Disclaimer: Holmes and Watson of course belong to ACD, other characters are my own.

Chapter 3

Holmes took the paper from Watson and looked at it carefully.

"Do you recognise the handwriting?"

"No," replied Lord Falconer. "Is that important?"

"In cases like this is is not unknown for the perpetrators to be known to the family. Greed or jealousy drives them to think that their financial needs can be met by kidnapping a family member. The case of Jeffreys last year, for example."

"No, I am sorry, but I do know know the handwriting."

"Very well." Holmes put the paper to his nose. "Hmmm. Roses. Does that signify anything, your Lordship?"

"What, you mean the paper smelling of roses? No, Mr Holmes, I do not, and I fail to see how this could help my son."

"On the contrary, it gives us an important piece of information. It means that, in all likelihood, there is a woman involved at some point in these events." He thought for a moment, seemingly contemplating the water running in the stream past the Hotel garden. "No, we will learn no more here. Your Lordship, if you would give us a few minutes, then Watson and I will meet you at the carriage."

"Very well, Mr Holmes," he replied. "But please, if the twenty-four hours are rigidly observed, then already seven have been lost to us."

Holmes and Watson were good to their word, and within a few minutes the carriage was leaving Bodmin and journeying out onto the open moor. Lord Falconer was quiet, lost in his thoughts, and Holmes as well passed the time in observing the moorland country, wild and inhospitable, with few signs of human habitation off the gravel road.

The road wound up and down across the heathland, until the bushes bent with wind and rain gave up and the moor opened before them and on either side. A thousand feet above sea level, the scene was punctuated by scattered rocks and boulders, occasionally drawn together into the famous 'tors' which crowned each peak. The call of the wild birds sounded eerie and plaintive as the carriage made its way onward, an object unfamiliar in the wild landscape.

After an hour they noticed the gorse was returning and the land falling. Between hills they could catch glimpses of deep blue as they drew nearer the sea, until, suddenly it seemed, they started to descend quite rapidly. Before long they had passed through a first village, and a further twenty minutes of steady downhill progress brought them towards the gates of Trethewan Court. Lord Falconer broke his silence at last.

"Well, Mr Holmes, here we are, and as ever, glad I am to be here. You will find everything as you requested in your telegraph yesterday, nothing has been moved, and ... what the heavens!?"

This last outburst was directed at the scene which greeted them as the carriage turned into the long drive up to the house. Perhaps twenty people were waiting at the gate, and walking up and down the driveway. Falconer ordered the carriage to stop, and leapt out.

"What is the meaning of this! Who are you?"

The nearest person, a young man of perhaps twenty years of age, shabbily dressed and with a flat cap perched atop his apparently balding head, ran up to him.

"Your Lordship, begging your pardon Sir, I'm Holman, Wadebridge Chronicle. Sir, now that word is out about the disappearance of your son, and him knowing about King Arthur's tomb, do you have anything to say? Any leads? Any news?"

Falconer looked to Holmes in despair, then back to the knot of reporters who had quickly gathered around him.

"No ... nothing yet. But I have engaged England's finest. Gentlemen ..." He turned to Holmes... "may I introduce you to Mr Sherlock Holmes. He is going to find my son, be sure of that."

The uproar of questioning that followed as the reporters rounded on Holmes brought a smile to Watson, but Holmes was not pleased at all.

"I have nothing to say now!" he barked angrily. "I have only just arrived. But you can help me. How did you know about Arthur's tomb?"

Holman smiled ingratiatingly. "You know I can't reveal my sources, Mr Holmes..."

Holmes reached forward in a lightning quick motion and grabbed him by the collar. "Your source, please," he said quietly, "or else I might need to introduce you to the Japanese art of baritsu. I am told it can be most unpleasant for the student encountering a master for the first time. Do I hear your source, sir?"

"Bless you, sir, I meant no harm," replied Holman, shaken. "Can we have this conversation quietly, though? The others ... you know, they might not think I'm a safe bet any more if they knew I told you."

Holmes nodded and the two walked round to the other side of the carriage. "Well?" asked Holmes impatiently.

"It's like this, sir. I was in the Rose and Crown last evening, minding my own business as you do, following up this story about the wreck down in the bay, and keeping a line open on the boy's disappearance. When in comes this bloke, all wrapped up in a cloak, even on a warm night like it was. Anyway he gets to the bar, gets his drink, and looks around for a seat. Well there's one next to me, and he goes and sits in it, doesn't he?"

Holmes sighed. "And...?" Watson couldn't help but smile.

"So I says to him, passing the time of day, what is he doing in the area? I've not seen him before, see? And he says ...." He looked around to ensure none of the others were nearby, but they were still talking to Falconer. His voice dropped to a whisper. "So he says, about the boy, that he'd heard these two bandits – his words – talking about the boy and this tomb thing, and did I know where the tomb was, and all. Well, it's the first I've heard of it, I says to him, and he says to me, well, you know, just think if the tomb is found, all the legends would be true wouldn't they? All the talk about the king coming back to save England, and be the great leader, and all."

Holmes' patience was clearly running out. "And I suppose you believe all this rubbish as well, do you?"

Holman drew himself up to his full height – a good six inches shorter than Holmes, so not having the effect for which he had obviously hoped. "Rubbish, sir? And why would the old tales be rubbish? Just because they're a bit fanciful, doesn't mean they're not true. I mean to say .."

"No, please don't," interrupted Holmes. "What happened next?"

