Sherlock Holmes and the Golden Bird

11

The Famous Chair Fighter of the Andaman Islands

105

It was a pleasant afternoon and Witherspoon's horse set a good pace with no urging. For several miles the road was level, though winding, with low hills on either side.

We began to progress upward toward the end of the valley and our speed diminished. To our right was a low-hanging building with a sod roof that displayed a ramshackle sign announcing THE HAVEN. Witherspoon indicated it with a gesture of his hand and a grimace of displeasure.

"The local den of iniquity. It does have the good grace of being removed from St. Aubrey. Bit of hard drinking goes on there. Constable Dankers keeps an eye on the place just as a matter of procedure."

The Haven, being on the crest of a small hill, we swept down a gentle incline and Witherspoon negotiated a right-hand turn onto a narrow lane, which brought us, in short order, to a small cottage but recently repainted. The building was two stories' high and of Queen Anne design, being flanked by a porch of modest proportions that was roofed as we had been led to expect.

Having piled out of the carriage, Witherspoon indicated the porch. " 'Twas from there that Gridley fell." He crossed to indicate an area under the eaves. "The body was found right here."

Holmes surveyed the ground with no more than a cursory glance. Because of the passage of time, there were no revealing clues to engage his attention. Rather, he moved back from the dwelling to survey the slanted porch roof, which formed an angle with the side of the main building. The dormer window was of fair size and I could readily see that, in addition to providing ventilation and light, it could also be a means of access to the porch roof.

Holmes was studying the dormer with interest. "Locked, I judge," he said, almost of himself.

"The house has been sealed until the matter of the estate is settled," explained Witherspoon. "There's also the question of the crown tax," he added.

Holmes's quick steps took him to where he could view a side of the house. "I wonder if there might be a ladder around?" he asked.

"Don't know as Amos had one. His little tool shed is locked, though we could get Dankers to open it and the house as well."

Holmes responded to Witherspoon's suggestion with a negative gesture, crossing to a barrel placed under a downspout leading from the wooden rain gutter beneath the eaves.

"This might serve the purpose, gentlemen. Empty, I note. Lend me a hand, if you will."

It took but a moment for the three of us to upend the barrel, obviously used to collect rainwater, and position it at a corner of the porch. Holmes surveyed it with satisfaction.

"This should serve my purpose admirably and permit a closer look at the shingle roof, which proved fatal to its owner. Watson, good chap, if you would hold the barrel and stabilize it, possibly I can, with the aid of Doctor Witherspoon, boost myself up on it and scramble onto the porch roof."

Witherspoon promptly gave him a leg up and, standing on the barrel, Holmes quickly secured a firm handhold and raised his lean and wiry form up to the porch roof. Walking with some care, he made his way to the dormer window, which he subjected to a close scrutiny.

Both Witherspoon and I had stepped back from the house to view his actions and, after exposing the window to the revealing lens of his ever-present pocket glass, Holmes began to walk down the incline of the porch preparatory to descending and rejoining us. Something caught his eye and he regarded a wooded area close to the cottage for a moment.

"I say," he stated, casually, "it would seem our activities are of interest to someone else."

Witherspoon and I spun around to look in the direction indicated by his gaze. "I see no one," said the medical examiner.

"He's dodged behind some foliage. Black-haired chap. Quite large. From the coppery color of his skin, I'd judge him to be a seaman."

"Lothar, without a doubt," stated Witherspoon. "Strange his being secretive, but no loss to us." As Holmes scrambled down from the roof, the medical examiner adopted a confidential tone. "Frankly, gentlemen, though his uncle thought highly of him, Lothar is not one whose company you would welcome. Like many who go down to the sea in ships, he displays an alarming thirst when on land and I do not mean for water."

Holmes exhibited a thin smile. "From your tone, I might judge that he is a frequenter of The Haven. He might well have seen us pass by it and decided to investigate."

"Well, he's not thought well of by the townspeople," stated Witherspoon. "Not overly intelligent and an awkward hand in a row." The medical examiner seemed nervous. "If your survey is complete, Mr. Holmes, possibly we should return to the village proper."

