Disclaimer: Holmes and Watson belong to ACD. ACD himself is of course an historical person but in a fictional setting. Other individuals are my inventions. Geography and historical detail are as accurate as I can get it. Thank you for the reviews; and, AmatorLinguae, you're right, I'd got the naming conventions wrong - first names were generally only used in the closeness of immediate familial groups, so these should now be better!

Chapter 4

A heavy air of dejection hung over our little party as we made our way back from the Kings Theatre. Although our meal had been pleasant enough it had been overshadowed somewhat by an air of disagreement between Doyle and Holmes. Both had picked at their food rather nervously, whereas I had enjoyed mine thoroughly.

The theatre had been a mistake, however. It had been bad enough that the production was of such poor quality – "If that had been put on in London there would have been a riot," was Holmes' exact expression of his displeasure. But afterwards Holmes continued to complain bitterly about how a better job could have been made of the production had he been able to influence it. Doyle was of course defensive and tired, and I was stuck in the middle trying to act as arbiter.

A light rain was falling as we made our way back to the hotel – a short, ten minute walk, pleasant enough even in the drizzle, since the late autumn was still mild. The expected heavier rain was holding off. We arrived back in the Hotel at ten minutes to eleven and Holmes' temper thankfully improved when the porter advised him that a telegram was waiting his collection.

We collected the document and hurried up to my room, where Holmes ripped it open. He looked at the contents for a moment, and then at Doyle.

"It seems, Doctor," he said, "that I owe you an apology. Watson." He passed the telegram to me, and I shared the contents with Doyle.

"Two crates found at Havant. I think we can safely assume these crates may hold the clues we need as to the abducted couple. And so, again, my apologies, Doctor."

"Accepted!" replied Doyle, immediately looking much brighter. The fact that he was looking much brighter over the discovery of one, or more probably two, dead people was a mark of how upset he had been that Holmes doubted him.

"So, to our repose, gentlemen!" exclaimed Holmes, making for the door. "Tomorrow we travel to Havant, examine the evidence, and see where that leads us."

"You have an idea, Holmes," I said. "I can tell."

"Perhaps. Tomorrow we shall see what develops. Goodnight, gentlemen." With that he was gone. We heard his steps going down the nearby staircase.

Doyle bade his leave of me, the look of relief as he left very real. "He is a remarkable man, is he not, Watson?" he stated. "Takes nothing at face value. Tests everything. I wager he's running with an idea and has even now gone to send another telegraph! But thank goodness I am no longer at the receiving end of his deliberations! Good night."

The morning brought the expected rain, in sheets as it blew in from the English Channel. After breakfast we ordered a cab and were soon boarded at the Town Station for the short train ride to Havant, where we arrived shortly after ten o'clock. The Station Master was waiting for us on the platform, with umbrellas for our use. He shook our hands warmly, and Holmes' particularly, as though his status was close to royalty.

"Mr Holmes, sir, pleased to see you, that I am. Jeremiah Edwards I am, sir. Most unusual, most uncertain, but your recommendation from Mr Gregson makes me think you must be something special." Holmes warmed visibly to the blustering man.

We were quickly escorted into the Goods Shed alongside the station, our umbrellas struggling against the wind until we were inside the dark, eerie space. In one corner was a strong room of sorts, with a heavy, bolted door. Jeremiah Edwards unlocked the door and beckoned us in, making sure there was no-one around to witness our activity. I was quite at a loss as to why this should be, and enquired of Holmes.

"My dear Watson," he replied, with that unnecessarily patient voice that he sometimes used when he was hiding his disappointment at my slowness, "if the local constabulary are involved, the last thing we want is for them to get rid of the only evidence we have. Once I knew that the crates were here, I telegraphed Mr Edwards here last night and told him to have them secured until I was able to see them. I referred him to Gregson up in London in case he needed persuasion that I had some sway and experience in these matters." Edwards nodded enthusiastically to verify this statement.

In a corner of the strong room were two wooden crates, placed upright against the wall. The four of us manhandled them into a horizontal position, and then Holmes asked for a crow bar.

"What do you expect to find, sir?" asked Edwards.

"It might be better if you were not here to see," said Holmes.

"Oh, no, sir, that's alright. I'll stay. After all, they are technically railway property until collected, and I take it, in spite of your good reference, that you are not the legal owner of the contents?"

Holmes broke open the lid of the first crate, to reveal the body of a young woman, her dress still stained with blood from the gunshot wound which had killed her. Jeremiah Edwards collapsed in a dead faint.

"No," said Holmes softly, "I am not the owner."

"That is the woman who came to my door, Mr Holmes," said Doyle.

"So to the second crate." Holmes broke that open, to reveal the body of a young man. His throat had been cut.

