Chapter Twelve
~~o~~
Inspector Lestrade had earned himself three open-mouth stares with his statement in the cab that the morgue had apparently been broken out of rather than into, but it was Holmes who recovered from the shock of the preposterous notion first.
"Would that I had time to examine the morgue before the train to Sandhurst!" he lamented. "You examined the room yourself?" he asked Lestrade, who nodded. "And the footprints, they led to and from the broken window, or just to it?"
"They only led away from it," Lestrade replied, sounding none too happy and somewhat puzzled. "I examined those as well."
"And you're quite sure the door was locked?"
"Completely, I opened it myself when Constable Clark informed me of the sound of breaking glass coming from inside. Someone used the chair to smash the window."
"Remarkable!" Holmes breathed, as he sat back from where he'd been sitting on the edge of his seat.
"But what does it mean?" Lydia asked him. "Do you think the pirate's story could be true?"
Lestrade interrupted tersely before Holmes could answer. "What pirate? What story are you talking about?"
Holmes appeared for a moment to mull over just where to begin, and then he spoke. "Lestrade, have you ever heard of the Fountain of Youth?"
"Of course, but what does that have to do with anything?" Lestrade asked.
For the rest of the cab ride Holmes filled Lestrade in about all of our research concerning pirates, alligators, and our encounter with Jack Sparrow. When he was finished relating the story to the inspector, we traded the cab for a car on the ten thirty-two and quickly found ourselves steaming along toward Sandhurst.
"So, you're saying this Sparrow chap believes he and Matthews . . .erm, Barbossa, have been fighting over a flask of water from the Fountain of Youth?" Lestrade asked sceptically. "Surely it can't really exist."
"When I travelled with my father in the Brazils," Lydia said softly, "there were very strong superstitions among the native peoples concerning such a thing. They take the legend very seriously there, as do the older folk among the Spanish and the Portuguese. One elderly gentleman in our research party, who my father had befriended, spoke of the legend around a campfire after dinner one night.
"Of course, I was but a young girl then, and thought it to be a just story for enthralling children," she said, "but what I remember is that he believed the water from the fountain had the power to perpetuate life indefinitely, and even bring the drinker back from the dead, should he suffer a fatal injury."
"Extraordinary," Holmes remarked, looking distant and deep in thought with his fingers pressed together before his lips.
"But surely, Holmes, you can't really believe such superstitious nonsense," I protested, instinctively knowing what he was mulling over. "I examined the body myself, as did you, Lestrade, and Miss Hastings. There is no doubt that man was deader than a doornail and had been for at least two days."
Holmes remained deep in contemplation for another moment and then spoke. "While you were on your errand to fetch the flask from the good inspector, Watson, our friend Captain Sparrow regaled us with tales of his adventures on the high seas, and alluded to the fact that the flask contained something very precious indeed. 'Freedom,' he'd said, when I questioned him about it," Holmes continued pensively, "'an eternity of freedom.' More than that he would not say, but I believe his meaning was clear."
All of us were silent for a moment, caught up in our own thoughts about what we believed, and then Holmes spoke again, once more the logician. "What we believe is of no consequence; it is a question of what these two men believe."
"Two men?" Lestrade asked, perplexed.
"I think we will find, Lestrade, that there will be two men we will encounter once we get to the house in Owlsmoor," Holmes replied. He abruptly held up a hand to ward off my next protest. "I do not yet know how the hoax has been perpetrated, but I have no doubt, if inspector Lestrade has seen all there is to see at the police morgue, that there will be two pirates we must face, each of them intent on gaining what they believe to be the true water from the Fountain."
"But what do you suppose has happened to it?" Lydia asked as the train clacked briskly along.
"Let us entertain the notion for a moment that Sparrow's claims are true," Holmes said, "and this water has the ability to sustain life, even through a fatal injury. Both men would know this, and likely, after a rivalry that approaches two-hundred years, each man has likely done away with the other at least once in the past. Sparrow appeared to know precisely how long it would be before the resurrection took place."
"Part of a hoax between confederates," Lestrade promptly insisted.
"Not at all," Holmes said, refuting the theory. "Barbossa and Sparrow are rivals with a great deal of enmity between them. What purpose would it serve for the two of them to falsify a murder and a theft together, risking that one or both of them might end up in jail or worse?"
Lestrade apparently had no answer.
"No, no, my dear Lestrade, this matter extends to depths which neither you nor I have encountered before, in one manner or another," Holmes replied, then thinking matters over for a moment before continuing. "If I were in Barbossa's place, and had been informed by my young red-haired messenger that the ship he anticipated had finally arrived in London under the guise of one participating in the jubilee, I would take steps to protect the contents of the flask, especially from Jack Sparrow. The blatant fuss he made about the danger to the heirloom flask was a blind, a way to focus the attention of both Sparrow and the police in the wrong place, and very clever if I do say so. Barbossa knew that Sparrow might shoot him in order to gain the flask, but of what consequence is that when one knows that in two days or so one will once again walk upon the earth?"
None of the three of us seemed to have any sort of a reply to Holmes's theory.