As we started toward Witherspoon's carriage, I threw a quizzical glance at my friend and companion.

"You seemed more interested in the dormer window. Holmes, than the roof itself."

"And a good thing, too," was his response. There was a trace of that complacency in his words that so often proves grating to one like myself who lacks his unique abilities. "I presume," he continued, "that the house painter, Morris, was eager to finish the job and his arguments with the deceased. His work on the window was slapdash indeed. The paint around the window frame was certainly applied with more speed than dexterity. Though not obvious from the ground, the paint was allowed to run from the brush and cake around the window slide. I can assure you, gentlemen, that said window was not opened following the repainting of the building."

Holmes's surprising statement was allowed to stand unchallenged for a moment as we were all distracted by a sound in the nearby underbrush.

"A dog, probably," guessed Witherspoon, "or more likely, a possum." The medical examiner's attention returned to Holmes. "If what you say is true, sir, how did Amos Gridley get on the roof?"

Holmes looked solemn as he assumed his seat in the carriage and I sat alongside him.

"Gridley's being on the roof to begin with never seemed right to me. Another, and more sinister, theory regarding his death presents its grim face. That bruise you noted, Doctor Witherspoon, which was acquired prior to death fits into it rather neatly. A strong man, adept at such questionable practices, could well have sandbagged the old fellow and, while unconscious, carried him to the roof. A shove and the body slides down the incline and falls to the ground. The neck is broken and we have an accidental death as a convenient cloak for murder."

Witherspoon flicked his reins and the powerful gray set out at a spanking pace, anxious to return to his stall and some oats. There was a silence as we progressed through the peaceful countryside. It suddenly occurred to me that this was unusual. That I would not challenge Holmes's deductions was acceptable, for I had good reason to know of their unerring accuracy through the years. But Witherspoon advanced no objections to my friend's recreation of events even though they would prove most difficult to sustain in a court of law. Actually, I realized that as Holmes had, step by step, delved into the death of the St. Aubrey resident, the doctor had become more and more silent and his somewhat hearty manner had disappeared altogether.

Holmes was not averse to silence. The sleuth's face was placid and I sensed that his mind was happily sorting out random pieces and fitting them into a mosaic of fact. Witherspoon was involved with thoughts of his own and his face seemed strained. I fell victim to the silence and tried to evaluate the incidents uncovered in our journey to this rural hamlet.

That Amos Gridley had been killed, I accepted. Holmes would not have expounded his theory in such detail, if in doubt. But what in the antique dealer's passing by violence had captured the interest of Holmes? Could he have been in Constantinople in the shop of Aben Hassim? It did not seem likely, yet the man had had a lisp, though I did not recall anyone making mention of it in sleepy St. Aubrey.

We were at the top of the rise when Holmes roused himself from his thoughts with a request that startled me indeed.

"Could we stop here a moment, Doctor Witherspoon?"

The medical examiner instinctively reined in his horse with a questioning glance at Holmes.

"Watson and I are, by force of circumstances, much chained to the city. It being not more than three miles back to St. Aubrey, I wonder if you might continue alone. A constitutional in these peaceful surroundings would benefit us greatly."

Had not Holmes placed me on the alert with a surreptitious nudge, I might have burst out laughing. Bucolic surroundings held scant charm for my friend, but obviously he was up to something and I tried to be of help.

"Capital idea, Holmes. An hour at a brisk pace will stretch our legs."

Witherspoon had a worried look about him and made an effort to erase it.

"If that is your desire, gentlemen, I'll meet you at The Crossbow on your return."

When Holmes and I had descended from his carriage, Witherspoon allowed his horse to resume motion. As the vehicle departed down the road, I noticed Witherspoon throw several glances over his shoulder back in our direction. Then a dip in the hill took him from view and Holmes came to a halt.

"Now, Watson, we shall backtrack a bit. The Haven, referred to by the helpful medical examiner as the local den of iniquity, is of interest to me."