Holmes was silent for a moment, and then knelt down and started going through the man's pockets. With an exclamation he drew out a small notebook. Opening it, he pored over the contents of a couple of pages, and then put it in his pocket. He continued searching the rest of the man's clothing but clearly found nothing else of interest.

"Doctors," he said, standing up, "I need to know an approximate time of death, and beyond the obvious, any particular information regarding the method of execution of this foul deed."

Doyle and I spent an unpleasant few minutes investigating the bodies, and estimated that the man had died after his wife – and certainly within four hours.

"So," said Holmes, "as I see it, then, they would have arrived here at about half past five yesterday morning. No doubt by then this poor wretch was dead – undoubtedly they questioned him whilst in the parcel van, killed him and put him in the crate. Otherwise his wife would not have said to you that the policemen had 'taken him', Doctor Doyle." He looked at the still unconscious Station Master lying on the ground beside us, whilst I smiled to myself that, now he had regained Holmes' confidence, the latter was using a more familiar means of address towards my medical friend. "As our recumbent friend here says, the crates were unloaded here but were unaccompanied. Meaning that the policemen stayed on the train, and so of course we have no idea where they alighted. Unless we are very fortunate, that particular trail ends here." He sighed slightly.

He walked across to the first crate and looked down sadly at the woman's body. He seemed lost in thought for a moment. "They questioned him about something – some piece of information he had, perhaps, and then killed him. Did he break? Did he tell them what they wanted to know? Or are they still trying to find out what he knew?"

The Station Master was starting to come round. I ministered to him with brandy from my hip flask, and he slowly got to his feet, avoiding looking at the contents of the crates.

"I think," said Holmes, "that the local constabulary had better be informed of the discovery of these bodies. Well done, you have made a fine job of intercepting the crates before they were lost."

Edwards looked confused, but before Holmes was able to reply Doyle was able to enlighten him.

"What Mr Holmes means, is that you can take the credit for their discovery. I think we are going to go now, and I think it best if you do not mention that we were here."

Holmes looked at him with a look of undisguised amazement on his face. "Very impressive," I whispered in Doyle's ear with a smile, clapping him on the back.

"Very well, sirs, I will make the arrangements." Edwards led us from the building, and locked the door behind him. Within a few minutes we were back on the platform, waiting for the next train back to Portsmouth, which duly arrived on time, and we soon found ourselves back at Doyle's rooms in Southsea. The rain had stopped and the arrival of the sun promised a rather pleasant day ahead.

"So, Mr Holmes," said Doyle, as he handed us our drinks, "what was in the notebook?"

"Hmmm?" Holmes seemed distracted.

"The notebook. You took a notebook from the pocket of the deceased gentleman."

"Your observance does you proud. I have been very impressed with your consideration, Doctor Doyle. I may soon have two companions in arms, I see. Yes, the notebook. I retain some hope that its contents will reveal some clue to this mystery. However, as you can see ....." At this he tossed the notebook to Doyle, who opened it and checked the pages. "You will see that it appears to be written in code. Albeit a simple one."

"Maybe a code or cipher, but I would say it contains no other information than start and finish times of colleagues working arrangements. Colleagues at the National Bank in Commercial Road, Portsmouth, from what it says on the flyleaf."

Holmes smiled broadly, and rubbed his hands together. "Watson, this is a rare treat! That is indeed what I believe it to be. You notice the arrangement, in three columns per dated page, with figures written in a neat hand. Of the form AB 1000 300 indicating, I would surmise, that whoever AB is, they started at 10 o'clock and left at 3 o'clock."

"Why would he keep such details?" I asked. "Could it not be that the information was going to be used in a robbery of the bank premises?"

"If that were the case," replied Holmes, "then why did the kidnappers leave the notebook on his person? It was easy enough to find. And it is of no intrinsic value in itself – there will always be more than one person on duty at any time. I think, after we have partaken of some lunch, we may pay a visit to the National Bank, but only to close off this line of enquiry."

"I will make the arrangements," said Doyle, and left the room. Holmes turned to me and I could tell from his face that all was not well.

"This is impossible! One dead end – if you will excuse the expression – after another. But Doyle – an impressive acquaintance of yours, Watson. Well found."

"Surely, there has to be some indication of the way forward."

"We will see what a visit to the bank can tell us, but otherwise there is no evidence to build even the outline of a case."

I admit to being worried about my friend's demeanour. "Perhaps it is the adjustment to the sea air, Holmes." I was trying to be of good humour, but I could see the first signs of the onset of one of his famous 'moods'.

Holmes smiled darkly. "I have done something that I never thought possible. I have left it behind in London."

"'It'?"

"You know..... 'it'...." Holmes was interrupted by Doyle's return.

"I have arranged for us to have a meal with Mrs Evans. After yesterday's excitement she is quite recovered, and wants to hear about London. She has never been, and hears that it can be quite diverting."

