Sherlock Holmes and the Treasure Train

Holed up at Charing Cross during the Blitz in London, Frank Thomas discovered a battered tin dispatch box crammed with papers. Here were Dr. Watson's records of unpublished cases by the world-famous detective, Sherlock Holmes. After years of legal battles, Frank Thomas has now brought to light.

SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE TREASURE TRAIN, adapted from the memoirs of John H. Watson, M.D.

Chapter 1

The Refusal

WHEN MY FRIEND Sherlock Holmes and I were finally ushered into the conference room of the Birmingham and Northern Railroad, I must have shown surprise. The building that housed the great transportation company shared the yellow-brick sameness of its neighbors in the Waterloo area. Its nerve center was, however, a far cry from early nineteenth-century architecture, being reminiscent of the great hall of an ancient feudal keep. Stucco walls soared better than two stories to a curved ceiling of stout timbers joined by cast-iron straps. The door to this impressive chamber was of carved oak. A massive fireplace into which I could have stepped without bending my head dominated one wall. Around it, flintlock muskets and swords of various ages hung vertically. In their midst, on a short staff, was a regimental banner, which I judged to be Russian, a captured memento of the Crimea. In front of the fireplace was a long trestle table flanked by benches. A large Jacobean armchair was positioned at each end. The oak gleamed of oil and the flickering light of burning logs threw dancing shadows on the table and adjacent artifacts. Twin lighting fixtures hung from chain hoists over each end of the table and provided the only modern touch to a scene that provoked an immediate impression of solidity and grandeur.

Under different circumstances I might have been prompted to pose questions regarding the many obviously authentic mementos that were the warp and woof of the room's character, as might Holmes, as he had indulged in a flirtation with medieval architecture at one time. However this was not to be, for things took a different turn—and not one for the better, I should add.

The whole affair had gotten off to a bad start, beginning with the somewhat peremptory summons to the B & N building. At the time I had been surprised when the master sleuth abandoned our chambers at 221B Baker Street to come to the headquarters of the rail empire, though its president, Alvidon Daniel Chasseur, was a potential client of acknowledged solvency. Upon arrival at the formerly select residential neighborhood, now destroyed by the coming of the railways, we had been allowed to cool our heels in a drafty outer office while news of our arrival was relayed through a chain of command. Holmes, accustomed to being welcomed with red-carpet gratitude, adopted an imperious attitude toward the entire proceedings, which was not soothed by the manner of Mr. Chasseur or his board of directors, for such is what I judged the others seated at the table to be.

The rail tycoon, hunched in one of the armchairs, waved us toward a free space on the bench at his left while concluding some words with a grizzled man on his immediate right. Facing him, at the other end of the long table, was a fair and youngish-looking chap who had the grace to rise at our arrival. His face was clean-shaven and rugged. I judged him to be in his early thirties, which made him the youngest man in the room.

Having concluded his comments to his nearest employee, Chasseur now deigned to devote his attention to Holmes.

As he brushed back an errant wisp of white hair, the tycoon fastened large, rather myopic eyes on Holmes in an abrupt manner, which I was sure had struck terror in friends and adversaries as well on numerous occasions. Holmes, his face impassive, returned the stare without a flicker of emotion. The financier never so much as favored me with a glance. I was part of the furniture, as were his associates around the table, though he did single one out at this point.

"Mr. Holmes, we wish to discuss the matter of the gold shipment stolen from the Birmingham and Northern's special flyer but a short time ago. It was our security chief, Richard Ledger, who brought your name to my attention."

A flick of a bony forefinger indicated the youngish man I had noted at the other end of the table. Chasseur paused as though expecting an expression of gratitude from Holmes and, when none was forthcoming, continued, his voice dry and rather grating.

"My first impulse was to enlist the aid of the world's foremost detective, Monsieur Alphonse Bertillon, since the French have some involvement in this matter. My second thought was one of our Scotland Yard inspectors, like Lestrade, who do involve themselves in problems other than their official activities on occasion."

Chasseur again paused to allow the fact to sink in that Sherlock Holmes was but a third choice foisted on him. I took the moment to bid an adieu to the matter of the B & N Railroad. This despite the fact that we had not been involved in a profitable case for some time. Neither the pursuit of the Golden Bird nor the adventure involving the Sacred Sword had resulted in a fee, while incurring considerable expense. However, Chasseur had effectively shunted my friend from the gold robbery and he might better have been occupied waving a red flag in a bullring in Toledo. Had we been in some earlier time, when men were prone to vent their spleen with violent action, I could easily picture Holmes tearing one of the swords from the wall and carving Chasseur up like a Christmas goose. Instead, he placidly viewed the aged financier. The silence became nerve-racking and those around the table stirred uneasily. Finally Chasseur had to give in to the mood of the moment and added to his comments, though in a slightly more conciliatory tone.