Mystified, I could but follow as his long stride ate up the ground between the road and the country pub.

Its ulterior was unprepossessing. At one end of a long, much-scarred bar, two rough-looking individuals were engaged in a mumbling conversation and paid us no heed at all. Behind the bar was a short, squat, heavy man with a bald head adorned by several scars of a permanent nature. He had a dilapidated shirt buttoned at the neck. His face was round and jowls hung over his collar. A dark vest, shiny with wear, did not totally conceal the stains under his arms. He was chewing on a short cigar with dirty, yellow teeth as he aimlessly polished a glass. He regarded Holmes and myself with small, somewhat bloodshot eyes.

The sleuth had registered on the two customers at the end of the bar and evidently dismissed them.

"Has Lothar Gridley been here today?" he asked the barkeep.

"Who wants ter know?"

"I do," replied Holmes, in a very quiet tone.

As the worthy removed his cigar from his mouth with a purposeful manner as though eager to stipulate how little importance he attached to that statement, Holmes stepped closer to the bar, his face becoming more visible in the dim exterior. The man surveyed him again and evidentally suffered a change of heart. His raspy voice became almost cordial.

"He be here but awhile ago. Sittin' by the window." A thumb indicated a grimy frame of glass and a table in front of it. "Then he ducked out, he did."

"Possibly to return," commented Holmes. "We'll see."

I followed my friend who crossed to the table and secured two chairs from an adjacent one. Since there was a half-way filled bottle and a tumbler on the plain wooden surface, I felt the seaman would return all right. We were not seated for long before the creaky door behind us opened and a broad-shouldered man with raven hair entered, marching with purpose toward us and then halting as he became aware of our presence. He was tall and his clean-shaven skin was weathered and of that burnished brown produced by sun and salt. He regarded us with a scowl.

"Who be you?" he said, after a pause.

"Two of those just at your late uncle's cottage," said Holmes. "We would appreciate a moment of your time."

"Time's cheap," was the response.

"You are Lothar Gridley?"

"I'm not ashamed of it." Gridley resumed his chair and splashed whiskey into his tumbler. He did not offer us any. Considering that our surroundings were far removed from the Criterion Bar, I approved of this lack of hospitality.

"You were watching us a short while ago," said Holmes.

"And if I was? The cottage will be mine shortly."

"I fancy so," replied the sleuth. "There will be no trouble about the insurance money by the way."

"Aye, I gave a guess that's why you was nosin' 'round. The idea . . . thinkin' that Amos would do hisself in. Life was dear to him and that's a fact." With our presence apparently explained, Lothar Gridley unbent and signaled with a hand gesture. The barman materialized with two additional tumblers, which he thumped on the table. I declined somewhat hastily though Holmes allowed a sizeable pouring into his glass. I noted that he did not drink it.

"Will you be returning to the sea?" he inquired pleasantly.

Downing a massive swallow, Gridley shook his head as he wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. His palm was horny with callous. "No chance, mate. I'll find me a little place like this, though a mite more shipshape, and it's the easy life for me. If I drink up some of me profits, what's to worry?"

Holmes looked dubious. "Five hundred pounds might not go that far."

Gridley snapped his fingers with a loose laugh. "The insurance money, you mean. We'll nay worry 'bout that,"

"I'm glad you are well provided for."

There was sudden suspicion in the sailor's eyes.

"Did I say that?"

"You did not. But it's another matter I would have words with you about in any case." Gridley's manner did not indicate that he would appreciate words on any subject but Holmes caught his attention quickly enough.

"We're agreed that your uncle's death was not a suicide. I'm not of a mood to accept it as accidental either."

There was a pause broken by the sound of Gridley's tumbler coming down on the table.

"Finally, somebody with a smidgen o' sense. I've been tellin' 'em old Amos would never ha' been on that roof."

"I heard about your testimony at the inquest. Now your ship did not make port till after the fact, but do you have any thought regarding the matter?"