Holmes' face was a sight to behold. A mixture of emotion – dread, tiredness, frustration, interest, even hunger – crossed his features in a glorious collision of expression. It was as though all his positive thoughts about my friend had dissolved in an instant.

"Come, Holmes," I encouraged him, "it will be an opportunity for you to study the sort of person you wouldn't normally come into contact with – a whole new breed. The 'seaside landlady', I think they are called if my recollection is correct. I am sure she will have some stories to tell, and who knows, perhaps something she says will spark a thought."

Holmes muttered under his breath about the unlikelihood of that event, but Mrs Evans joined us at that point and so he was unable to continue.

In truth the meal was a success. Holmes had obviously determined to lift his mood, and did so successfully, regaling us with tales of some of his earlier cases. I made mental notes as the meal progressed to ask him about some of these later - once he had accepted the idea of my chronicling his cases. The Blue Pearl, The Stolen Emerald .... it was at that moment, I think, that I realised that part of the job of the chronicler would be to give names to his cases. Not an easy task; I am happy to record events, but not to invent names for them.

The meal over, we retired to the drawing room at the front of the house, smoked our pipes for a while, and then made the leisurely, twenty minute walk northwards to the National Bank in the Commercial Road. We introduced ourselves to the doorman and asked to speak to the manager. Holmes busied himself whilst waiting for the summons, looking around the banking hall, noting the layout, and spending some time studying the list of names on the staff board. Shortly we were escorted into the manager's office, who received us with interest after hearing that we were calling about one of his employees.

We sat ourselves in front of the enormous oak desk. I looked round at the high oak panelled walls and for a moment I was back in the Headmaster's office at school. The manager, a heavily built Scot by the name of Gordon Steel, did not get up, and sat with the desk between us. He listened gravely as Doyle introduced us and explained the events of the previous and present mornings. Mr Steel then opened a folder on the left hand of his desk. In it was a single sheet of paper, written in a flowing script – the same script as in the notebook found on the body in the crate. He handed it to Holmes.

Holmes raised an eyebrow as he read the letter. "So, Mr Francis Holloway offered his resignation from the bank at the end of business the evening before last, then ...."

"Yes, Mr Holmes. All the other staff are here as normal today, back of office as well as front. Holloway had been with us for about a month, joining us from our Fenchurch Street branch in London. He was an exemplary employee, and I trusted him completely. I am not aware of any domestic issues or money worries which could have led to any pressures either at home or at work. He was always willing to help, putting in extra hours if we asked him. His worksheets were neat and accurate, and on a number of occasions I was able to leave him to conclude discussions with major customers, in complete satisfaction that he would handle the business accurately and professionally."

Holmes handed him Holloway's notebook. "Do you know of any reason why he would be keeping records of staff in this way?"

Steel looked through the pages. "No, I do not. He was somewhat – how can I phrase this – obsessive in some of his methods. He would leave for his luncheon at exactly fifteen minutes past twelve each day, for example, and would become quite vexed if he was unable to keep to that time. But otherwise .... no, I see no reason why he should keep a record such as this." He handed the notebook back to Holmes, and took a deep breath. "I am indeed, very sorry to hear of his demise. You are certain, I assume, that it is he...?"

Holmes described the man whose body we had found in the crate, and Mr Steel hung his head in silence for a moment.

"Yes, that is Holloway," he said. "I am very sorry. His wife will need our assistance. I will send someone to his address."

"We can do that," said Holmes. "What is the address, please?"

Mr Steel looked surprised for a moment, but seemed to be unable to resist Holmes' air of authority. "Sixteen Landport Terrace. Down towards the pier, facing the old ramparts." Doyle was about to say something but Holmes shot him a glance.

"I know it well," replied Holmes. He seemed now eager to leave, and rose from his seat. We did likewise.

"Many thanks to you, Mr Steel," said Holmes, offering his hand, which the other shook. We left the office and shortly were out onto the main street again.

"Well..?" said Holmes, his face transformed from earlier – now it showed excitement and expectation.

"We have a name and we know where he lived," I replied.

"More than that!" exclaimed my friend. "Quickly now…." Telling us to wait, he sprinted across the road, and went into the post office. After a few minutes he came back out, and whistled to commandeer a nearby cab. "We need to get to Landport Terrace."

The cab started with a jolt, barely before we were seated. Settling ourselves into the cramped interior, he continued, "Indeed, gentlemen, we have a name, and with that comes much information. We know too where he lived – one road away from you, Doctor Doyle, if I am not mistaken – and I am sure that, using some of our unofficial skills, Watson and I can effect an entry to investigate the premises. But he also lived at the same house number, and worked at the same bank, as does your new neighbour, whose name I know from my interview with him yesterday. Their names – Holloway and Franks - are on the bank's staff board. I do not believe in co-incidences, gentlemen. I think the threads in this story start to be disentangled, but I am afraid we will need to move rather quickly to avoid more deaths."