"Ledger has considerable faith in your ability, Mr. Holmes. He was formerly with the army of India and is the finest big-game hunter in the world."

By this time, I was as nervous as a cat and denied, with effort, the impulse to cross my legs or make some movement that would relieve the tenseness that had crept, nay galloped, into the scene. To my relief, Holmes finally contributed to the conversation, and in an even tone of voice, which must have cost him dearly.

"It has been said that one should follow first impulses, and relative to that, I shall make some mention of matters which might prove helpful. Gratis, of course."

Unable to divine the direction of the wind, the financier was now gazing at Holmes with the first shadow of surprise infiltrating his large eyes.

"The esteemed Bertillon's forte is identification based on his Bertillonage system. He is not an 'in the field' operative. Lestrade is no doubt already involved in your affair since he seems to have a way of getting assigned to the most newsworthy cases. If you consider additional Scotland Yard assistance, you might think of Hopkins or Gregson or Alec MacDonald, who gives evidence of becoming the best of the lot. I know of all their work, being a consulting detective."

"I am not familiar with that title," said Chasseur quickly.

"No surprise since I am the only one in the world. A consulting detective has his services solicited by other professionals when they arrive at dead ends. I have but recently solved a little matter for Francis le Villard, a compatriot of Bertillon. A matter, I might add, which the Sûreté Nationale was completely incapable of dealing with."

Chasseur made as though to comment, but Holmes was in full stride now and I relaxed, somewhat gleefully, anticipating the chips to fall from the tycoon's oak under the blows of Holmes' verbal ax.

"In dealings with whatever investigatory means you choose, I suggest accuracy in your reports."

Chasseur's eyes grew even larger with a combination of amazement and anger. "I am scrupulous in that regard," he said, and would have said more if given the chance.

"A statement made in haste, sir. But a moment ago you referred to Mr. Ledger as the finest big-game hunter in the world. The gentleman would, I'm sure, agree that Colonel Sebastian Moran occupies that niche."

Ledger rapidly confirmed the sleuth's contention. "Moran, of course, is unique," he stated with a deferential nod of his head toward Holmes.

"Was," corrected the sleuth. "May I remind you that the infamous colonel some time back abandoned big game for different prey. I was his target, which is why he now languishes behind bars, where I put him."

Holmes must have felt that this dramatic announcement was as good an exit line as any, for he rose to his feet and I hastened to match his movements. There was a humorous touch to the moment. The directors of the railroad and their president resembled a school of guppies, every man regarding us with a slack jaw.

"Now, gentlemen, my associate and I bid you good day."

Chasseur almost choked trying to find words. No fool, he knew what was happening but still didn't quite accept it.

"Mr. Holmes, do you expect me to believe that you are refusing to act on behalf of the B & N Railroad?"

"I expect nothing from you," stated my friend, making for the door. Suddenly Holmes came to a halt, and I almost stumbled on his heels. He fixed the financier with his steely glance and the strength of his commanding personality was a tangible thing in the great room.

"You are forced," he continued in a measured tone, "to accept the fact that I have no intention of investigating the gold robbery for you."

As the sleuth opened the oak door for our departure, leaving the group of astonished men in his wake, Chasseur rallied with a parting shot. "A moment, sir," he called. I turned, as did my friend, and noted that the rail magnate was now standing, a faint smile playing around the corners of his mouth. Subconsciously, I interpreted it as a gesture of defeat.

"I pride myself on accuracy, Mr. Holmes. If Ledger here does not fill the bill and Moran is incarcerated, then who is the leading big-game hunter?"

Holmes replied in a lighter tone. "I care not a fig for who is the finest heavy game shot or most wily shikari our eastern empire has produced, for man is the most dangerous game. If you ask me who is the greatest man-hunter, the answer is simple. Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street."

As he strode from the room and I hastened after him, my concern regarding our financial state fled like the dreams of yesteryears. Never could I recall an interview that came to such a gratifying conclusion. In the field of accomplishment, the entire incident contributed not one whit of good, but it had been so delightfully satisfying to that childish ego that lurks in all of us. If the boost to my morale proved costly, so be it. Such are the feelings of one living in reflected glory. A rebuff to Holmes was a slight to me, for I shared in his triumphs and defeats.

As we strode from the Birmingham and Northern building and into the brilliantly gas-lit station bar nearby for a libation, I was ready to wager five against one that the pompous Alvidon Chasseur would not try and play fast and loose with the likes of Sherlock Holmes again.

Chapter 2

An Interesting Puzzle in Rural Surroundings

AFTER HIS JOUST with the world of high finance, Holmes was not inclined to hail a hansom and return to Baker Street. Instead, the underground took us as far as Aldersgate. From there we walked to a vegetarian restaurant close by Saxe-Coburg Square, where we enjoyed a light lunch. By now I realized what he had in mind and was not surprised when we then made for St. James's Hall. Sure enough, there was a Sarasate concert and I spent the greater part of the afternoon wrapped in the subtle rhythms of the great Spanish musician.