The man's truculence had disappeared and his manner seemed frank and open. "Someone done fer him, 'tis a fact. I be hearin' talk 'bout some Chinee nosing around the shop but, of a sudden, they come out with the accidental death palaver and everybody's hushed up, mum as oysters."

"Strange." Holmes sat in silence for a moment. "Save for mischance, you might have joined your uncle in his business."

The sailor regarded Holmes as though he had lost his senses. "Business? If you be meanin' the shop, you're off course fer fair, matey. Amos needed no help from me."

Holmes kept probing. "There were those trips." His tone was casual but I knew where he was leading the conversation.

Gridley shook his head. "I'll nay be knowin' 'bout that, but then St. Aubrey has seen little o' me. 'Twill be seein' less when the estate's settled. They do say he hied off at times, lookin' fer antiques but that's bilge water. Whose to buy 'em if he had 'em?"

I found the conversation of the deceased's nephew a series of contradictions but Holmes indicated intense interest in his words.

"You have," he persisted, "no inkling as to who did your uncle harm?"

" 'Twas no one from these parts," replied the seaman. "They could nay ha' handled him fer he was a tough old marlin spike. 'Tis me thought that in his youth he was a wild one fer fair."

"Ahh," said Holmes, "that long scar on his right arm."

"How be yuh knowin' o' that?"

"I think the medical examiner mentioned it."

I was glad that Holmes and Gridley were intent on each other for I must have registered some surprise knowing full well that Holmes's statement was pure fabrication."

The door to the pub creaked open again and I was vaguely conscious of another man entering the establishment as my friend turned to me with satisfaction.

"Well, Watson, we'd best be back to town now."

"Watson, he said!" It was the newcomer's voice that rang out in the dim interior. It was harsh with anger and grew in volume as he continued.

"That's him fer sure. The prince of nosey Parkers. Sherlock Holmes, the detective."

The two customers in the corner pivoted toward us and moved closer. The fat barkeep reached for a bung starter.

"So, Dave 'the Dirk' Buckholtz," said Holmes. I noted that he gathered his legs under the table, ready for action. "Somewhat removed from your haunts, aren't you, Dave?"

"As be you, Holmes." The newcomer's gaze included the others in the tap room. "Not a year since he sent me brother, Mack, to Princetown. Here's a chance I canna' miss."

The man's right hand was moving toward his belt as he rushed toward our table. Judging from his name, I felt he was reaching for a knife, but did not wait to have the matter proven. Jumping to my feet, I swept my chair aloft and swung it in a half-circle, aiming the legs at the oncoming man. They caught him full on the shins and his feet came out from under him but his rush carried his body forward and his chin came down on the table top with an alarming sound. I was staggering off balance, the chair still in my hands, and the bottom of one of its legs caught the fat barkeep full in the throat. Dropping his bung starter, the man wheezed in pain and fell to the floor clawing at his windpipe. Thrown further off balance by this completely accidental collision and still clutching the chair for what reason I know not, I spun to my left on one leg and the wooden seat of the chair caught one of the two customers full in the jaw. He fell like a log. His companion, who had been closing in on us as well, suddenly backed off as I regained my balance with a desperate effort and stood breathing heavily in the middle of the room.

"Hold on, man, fer I'm wantin' no part of the likes of you," he shouted and suddenly turned and bolted through the front door. Not knowing quite what to think, I turned and surveyed a stark tableau.

Holmes was standing behind the table, his back to the window, with as close to a startled expression on his thin, aquiline features as I had ever seen. Beside him, Lothar Gridley was regarding me with a slack jaw. Dave the Dirk had fallen half under the table and was motionless. The bartender still lay on the floor gasping, his legs twitching spasmodically. The unidentified customer was on his back, inert, a thin trickle of blood coming from his open mouth. Possible concussion, I thought automatically.

"I've always said, " muttered Lothar Gridley, " 'Tis the quiet ones you watch fer."

Still breathing heavily, I regarded him with, I hope, some dignity. "I beg your pardon?"