"It is my hypothesis that Barbossa switched the contents of the flask and took the risk of being shot, gambling that Sparrow would be preoccupied with obtaining the false item from the police, leaving Barbossa time to return and collect the real article and then escape."
"Holmes!" I cried, suddenly making a connection that I had missed earlier. "The ship! The name of the ship is the Black Pearl!"
"Ah, the one true love that Mrs. Clayton the housekeeper happened to mention," Holmes replied with a wan smile. "Clearly Barbossa plans to reclaim his ship as well as retain the prize."
"Well, we'll know where to find him if he doesn't show at the house, then," Lestrade said. "I can wire and have men at the docks to apprehend him if he tries to board the ship."
"And retain him on what charges?" Holmes asked, and I could tell that there was subtle amusement in his voice.
Lestrade opened his mouth to reply, and then frowned and closed it again, somewhat at a loss as to what to charge the man with, should he be alive.
"Unless he takes the ship," Holmes explained, "then I think that you have nothing more than perhaps hindering a police investigation to bring against him. Even if he does take the ship, I suspect that there is a very long dispute over who is her rightful owner."
"Surely there will be documentation," Lestrade said, looking out the window briefly as did the rest of us while the train began to slow down.
"Falsified," Holmes said dismissively with an abrupt wave of his hand, "as I suspect any documents will be that Jack Sparrow can produce."
"Then who does the ship belong to, if neither of them?" Lydia asked.
"According to the books which Doctor Maynard supplied us with, it belongs to the East India Trading Company," Holmes explained.
"Aha!" Lestrade cried as the train pulled into the station. "We'll arrest them both on charges of stealing a ship."
"But that would be difficult to prove since the East India Trading Company was disbanded nearly twenty years ago," I interjected, "and if we believe the history written in those books, the Black Pearl was stolen nearly two centuries ago."
Lestrade looked very much like he was getting a severe headache. "But this is all impossible," he sputtered.
"So it would seem, but in the absence of any more likely theory, the one that remains, however improbable . . ." Holmes remarked, picking up his hat from his lap and putting it back on.
Lestrade could not refrain from rolling his eyes a little. "I know, I know, 'however improbable, it must be the truth.'"
Any further speculation by our small party was suspended when the train's brakes engaged, bringing us to a stop, and Holmes was on his feet and out of the car in an instant, the three of us scrambling to catch up with him.
~~o~~
Seen from the edge of the woods where the four-wheeler had dropped us, the manor which belonged to the man sometimes known as Henry Matthews appeared deserted, but as it was now approaching midnight, we had no way of knowing if that was actually the case, or if Mrs. Clayton remained in residence and was merely asleep at such a late hour. Surveillance of several minutes awarded us no sign of movement near the boundaries of the grounds, and if any other person stirred nearby, it was well within the confines of the long shadows being cast by the waxing gibbous moon shining through the trees.
"Should we go in?" I whispered at last, glancing across at Holmes's dark silhouette.
"I'm afraid we must if we are to have any hope of getting there first," he replied, nonetheless offering a deferential glance in Lestrade's direction. The inspector appeared unhappy with the entire situation, but nodded in agreement.
"We should circle the perimeter," he said soberly, "and it might be best to split up."
"I completely agree," Holmes replied. "Watson, if you would be so kind as to accompany Lestrade to inspect the grounds outside, I shall ask Miss Hastings to accompany me into the house. In the event that Mrs. Clayton is still here, it might put her more at ease to have another woman in the house with her after already suffering one break-in within the week."
With that, Lestrade and I headed for the south side of the house, while Lydia quickly followed where Holmes led her to the front door.
While I can speak from first hand observation about what Lestrade and I experienced, I have had to rely on what Holmes and Miss Hastings reported to me in the days following our midnight escapade, so that I might fully recount the events of that evening. As usual, Holmes grouses that I have endeavoured overly much to capture the drama of the occasion and spent too much effort romanticising the finale of our case rather than restricting myself to efficiently reporting the proceedings with a more unprejudiced eye.
As I followed Lestrade along the side of the manor and stealthily along the back, I recall how different that beautiful old house appeared in partial moonlight compared to my previous daytime visit. Any shadow might contain a dangerous scoundrel, and although I couldn't quite bring myself to entirely believe it, my subconscious dreaded the possibility that I might come face to face with the scarred visage of a man I had thought to be dead for the past forty-eight hours.
After completing our reconnaissance of two sides of the house, Lestrade held out a hand to stop me in my tracks, pointing to the grey outline of the not too distance stable. Without uttering a word and gesturing only, he conveyed to me that once more we should divide, that he would examine the stable, and that I should continue around the house to complete the perimeter to then catch up with Lydia and Holmes. Grimly I nodded, and then each of us went our separate ways, creeping stealthily with pistols in hand.
~~o~~
The front door of the house, as to be expected at midnight, was locked, and Holmes had found that in his haste to leave Baker Street in order to catch the last train to Sandhurst, he had forgotten the handy little kit of burglary tools he possessed. Stymied for a moment or two while he examined the closest well-fastened windows, he returned to where Lydia waited nervously by the door.
"Should we knock?" Lydia asked.