It was still daylight when we descended from the hansom that had brought us back to Baker Street. I had my latch key ready but was not allowed to use it for the front door burst open at our approach, revealing Billy. The page boy had evidently been watching for our arrival from within. His face mirrored concern as he extended a telegram toward the great detective.

"Mr. 'Olmes—I'm that put out."

"About a telegram, Billy? We receive lots of those, goodness knows." Holmes' voice was soothing.

And send a few as well, I thought.

"But, sir, I don't know when this 'ere missive came," responded Billy, closing the outer door behind us. "Mrs. 'Udson didn't 'ear the bell, bein' in back cleanin' the 'ole bleeding arfternoon and I was not on ta premises."

Billy fancied words like missive and premises, which he had acquired via his close contact with Holmes.

Our concerned page boy now picked up a bulky package from the hall table. "Then, just afore you come, this package arrived. The bloke wot brought it said it 'ad been sent by train from Shaw wiv instructions to be delivered by special messenger on arrival."

"Perhaps the telegram will explain the package," said Holmes, mounting the stairs. "Best come up with us, Billy, as fast action may be called for."

Within our sitting room, Holmes opened the telegram, which his eyes devoured rapidly. "No mystery here," he said. "Billy, have a hansom downstairs in fifteen minutes. Then hustle over to the cable office and send a message to Constable Bennett, Police Station, Shaw. 'Leaving five-thirty from Paddington. Holmes.'" The detective looked at Billy keenly. "You can remember that, I'm sure."

Billy tapped his head with a forefinger. "Word fer word, Mr. 'Olmes. I'm on me way."

Billy took what he called "the detectin' business" seriously.

As the door closed behind our page boy, Holmes posed a question. "Can you throw some things in a bag quickly, Watson? I have had previous dealings with one John Bennett, who is the constable in Shaw. It is a little country town in Herefordshire. Bennett is experiencing difficulties relative to the Trelawney matter and requests assistance."

I needed no urging. My army experience with the Northumberland Fusiliers had made me a prompt traveler and Holmes was certainly used to what sea-goers call "the pierhead jump." It was but a short time later that we were aboard the five-thirty at Paddington. Holmes, with his long gray traveling cloak and cloth cap, disposed of a small valise and placed the bulky package, which had just made the same trip in reverse, alongside him on the seat. I put a larger bag in the luggage rack, and we settled down for our trip to Herefordshire. Soon we were traveling westward at fifty miles an hour and far removed from familiar surroundings.

"Perhaps you will explain the Trelawney matter," I suggested, "as well as that package evidently sent to us in some haste."

"Fortunately, I have a grip on the essential facts of the Trelawney case," replied Holmes. "This parcel contains the recent papers from the area, which we can study on the way down. The London press made very brief reference to the affair. I can tell you that Ezariah Trelawney, a banker by trade, was murdered while alone in his house in Shaw. The cause of death was a severe blow by a blunt weapon on the back of his head. As I understand it, an adopted son, Charles Trelawney, is in custody now on suspicion of murder. Bennett's telegram made reference to the Silver Blaze affair but did not explain the connection. Since we are fortunate in having this carriage to ourselves, I suggest we go through these country journals and see what additional facts we can uncover. In the bucolic surroundings of Herefordshire, a murder is bound to capture a major portion of the newsprint."

I was glad to bury myself in the contents of the package sent by Constable Bennett for our perusal on the lengthy trip. Naturally, I searched for some unusual fact that might excite an idea in Holmes' mind. My friend read at intervals, interrupted by pauses for reflection, as though arranging the facts. We were long past Reading when I broke the silence.

"Here's something that might be of interest, Holmes. A complete coverage of Charles Trelawney's testimony before the coroner's court of inquiry."

"I've already read another account, but let us see what your paper has to offer."

As Holmes pored over the newspaper I handed him, it was pleasant to lean back for a moment to relax. Darkness had long since fallen. The train was steaming through the Stroud Valley and approaching the Severn River when my head jerked upward with a start and I realized that I'd dozed off. Holmes was gazing out the window at the passing darkness. There was little to see outside the speeding train and what there was Holmes was not conscious of. His eyes had that deep, introspective look that signified that his mercurial brain was flitting over pieces of the puzzle and fitting them into a mosaic of the mind.

Sensing my awakening, the master sleuth turned toward me with a slow smile. "Some sleep may prove of future benefit," he said. "We could very well have busy times ahead of us."

I indicated the newspapers scattered around the compartment. "Has anything suggested itself to you?"

"At the moment I'm suffering from a plethora of surmise, conjecture, and hypothesis. Let us see what we have been able to discover up to this time."

Holmes leaned back in his seat, gazing at the ceiling, and his words wandered over the facts at our disposal.