His face turned toward Holmes. "Not a word has he said since I come in and of a sudden there's three men laid out."

"Quite," replied the sleuth. "My associate, Watson, is a famous chair fighter, you know. A method of mayhem much practiced in the Andaman Islands."

"I've never sailed to the Andamans," said Gridley.

I found myself most grateful for this information. Holmes, possibly because he could think of nothing else to say, was indulging in one of his little jokes and I speared him with a glance of reproof. My censure seemed to curb his impish humor.

"Prior to this brief interruption, we were ready to leave. I see no reason to delay, do you?"

Holmes was looking at Gridley who shook his head, indicating the bodies on the floor.

"What they got, they asked fer. Are you really, that detective, Sherlock Holmes?"

Holmes indicated this was so. "Currently conducting an investigation for the Trans-Continental Insurance Company."

Gridley was regarding me with a wary air.

"Well, I'm not knowin' much about detectives, Mr. Holmes. But it's happy I am that your associate here seems kindly disposed toward me."

I could hardly contain myself as we left The Haven and resumed the road back to St. Aubrey.

"Really, Holmes. Chair fighting! The Andaman Islands! Such nonsense. How shall I ever face my patients or dear Mrs. Hudson again with a reputation as a barroom brawler?"

"My dear Watson, I doubt if this tale will spread beyond The Haven and you were quite magnificent, you know. It is the result that counts and you certainly extricated us from a sticky wicket in there. Now let us hasten our steps back to St. Aubrey, for there are some fish that must be swept into the net."

Holmes set a brisk pace back toward the town and, though pressed to keep up with him, my natural curiosity would give me no peace.

"But of what use was this foray into that shoddy pub? Lothar Gridley's words did not jibe with the facts."

Holmes's lips were compressed in a thin line. "It depends on what facts you accept. The nephew was most casual about the insurance money, which leads me to believe that Amos Gridley had income other than his antique shop. Penurious he might have been but not without assets. Lothar also admitted that the old man took trips, a fact not brought to our attention before. Therefore he could have been the man in Constantinople and at the Nonpareil Club as well. Also we know that the deceased had a scar on his arm."

"What prompted you to guess that?"

"It pays to be well-versed in the history of crime. A retentive memory is also of assistance."

Though I made several more overtures, I could not extract further information from my friend who seemed to be intent on planning his course of action. Frankly, I had had enough of action for the time.

When we reached the head of the town's main street, tree naved with ancient oaks, the porch of The Crossbow was visible. I noted Witherspoon and Constable Dankers standing there evidently watching for us. Witherspoon acknowledged our arrival with a wave of his hand and the two local residents descended to the street and walked to meet us.

"We were beginning to worry about you," said the medical examiner.

"Watson and I took time to admire the countryside," replied Holmes. "Now if I can view Gridley's place of business, we might close the book on the late antique dealer."

"We are almost opposite it." Constable Dankers indicated an early Georgian edifice on the other side of the street. He seemed grumpy and sleepy-eyed but made for the door, beneath an antiques and refurnishing sign, readily enough, extracting a key from his pocket.

As we entered a large, dark room, Dankers crossed with familiar steps to open the curtains of the two deep bay windows, which faced onto the street. The afternoon sun revealed cabinets and cupboards that seemed repositories for a goodly collection of tools. I noted an absence of period pieces, knickknacks and bric-a-brac and wondered if the antique dealer had kept his inventory elsewhere.

Holmes gave the room no more than a brief glance and then turned to face the constable and medical examiner. There was a crispness in his manner, previously unrevealed.

"So much for the late Amos Gridley who, it would seem, did little business in antiques but a great deal of refinishing, framing and reconditioning."

Dankers nodded. "Amos was handy."

"He would have to be. Twenty years ago in Devonshire there was a man called Garth who succeeded in unloading a number of art forgeries on unsuspecting collectors. Like all who plied his questionable trade, he had to be adept at framing and the composition of paints to allow his bogus masterpieces to pass muster. Such a man would be valuable to a great collector like Basil Selkirk, would he not?"