Holmes shook his head. "We cannot take the chance of alerting Sparrow or Barbossa of our presence if either of them has managed to arrive here ahead of us."
"We could break a window," she suggested in a whisper
"Still too noisy," Holmes whispered back, waving away the suggestion, "and I am not in the habit of unlawfully breaking and entering to facilitate my investigations, Miss Hastings."
Lydia smirked at him. "Apparently just unlawfully entering," she retorted.
Holmes shot her a sharp look and then conceded the point with a shrug. His expression then changed to a more thoughtful one as he looked at her, and then he let out a triumphant whisper.
"Ah, there!" he said, taking a step closer to her and holding out his hand. "Your hatpin if you please."
"My hatpin?" she asked, clearly puzzled by the request.
"And quickly, if you don't mind, Miss Hastings," Holmes answered, still holding out his hand expectantly.
Lydia complied with his request, sliding out the long, sturdy pin that fastened her hat to her hair, and handed it to Sherlock Holmes, who quickly turned back to the front door and dropped to one knee to examine the lock. The next thing Lydia knew, he had inserted the pin and was listening intently as he attempted to loosen the mechanism.
Lydia leaned over his shoulder, watching with fascination as he worked. "Can you really pick a lock with just a hatpin?" she asked softly.
Holmes refrained from answering her for another twenty seconds until a faint clink could be heard from the inner workings of the lock.
"Apparently, yes," he replied, standing and handing her pin back to her.
Lydia took the pin back and regarded Holmes with a look of amused suspicion. "And does Inspector Lestrade know how fast you can pick a lock, Mr. Holmes?"
"I've seen no earthly reason to inform him of such up until now," Holmes replied pointedly, "and it would be the least of my abilities that the good inspector is frequently oblivious to."
"I see," Lydia replied, recognizing the mild dry humour in Holmes's answer.
"I shall enter first," Holmes then said, returning to business at hand, "and pray, stay close behind me and do keep quiet."
"Any other instructions?" Lydia bantered in a whisper, apparently amused at the idea of Sherlock Holmes feeling the need to give her orders.
"As a matter of fact, yes. If I give you any further directions once we are inside the house," he said sternly, "you will need to follow them precisely and immediately."
"Such as?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at him.
"Such as if I tell you to duck or run," he replied, giving her a pointed look that sobered her immediately, and left her with no further questions.
He then turned and opened the door, swinging it inward slowly and peering cautiously into the entranceway. It appeared deserted, and he beckoned Lydia to follow him across the threshold into the foyer. Several long minutes later, after stealthily moving from room to room, they returned to the same location, once inspection of the ground floor revealed no one else present.
Lydia had told me that when Holmes motioned that she should follow him upstairs, that she opted not to put the hatpin back in place, gripping the poor weapon tightly in a feeble gesture to bolster her own courage, lest they encounter anyone above. She followed in Holmes's footsteps along the side of the stair where the shadows were deeper and the boards were less likely to creak than in their centre. Once at the top, Holmes led her on an inspection of the upper floor, finding that the servants' quarters were empty, and that it appeared our party was the first to arrive at the house. He then led her to Matthews's rooms, knowing the way well after having been in them twice during our recent daytime visit.
No sound came from within, and after standing and peering into the dimly moonlit room for several moments, Holmes deemed it safe to enter, and quickly lit a lamp to better examine the room.
~~o~~
By this point in time I was making my way around the north and third side of the house, still encountering no one and noting nothing that seemed out of place. I continued on towards the front of the house, knowing that by now Lestrade must be examining the small stable.
~~o~~
Lestrade had entered the small but well-kept stable, shining a light in one hand as he went, while maintaining a firm grasp on the revolver in the other. Two of the three resident horses draped their heads over the stall doors in mild curiosity, the third ignoring their night time visitor completely. A soft nicker from one caused Lestrade to start, and he cursed the animal under his breath as he began inspecting the stalls, occupied or not, one by one, heading for the end of the row.
Finding that it appear he was alone, the inspector halted outside the final and empty stall, noting a small object on the ground which seemed irrelevant but curious nonetheless. After bending to retrieve it, he recognized, after holding it in the light of his lantern, that he held, of all things, a peanut in the palm of his hand.
~~o~~
On the second floor, Holmes had directed Lydia to begin searching for some sort of bottle or other flask, but neither of them had to look far. There, on the small table to one side of the fireplace, were one of each, the cork of the old rum bottle and the cap of the sliver flask lying next to their respective owners.
Holmes scrutinized the items on the table for a moment and then reached out slowly, gently closing his fingers around Lydias's elbow and pulling her a step closer to himself.
"We are not alone in this house," he breathed in a low whisper near her ear.
"How can you tell?" Lydia asked very softly, clearly concerned at Holmes's pronouncement. "We've seen no sign of anyone."
Holmes indicated the two containers on the table as he spoke. "Someone has been transferring the contents of this bottle into that flask; I believe it to be the hidden water that Sparrow has been seeking."
"But there is no one here. Why did they not take it with them?"
"Because we disturbed them in the act."
Holmes then pointed to the minute evidence that supported his claim: a single drop of water that was still sliding very slowly down the neck of the old glass bottle.
~~o~~