"Ezariah Trelawney was a widower who lived with his adopted son, Charles. There had been indications of a recent strain in their relations, a point which the coroner's inquest did not pursue to any appreciable depth. It was the banker's habit to sit before the fire in his study of an evening, reading the works of Thackeray. Death was definitely established as occurring between the hours of eight and ten. Constable Bennett evidently was able to secure a forensic medicine expert promptly. The body was discovered at eleven in the evening by Charles Trelawney, who stated that he had just returned from Hereford, where he had been on business. According to his testimony, his adopted father was seated in his customary chair, his head slumped forward from the fatal blow. The windows of the room were closed. The door leading into the room was closed but not locked. Now, Charles Trelawney contends that he had just arrived on the ten forty-five from Hereford. However, in counter-testimony, the stationmaster at Shaw states that he definitely saw him arrive previously on the six o'clock special. It was the testimony of the stationmaster and some other evidence that resulted in Charles Trelawney's receiving a verdict of suspicion of murder at the inquest. Pending further investigation, the case is to go before the magistrates in Hereford."

"What other evidence do you refer to, Holmes?"

"Possibly, the papers you read stated there were two occupants in the Trelawney household. The cook and maid were not in residence and left, as was their custom, at seven. However, one of the papers, the Ross Inquirer, I believe, was more complete and noted the presence of a third occupant."

I registered amazement. "How could this fact go unrecorded elsewhere?"

"Ezariah Trelawney had a dog, Lama by name. The animal and the banker were inseparable. The old gentleman even took him to his bank office with him. Now I understand Constable Bennett's reference to the Silver Blaze affair."

"Of course," I said, with a flood of understanding. "The dog that didn't bark in the night."

"Dear me, Watson, that was but a trivial example of observation and inference. By the time you finished making our racehorse adventure public, you had it sounding like a veritable triumph of deductive reasoning."

This mild chastisement bothered me not at all. Holmes consistently contended that I tended to over-dramatize his superb reasoning powers. However, I knew that he secretly was delighted at having his métier appreciated and applauded.

"May I remind you, my dear Holmes, that no one else drew the inference that you did from the dog's behavior? Had you not, the great Silver Blaze might never have been found. But to return to the Trelawney affair, I see the similarity now. Since the dog, Lama, and his master were constantly together, no doubt the canine was in the murder room."

"He was. You will recall that the banker was seated and struck from behind. The outer doors to the house were not locked. Anyone might have entered, and the elderly gentleman could well have been dozing in his chair. But the prosecution will contend that had a stranger entered the house, the dog would have certainly alerted his master to the fact. However, Charles Trelawney was no stranger. Hence, it is the dog that may weave the rope that hangs him for murder."

This puzzled me. "My dear Holmes, instead of enjoying a quiet dinner we have two middle-aged men flying westward on what seems to be an open-and-shut case."

"Ah, but there is always a little more than meets the eye. I deduce this partially from items in the news accounts and also from the fact that Constable Bennett sent a plea for assistance. John Bennett, though buried in a backwater village, has carefully schooled himself in the latest methods of crime detection. I have carried on an intermittent correspondence with him for some time. He is alert and efficient. If he feels there are doubts and unresolved elements relative to this homicide, I am prepared to trust his instincts. Also, it would seem that the peaceful hamlet of Shaw was, in times gone by, the scene of deep-seated enmities and bloodshed. But these facets will be polished for us by the good constable upon our arrival."

When the train halted at the small station of Shaw, we were the only travelers to alight. A tall individual in a square-cut uniform coat with hat, who had been pacing the station platform, hurried to our side.

"Mr. Holmes," he said. "It is certainly a pleasure."

"It has been a while, Bennett," stated Holmes. "This is my associate, Dr. Watson."

Shaking hands with the constable, I wondered under what circumstances this country policeman and Holmes had met previously.

"I have rooms for you at the Queens Arms, which is our only inn hereabouts. It is but a short distance from here. The proprietor's wife is laying out a cold supper. Considering the time of your departure from London, I would imagine you could both do with a bite."

Bennett took the larger suitcase from me and led us down the street. In a short time we were in a pleasant room in the inn enjoying some excellent cold roast beef and a very tasty game pie.

Constable Bennett joined us in a yard of stout and lit up a cigar. As he ignited it and drew a first puff, he snatched the cigar from his mouth with an exclamation of surprise.

"How strange that I should decide to smoke this at such a time since it was a gift from the murdered man!"

"An Indian cigar," commented Holmes, "of the type rolled in Amsterdam."

"As to the murder, gentleman," said Bennett, "I trust the journals I sent provided some information."

"In outline form," was Holmes' response. "I was immediately intrigued by the fact that you were able to establish the time of death as between eight and ten on the fatal night."