The name rang a bell with me but I could not recall where I had heard it. Danker's mouth hung open and he seemed to be having trouble breathing. Witherspoon's brow was furrowed and there was a resigned expression in his eyes as though he had feared the falling of the axe and was not surprised when it happened.

"The man, Garth," continued Holmes, "was known to have a long scar on his arm. You did not mention that Amos Gridley had a similar marking, Doctor Witherspoon."

"It did not seem important," mumbled the medical examiner.

"Garth also had a lisp as did Gridley. There are a number of things neither you nor the constable chose to reveal. Doctor Watson and I have been treated to a pleasant view of a slack-water hamlet at peace with the world. Indeed it is, but the picture is out of focus. The tin mines and the tourists are long gone, gentlemen. Nowhere do we see tilled fields and there is not a factory in sight. What do people live on hereabouts? The streets are well-tended, the houses in good repair, so there has to be a source of income somewhere. And we know where, do we not? That notorious recluse, Basil Selkirk, the eccentric millionaire collector. Selkirk is St. Aubrey. Conveniently close to London, but outsiders journey through, not to. A little kingdom to preserve peace and tranquility around Selkirk Castle, which neither of you so much as mentioned. Selkirk wants the peace and serenity of other years safe from the inroads of developers and the encroachment of the masses of the metropolis. He wants it; he pays for it; and you preserve it for him."

Suddenly, I had it. It was in Hassim's shop in Constantinople and the dealer had mentioned the famous collectors of the world. Basil Selkirk of England had been one of them. Now I knew what had drawn Holmes to St. Aubrey, the site of the millionaire's country estate. Small wonder that the death of Gridley had sparked him into action.

Constable Dankers showed signs of argument, but he evidently was taking his lead from Witherspoon who had, mentally, thrown in the sponge.

"What now, Mr. Holmes?" asked the medical examiner.

"We're no part of any crime," added the constable.

"Agreed," replied Holmes. "I'll not deny Selkirk's right to the haven of his choosing. But the façade you men are paid to preserve does not fit into my plans so I had to shred its fabric. What does suit me is an interview with Selkirk. And you are going to facilitate it for me."

"I'll be damned if I will!" remonstrated Dankers.

It struck me that the bumptious, bleary-eyed country constable was with us no more. Dankers's eyes were sharp and he had a hard core of toughness not apparent before. Play-acting, I thought. It has all been a well-rehearsed entertainment with the performers concealed behind the masks of mummery.

"Things might be worse, if you don't," was Holmes's cool response. "I've no doubt you both realized that Gridley had been murdered. But there could not be anything so gauche as a homicide in the private kingdom. Therefore, the cover-up, though I doubt if you know the guilty party or even the reason for Gridley's death."

"That's a fact," agreed Witherspoon wiping his brow with a handkerchief, though the thick walls of the old building preserved a cool ulterior.

Holmes's piercing eyes were fastened on Bankers, certainly the more truculent of the two.

"Much better a consulting detective than a batch of Scotland Yarders to deal with. Think of that. I can ad-vise Trans-Continental Insurance to settle the Gridley claim. Murder still makes them liable. For the nonce, the death can be listed as accidental for I care not a whit about that either. But I will see Selkirk."

As Witherspoon and Dankers exchanged another nervous glance, Holmes moved inexorably onward.

"There are two ways of playing it. Either I have become suspicious through some careless remark that one or both of you made and now consider Basil Selkirk to be an important cog in the mysterious death of Amos Gridley . . . that is one story we might pursue. The alternate will prove more palatable. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, while in St. Aubrey, is deeply desirous of speaking with the famed collector, Basil Selkirk, in connection with some objets d'arts that have figured in cases in Mr. Holmes's files. Do mention the Beryl Coronet and the Midas Emerald, two pieces certain to whet the appetite of a man like your employer. Make your choice, gentlemen."

Again, the constable and Witherspoon exchanged glances. The medical examiner's shrug was expressive and I could deduce their choice before they revealed it.