"Well, he just suddenly seemed to remember something, he says 'I'm late' or something of the like, and he's gone. I finished his drink for him," he finished with a smile. "So I thought, I'll go up to the Court again today and see if I can find out anything else. Any new developments from earlier this week. Only ..." He looked around at the other reporters ... "Only it seems word got out somehow."

"Can you describe this fellow?"

"Not really. No, I mean it. The light is always poor in that part of the room. He's about six foot, bearded, glasses, thick black hair. I don't think he was local, his voice was – well, strained, really, I suppose you'd say. Like he had a cold, or some throat ailment. All hoarse and breathy. Anyway, can I ask His Lordship some questions? I'm missing out here." And without taking his leave of Holmes and Watson, he darted round the other side of the carriage where the group was still firing questions at Falconer.

Holmes took hold of Watson's arm and led him a little way away from the crowd. "Ideas?"

"I have none," replied Watson. "But it does seem very convenient."

"Yes, it does, does it not?" mused Holmes. "I do not believe in coincidences, Watson. I'll wager that if we spoke to these other men we'd get much the same story – a stranger visiting them, setting this story in their heads, and then departing as quickly as he arrived."

"It is a deliberate ploy, then?"

"Undoubtedly."

"By whom? The kidnappers? But why would they want such interest?"

"Perhaps they believe, Watson, that the pressure on Lord Falconer will dispose him towards settling the matter quickly."

"I agree. It can't be good for His Lordship to be so exposed in the Press."

Falconer called them over, and with the aid of the coachman sent the reporters on their way, although a knot of them remained at the gate on the lane. The remounted the carriage and were driven up the driveway.

"Tell me, your Lordship," said Holmes, "where was the broken glass found that was reported in the paper when your son originally went missing?"

"It was found by the police when I made the report. They searched the grounds, and found it – well, actually, about here."

"Stop the carriage!" ordered Holmes, and as it drew up he sprang out. Immediately he cursed under his breath. "Look, those fools have been up here, and the whole area is trampled. Your Lordship, quickly, where did this morning's intruders drop the note?"

Falconer led them a little further up the drive, but what they found was inevitable. Holmes fell to the ground on his face and surveyed the area, but with resignation got up again and said, "There is nothing to be found. The area has been too badly disturbed. If only I had not delayed last night."

Falconer put his hand on Holmes' arm. "Don't be worrying yourself, Holmes," he said, kindly, "we weren't to know of this. And if you had come last night, and been here when the note was delivered, well my son might have been killed if the intruders had been captured."

"Always assuming there are more than the two that have been seen involved, yes, that is true," replied Holmes, but his face showed his thoughts were elsewhere.

"All in good time, Mr Holmes," continued Falconer. "Let's get to the House, I want to ask my man, Trevose, how this morning's turn of events came to pass."

They walked the last hundred yards or so to the House, set imposingly at the end of the drive. The front door was, as usual, unlocked, and turning the great iron handle His Lordship ushered them into the entrance hall. Even at this time of year a fire was blazing in the grate facing the door.

"Well, this is strange," mused Falconer. "I would expect Trevose to meet us..." He led them from the hall into the morning room, where a maid was busily arranging fresh flowers. She curtseyed as Falconer and his guests entered.

"Ella, where is Trevose?" asked the Lord.

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know," she replied. He hasn't been seen today. He's not come out of his room."

"Well, don't you think someone should check where he is, or whether the man is alright?" he asked.

She curtseyed again, and almost fled the room to carry out the order. Falconer watched her go.

"Bright thing, came from the village last year. I've had to let some of the older staff go, but I still keep a good house for the two of us, and Trevose is one I wouldn't be without."

He offered them a seat and poured drinks from a small decanter on the table. After a few moments an older woman entered the room.

"My Lord."

"Dorcas. Gentlemen, let me introduce Mrs Dorcas Trevanion, my housekeeper. She has been with the family – well, Dorcas, all your life, pretty well?"

"Yes sir. Sir, I have looked into Master Trevose's room. His bed has been slept in, but he is not there now, sir, and he is not in the house."

"Was he due to go into the village?" asked Holmes.

Dorcas looked at Falconer. He smiled, and told her she could speak.

"No sir, not until tomorrow at the earliest. We had just received yesterday the supplies we needed, and there was to be no post until tomorrow, when Your Lordship usually send your letters."

"This is most unlike him," said Falconer. "I must say that in all my years I have never known him to go off without telling anyone what he was about or where he was going, or when he would return."

"Describe him, please," interrupted Holmes.

"Mr Holmes, the man is seventy years old, stooped so low that he has difficulty looking ahead, and with hair so white that Benjamin used to think he was Father Christmas!" laughed Falconer. "I don't think he could be implicated in any way, do you?"

"I reserve what I think until I have all the facts," replied Holmes, a little coldly.

"Then we must find him," said Falconer. "Dorcas, raise the stable staff, they can spend a useful day trying to find out where he has got to. It can't be too difficult. The man has no family other than us, his adopted family, whom he has served faithfully for the whole of his life." These last words were stated unnecessarily clearly, Watson thought.

"In the meantime, Your Lordship," continued Holmes, "we now have fifteen hours to find Benjamin. I think we need to see the notebook again, if you please."

"Of course, yes, I'm sorry Mr Holmes," Falconer replied, and crossed the room to a large writing desk. He pulled a small key from his pocket, and undid the lock to allow the front of the desk to slide open.

A mass of papers fell onto the floor, along with an ink bottle and pens. Falconer gasped, and grabbed hold of others that were about to fall out as well. He looked with horror and the mess before him. With a look of despair he turned to Holmes and Watson.

"It .... it's gone .....!"