled from its stem only recently. At this point, I could not determine if Barclay had sent the flower as a clue, or if Elsie Barclay had simply been trying to be charming to Holmes!

Speaking of Holmes, I found him napping in his seat, his head resting in an uncomfortable position upon his right shoulder. I could not understand how any man could sleep when there was a mystery to be solved, although knowing Holmes, he had probably figured out half of the puzzle this morning.

My mind was focused back to the flower, and it got me thinking about what Holmes had told me about Jacob and his wife- particularly that she was a savoury cook. My stomach rumbled, and I realized that I could do with a little bit of Elsie Barclay's cooking to sample.

That was the last thing I remember contemplating about. The next sounds I heard, were the conductor's, as he yelled out, "Next stop! All off!" and Holmes shaking me awake, from my slumber.

"We have arrived," he announced in a solemn tone.

*~*~*~*~*

"Northbourne takes its name from the North Stream, which flows from the springs below Northbourne Court. It has an ancient and rather fascinating history; it is even mentioned in the Domesday book..."

I nodded politely, as Jacob Barclay, Constable of Northbourne, chatted away about the history of the town. He did not need an invitation, but rather he launched into a discussion, which he found captivating. The cab rolled over rough cobblestones, tossing Holmes, Barclay and myself out of our seats on occasion; I felt as if I were flying.

Barclay was waiting impatiently at the train station when Holmes and I arrived. We found him pacing up and down the platform, until he recognized Holmes, and his agonized face broke out into a warm, welcoming grin. He was not what I had expected, although I could not be certain what my expectations were of Jacob Barclay to begin with. He was short and stocky, especially in the middle. His face was rather plump, with a large nose and thinning, brown hair at the top of his head, complete with long sideburns. And he rejoiced in talking. A lot.

Holmes seemed to developed a method to block out Barclay's pleasantries as we rode in the cab. He had settled into his seat, with a serene smile upon his face. I would have accused him of sleeping with his eyes open, if it were not for the fact that he would nod on occasion, especially when Barclay took a rare moment to pause for breath. As for myself, I was clinging to my valise and for my life!

"Is it possible to have motion sickness while riding in a cab?" I hissed quietly to Holmes. "Especially if one has been riding them all his life?"

"Are you not feeling well?" Holmes responded innocently.

"I feel like I am soaring for the sky," I replied truthfully, as a hole in the road made the carriage lurch again. Holmes merely patted my hand and focused his attention once more on the constable.

"... It is recorded that Edbald, the King of Kent, had a hunting lodge built here, probably in the grounds of what is now Northbourne Court. In the year 616, Edbald married his stepmother- his father Ethelbert being deceased- much to the annoyance of the abbot of St Augustine Canterbury. In order to make amends with the Church, Edbald gave the lodge to the abbot to serve use as a monastic settlement and bequeathed the present Church of St Augustine..."

Just at that precise moment, the carriage stopped.

"We have reached our destination," Barclay announced, somewhat dejected that he could not finish his tale of the scandalous Edbald and the abbot who condemned him.

"And none too soon," I muttered under my breath, as I descended from the cab.

Holmes must have heard my complaint, because he leaned over and ever so slyly, whispered into my ear, "You should meet his wife."

We soon did. Elsie Barclay was as much as a chatterbox as her husband. She came out of the house and wrapped Holmes in a large hug that would have smothered a man smaller than the detective. Then she tried to smother me.

"I am so thrilled you could make it, both of you," she beamed at us, clasping her hands. Elsie, much like her husband, was a talkative woman, pleasantly plump with a remarkably pretty nose and brown curls that escaped from her frilled cap. Her cheeks were pink with excitement, and her handsome mahogany eyes shone with joy at the prospect of having two visitors to feed and fuss over.

Elsie swiftly led Holmes and myself up the brick stone path leading to their attractive summer cottage. Lilac bushes were in full bloom, surrounded by neat rows of pansies and pink snapdragons, periodically peppered with a growth of primroses and white geranium.

"You must be tired and hungry after your long journey," Elsie chatted amiably. "I know that I am whenever we take the train to London..." The constable's wife led us inside the house and thankfully, immediately directed us to our lodgings and left us to recuperate until dinnertime.

My bedroom was small, but quite accommodated to my needs. It was immaculate and clean, with a small curtained window that faced the east. A small night stand by the bed contained a vase filled with fresh oleanders.

Dinner was promptly served at six o'clock to conform to our late arrival. Holmes proved to be accurate about Elsie's Barclay's cooking. She magically produced a roasted peasant with sweet potatoes and a pot of hot, spicy gravy. A loaf of warm bread, fresh from the oven was cut and properly buttered. After the main course, a warm cherry pie was introduced as dessert, along with a plate of fresh apple crumpets.

It was past seven thirty, when thoroughly stuffed and with my waist expanded, we settled outdoors on the porch for a drink and cigars; the late June temperatures made the nights warm. Barclay poured Holmes and myself a glass of brandy, and the offered us a cigar. Holmes gratefully accepted one, but I declined. As Barclay served himself a drink, I settled back in a rocking chair and observed the quiet tranquillity over the neighbourhood. Except for the occasional baying of a hound in the distance, and crickets chirping repeatedly in the grass, all was hushed. The sun was setting in the horizon, layered in splashes of gold, rouge, and orange. Dusk was setting; through the dimness, I could make out the forms of portly houses, whose lighted windows indicted their occupancy.

"Is that the sound of waves I hear rustling in the distance?" Holmes inquired, breaking the gentle stillness.

"Why, yes," Barclay nodded, as he puffed on his cigar. "We are in close proximity to the sea. Supposedly tomorrow, we shall take a visit to the beaches, for it is quite lovely this time of year. Better get there first before the summer visitors from the cities start flocking to," Barclay laughed.

"Speaking of visitors," through the dusk, I could see Holmes eyes glistening, "Perhaps you would care to tell me what you did not wish to discuss in your letter?"

Barclay paused, and put out his cigar. "I did not wish to bother you with any tales tonight, but I suppose you both should hear the full story from me, for tomorrow, I imagine you will interview the townsfolk, and they will only fill your heads with lies and half-myths concocted over late drinks in the local pubs."

"Start from the beginning," Holmes ordered, contentedly taking a puff of his cigar. Barclay nodded, took a sip from his liquor glass and proceeded to tell the wistful tale.




Nooka- Personally, I don't think that Holmes believes in ghosts, but if he does not, then he isn't letting Watson know that!

Frankie- I always faulted Watson for reading Holmes' mail. I guess a few new rules came along about reading other people's mail when Watson married. ;)

Estriel- I was laughing after reading that line. I must really get my hands on that book. If you need help with your fic, just tell what you need help on and I'll try to offer some assistance. :)