"Fortunate happenstance," replied the constable. "At eleven, young Charles Trelawney came bolting out of his adopted father's house and almost ran into my arms. I was making a final round of the night just to make sure things were in order. I had just seen Dr. Devon Almont right here in the Queens Arms in the pub."

"Almont?" I asked with considerable surprise.

"He retired two years ago and came to live here," explained Bennett.

"I didn't know that. Naturally, I've read his articles in Lancet with great interest."

"You were fortunate, Bennett," stated Holmes, "to have one of the foremost pathologists in the world at your beck and call."

"I certainly beckoned," replied Bennett. "When young Charles told me that he had found Ezariah Trelawney with his skull crushed, I hightailed it over here and got Dr. Almont. Then the three of us returned to the Trelawney house. Doctor Almont checked the coagulation of blood on the back of the murdered man's head and tested the rigidity of the body and delivered the opinion that the murder had been committed between eight and ten."

"Almont's opinion would be accepted by any jury. In conjunction with Alexandre Lacassagne of France, he has made considerable contributions to the advancement of forensic medicine." Holmes thought for a moment. "If young Trelawney had just arrived from Hereford, he is in the clear, but I understand the stationmaster contested this."

Bennett nodded. "Pierce is a friend of young Charles, who is well liked by one and all. He saw the boy get off the last carriage of the six o'clock. A redheaded stranger and Charles were the only ones who got off the train. It meant nothing to him at the time, but at the inquest he had to tell what he had seen."

"Unwillingly," said Holmes. "That lends all the more credence to his words. Perhaps you had better relate what occurred, Bennett."

The constable's eyes narrowed, as though he did not wish to overlook a single fact. "Charles was in a state of semi-shock, but after discovering the body, he had the presence of mind to close the door to the study before leaving the house. As I mentioned, the three of us returned there promptly. Upon opening the study door, we found everything as Charles had hastily related to me. Ezariah Trelawney was slumped in his chair in front of the fireplace. The right side of his skull was a sight indeed."

"The back of the skull, according to the newspapers," mentioned Holmes.

"'Twas the back that got hit, but on the right side."

I shifted impatiently in my chair for it seemed they were splitting hairs. "And the dog, Lama? He was still in the room?"

This point seemed of special interest to Holmes.

"Yes, sir," responded Bennett. "When Charles closed the door behind him, how could the little fellow get out?"

"That is my point, or at least a point of puzzlement." My friend chewed reflectively on a piece of beef. "Charles Trelawney testified that when he returned to his home, he found the door to the study closed. For his own sake, he might have said that the door was open. Had this been the case, the possibility could have existed that the dog was in some other part of the house when the fatal blow was struck."

"That bothered me also," replied the constable.

"Another thought," continued Holmes. "From your description and that in the papers, Trelawney's skull had been shattered from behind very severely. Would not a blow of such strength have driven the body from the chair?"

"Not necessarily," I stated automatically. "It was mentioned that the corpse was well beyond the three score and ten. At that age, bones tend to become more fragile. The blow need not have been delivered with great strength."

"A good point, my dear Watson."

Bennett continued: "Whatever the weapon was, we did not find it. After inspecting the wound in greater detail, Dr. Almont delivered the opinion that it was caused by a club or stave perhaps, but definitely of wood. Lama was very nervous and whining, but Charles was able to quiet him. A book was on the floor, open, as though it had fallen from Ezariah's hands."

"Which it probably had," reflected Holmes. "There was a half-consumed cigar in a tray by the chair. I believe that it was in the tray and lit when Ezariah was killed. It looked like it had gone out of its own volition."

"Now that is interesting," said Holmes. "I should have guessed the victim was a smoker since he made you a gift of a cigar."

"'Twas the same type that I'm smoking right now," replied Bennett. "Ezariah had them sent to him from Amsterdam, as you divined, Mr. Holmes."

"What else can you tell us, Bennett?" asked Holmes.

"Well, sir, the maid and cook had left at seven, and a number of people saw them crossing the town square at that time. They both have families who testified that they returned home at their regular time and stayed there the entire night."

"So," said the great detective, "the murdered man was alone and someone, anyone, could have entered the house."

"For a fact," agreed Bennett. "We don't lock doors in Shaw since crime, as such, really doesn't exist. Oh, occasionally a couple of sheep are missing but they always turn up. After payday, a few of our local cutups drain the bottle too deep and I have to make motions like a policeman, but that's about the whole of it. Until now," he added.

"But it was not always thus," prompted Holmes.

"Well, sir, now we go back a ways, long before my time. It was in the days of Monks Holes and the religious wars, and this was not the peaceful countryside it is now. Ezariah Trelawney was childless and adopted Charles, who was a foundling. There is another resident, Horace Ledbetter, who has a farm on the outskirts. He is the last of his family as well. He has a niece, Agnes Bisbee, who lives with him, but she is the daughter of his dead wife's sister and no blood kin. The local feed-and-grain store belongs to Vincent Staley, who never did marry. 'Tis said he has some relatives in Lancashire, but I don't know that for a fact. But it is a fact that at one time all three of the families were large ones and owned a lot of the land in these parts. It is hard to put a finger on what started it all. Some say that one of the Staleys was a wild lad with a taste for liquor and an eye for the lassies. He was supposed to have been riding through the countryside and come upon one of the Ledbetter girls and had his way with her. The next thing was the Staley estate was attacked in force by the Ledbetters and it was a pitching battle with a lot of bodies that never rose again. How the Trelawneys got into it is a mite vague. One story is that the oldest Trelawney tried to make peace between the two families and was cut down by mistake. Whatever the reasons, the three families went after each other with a vengeance. 'Twas like one of those Scottish feuds one hears of that went on so long that the original cause is unknown."

Holmes' lips were forming a comment when I advanced an opinion. "Possibly, you are referring to the Sutherland-Mackaye feud, which continued for seven hundred years. However, the cause is known. The two clans went to war due to an argument as to which one had been appointed by the king to defend the north against the Dane. This local bloodletting sounds more like the Hatfield-McCoy affair, which occurred in the southern United States. Or perhaps the Lincoln County war, which was in the American West." I noted that both Bennett and Holmes were staring at me in surprise as I amended my last statement. "No, the Lincoln County cattle war was of far shorter duration than the conflict you describe. However, it did produce William Bonney, known as Billy the Kid."

Holmes' eyes seemed almost glazed. "Watson, I never dreamed you were such a fount of wisdom regarding feuds and family strife."

"Well . . . I . . . it just happened to be a subject that interested me at one time," I stammered, somewhat embarrassed.

"Obviously," commented Constable Bennett. "In any case, the Trelawneys and the Ledbetters and the Staleys had a real go at it and the war continued from father to son. When law finally came, it was not a case of their drawing swords on sight, but there were a lot of disappearances and unusual deaths. Finally, they whittled each other down so much there was not enough left to fight. But it is a fact that Ezariah Trelawney, Horace Ledbetter, and Vincent Staley hated each other from childhood and their feeling did not mellow with the coming of age."

"What a strange saga!" I said.

"But definitely connected with the death of Ezariah Trelawney. It gives us two potential suspects with more motive for murder than many assassins might have," was Holmes' comment.

Chapter 3

The Blue-Eyed Dog

HOLMES SEEMED content with the preliminary review of facts. He rose, restlessly. Gone was the quiet thinker and logician of Baker Street, and instead there was the great detective intent on the chase. His eyes shone with a steely glitter and his whole body seemed to cry for action.

"The hour is late, but is it possible for us to examine the Trelawney house now?"

"I was hoping you would suggest it," answered Bennett. "I have been staying there to make sure that sensation-seekers don't disturb the premises."

Leaving the Queens Arms and crossing the town square, we found ourselves at the door of a stately mansion set well back from the tree-lined street. No lights were visible in the small village and the silence was broken only by the sound of night crickets and the infrequent hoot of a distant owl. As we approached the house, our arrival was acknowledged by excited barks.

"Lama," said Constable Bennett. "The maid will keep the place in trim until there is a disposition of the estate and together we try and take care of the little tyke."

As he unlocked and opened the outer portal, a small terrier with a long, heavy coat rushed out, continuing to bark. The little dog sniffed at Holmes' boots, and then mine, to learn what he could. Evidently, he detected nothing suspicious and preceded us into the house. As Bennett led me through the large hall toward a side door Holmes paused to let the dog smell his hand and then took the liberty of stroking its long hair. Allowing Lama to show him the way, Holmes joined us in the room where Ezariah Trelawney had breathed his last.

I admired the beautiful wood paneling on the walls of the study, which must have dated back to the time of Cromwell or before. Bennett carefully explained that nothing had been moved, though the maid had insisted on opening the windows and airing out the room. Nevertheless, I could still detect the acrid odor of the Indian cigars to which the deceased was evidently addicted. The study was a man's room with hunting trophies adorning the walls. An ancient suit of armor was standing in one corner.

Holmes inspected the chair in which Trelawney had been sitting, noted the attendant ashtray, and finally seated himself in the chair. An unusual affinity seemed to have sprung up between Lama and the great detective. After some urging and a couple of suggestive pats on his knee, Holmes was able to coax the creature onto his lap, where the little fellow made himself quite comfortable and appeared to sleep. Holmes remained immobile so as not to disturb the dog as he offered a suggestion.

"Let us recreate the crime casting you, Watson, in the sinister role of assailant unknown."

"As you wish, Holmes," I replied, knowing that the little games that my friend chose to play frequently climaxed in amazing revelations. "What actions are called for in your manuscript?"

"You approach me from the door—stealthily, of course." I did so. "Now, I am sitting here, with a lighted cigar. I take a puff and place the cigar in the ashtray, with my right hand, as presumably, my left hand is holding a book."

"The fallen book was on the left side of the chair," interjected Bennett.

Holmes continued his fantasy. "Watson, you have a wooden weapon in your hand and you deliver a resounding whack to the back of my head." In dumb show, I followed directions. "Now," continued Holmes, "I presume that the path of the blow that you just delivered would bash me on the right side, since you happen to be right-handed."

"You are correct, Holmes," I agreed.

A keen glance from Holmes prompted Bennett to produce a pocket notebook, which he riffled quickly and then read from: "The right occipital and parietal bones of the victim's skull were shattered by a blow from a heavy weapon." He flipped his notebook shut. "That was the statement of Dr. Devon Almont," he continued.

There was a sardonic smile on the detective's face. "And, my dear Bennett, while you made reference to the Silver Blaze incident, I rather fancy that you considered another matter with which I was once occupied. May I hazard the guess that young Charles Trelawney is left-handed?"

The constable nodded, a gleam of admiration in his eyes. "I did not wish to muddle your thought processes with my own ideas, but you have arrived unerringly at the point that has bothered me."

"I'm delighted that you are both in agreement," I said, with a touch of asperity in my voice. "Would someone explain this to me?"

"'Black Jack of Ballarat,'" quoted Holmes. "Come now, Watson, if you were left-handed, would you have delivered the same blow that you just did in dumb show?"

"Of course not. How stupid of me." My mind flashed back to another time and a baffling mystery that had also taken place in rural surroundings. "But wait just a minute," I continued, prompted by another thought. "If Charles is ruled out as the murderer, we are left with Horace Ledbetter and Vincent Staley as suspects. Would the dog now dozing in your lap, Holmes, have allowed either of them to enter the house, much less this room, without raising a row?" I turned to Constable Bennett. "What breed of canine is Lama anyway? I don't recall ever seeing one like him before."

"Mostly terrier, I would imagine," was Bennett's answer. "A mixed breed."

"Let me disagree on that point," stated Holmes.

Suddenly, while gently stroking the subject under discussion, Holmes' lips pursed and he emitted a shrill whistle. The dog lay undisturbed on his lap.

"Good heavens, Holmes," I stammered. "What was that for?"

"Merely an experiment, old boy." Holmes' glance returned to Bennett. "As to Lama's ancestry, let me assure you that he is a pure-bred and blue-blood indeed. As Watson well knows, following the incident at Reichenbach Falls, I placed myself in voluntary exile for several years, since two most vindictive enemies of mine, who were part of Professor Moriarty's gang, were still at liberty. During that period I traveled to Tibet and visited Lhasa to confer with the head lama. Sitting in my lap, gentlemen, is a Lhasa Apso, also known as a Tibetan terrier. They are bred in that country as watchdogs. I suggested that the breed might be introduced to England, but others, more knowledgeable on the subject, felt that our lowlands might not prove suitable to the strain. Anywhere in England is the lowlands to Lama here, since his native habitat is at sixteen thousand feet above sea level. However, our comparatively heavy atmosphere doesn't seem to have bothered this little chap, so perhaps my original thought was not without merit."

"This is all very interesting, Holmes," I persisted, "but you still haven't answered my question."

"The Lhasa Apso is peculiar in that it is the only dog, to my knowledge, that frequently has blue eyes. Oh, occasionally a Dalmatian may have one blue eye, but not two. Consider for a moment, both of you, how many blue-eyed dogs either of you has seen."

Bennett and I exchanged a glance and then a shrug. "I don't usually make note of the color of a dog's eyes," said the constable, "but I daresay you are right, Mr. Holmes."

"Both of Lama's eyes are blue," stated Holmes, as though this brought the matter to an end.

"For the life of me I fail to see what the little fellow's eye coloration has to do with this case." Possibly my tone was somewhat testy.

"Blue-eyed dogs are very subject to congenital defects, Watson. The most common one is deafness. Lama is as deaf as a post."

"But he barked his head off when we arrived."

"His sense of smell, dear boy, more acute in a canine than his sense of hearing. On the night of the murder, I picture Lama peacefully asleep at his master's feet in his soundless world. You noted, of course, that my shrill whistle of a moment ago did not even make him flinch. Trelawney was smoking one of his Indian cigars, the odor of which Lama has become unwillingly accustomed to through the passage of time. But the cigar smell effectively smothered the dog's ability to raise a scent. The acrid smoke anesthetized Lama's olfactory sense. Through no fault of his own, the poor dog was completely incapable of performing the task he was bred to do. Namely, to be a good watchdog."

"That does it," snapped Bennett. "I knew young Charles couldn't have been the culprit."

"Then we are back to Horace Ledbetter and Vincent Staley, both of whom suffer from congenital defects themselves. Namely, a blind hatred of each other and of Ezariah Trelawney."

"Very well put, Watson," said Holmes, with approval. "However, the hatred had existed for decades. What fanned the spark into flame at this particular time?"

"I can give you one theory, Mr. Holmes," said the constable. "In a village like Shaw, little happens that isn't public knowledge. Feed and grain is not the business it once was in these parts. Vincent Staley owed the bank a considerable amount. He had asked for an extension, which, due to Ezariah Trelawney, was denied. Staley is on the brink of ruin."

"Excellent, Bennett!" said the great detective. "Now you give us a motive." The sleuth of Baker Street was thoughtful for a time. "But we are still in the tender area of circumstantial evidence. How about Horace Ledbetter, the other prime suspect?"

"Just prior to the inquest, I rode out to his farm. His niece, Agnes Bisbee, said that the day of the murder she had had a conversation with Ledbetter which had thrown him into a rage and that he had ridden off to Marley. The Ledbetter property is midway between Shaw and Marley. I haven't had the chance to catch up with him since that time."

The constable concluded his statement with a hesitant air. Holmes regarded him searchingly, as though reaching within the recesses of his brain. "There is something else, obviously," commented the detective.

Bennett nodded. "It didn't come out at the inquest since it seemed to have no bearing at the time, but young Charles and Agnes Bisbee have been keeping company. They've had to be pretty sly about it too, considering the circumstances."

"Montague and Capulet." Holmes' eyes had a faraway look. "But, you see, it does explain a great deal. Charles Trelawney states that he returned to Shaw at ten forty-five and the stationmaster says he was on the six o'clock train. The young lover was silent because Romeo was with Juliet. Agnes Bisbee had a discussion with her uncle which threw him into a rage. About her intention to marry the stepson of his hereditary enemy, no doubt. The recent strain in the relations between Ezariah Trelawney and his stepson can also be laid at the doorstep of the star-crossed lovers."

Gently lifting the dog from his lap and placing him on the floor, Holmes rose to his feet. "The hour is late, but the time spent has been profitable. I doubt if Charles Trelawney need appear before the magistrates or, indeed, the assizes."

"But there is a strong possibility that Vincent Staley might." Bennett's voice was grim. "Let me walk you back to the inn, gentlemen. You have indeed earned a mite of rest in what is left of the night."

While I had enjoyed a lengthy nap on the train trip to Shaw, the country air acted like a soporific. It was late the following morning when I forced my eyes open to find Holmes, fully dressed, standing beside my bed, smiling. I grabbed at the watch, formerly the property of my departed brother of sad memory, which was on the bed-stand. One look provoked a groan.

"Great Scott, Holmes, you have allowed me to sleep away the morning!"

"No matter, dear fellow. My expedition proved a simple one and required no assistance."

"Expedition, indeed," I said, climbing from the bed and dressing as rapidly as possible. "Where to, may I ask?"

"Marley, of course," replied Holmes. "You will recall that on the day of the murder, Agnes Bisbee said her uncle had ridden off to Marley in a rage. But Bennett stated that Ledbetter's farm was equidistant between Marley and Shaw. It occurred to me that Ledbetter might well have said he was riding to Marley but actually have directed his horse here."

"Placing him at the scene of the crime. And what, pray tell, did you learn in this adjacent hamlet?"

"Much more than I anticipated. Obviously, Agnes had informed her uncle of her love for Charles Trelawney. The news was such a shock to the old fellow that he rode into Marley like Rob Roy on the run. Leaving a foam-flecked horse, he promptly made for the only public house available and spent what was left of the early evening disposing of a complete bottle of very old Irish whiskey. This induced a certain truculence in his general attitude and the local constable was summoned. This protector of the peace, Farquhar by name, placed Horace Ledbetter with some difficulty in what our American cousins call the local pokey. Ledbetter spent the entire night in a cell in the Marley jail."

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, adjusting my waistcoat. "This gives Ledbetter an alibi."

"The very best I can think of, since it is supplied by the authorities themselves."

As Holmes helped me into my coat, there was a loud knocking on the door. "Do come in," said Holmes, and the door opened revealing an agitated Constable Bennett.

"Forgive me, gentlemen," said Bennett, entering rapidly. "Things have taken a sudden turn."

"So Holmes has just told me."

The constable shot an inquisitive glance at my friend. "They said downstairs you had hired a four-wheeler early this morning. I was looking around town for you before coming here. Have you chanced upon something?"

"'Twill wait," said Holmes with an airy gesture of one hand. "What have you learned, Bennett?"

"As you know, I have been staying at the Trelawney house to protect the evidence. This morning, I dropped by my digs and found an envelope under my door." Bennett extracted a piece of cheap paper from his pocket. "Let me read you the contents: 'Young Charles did not arrive at Trelawney's till just before eleven. Why don't you follow the finger of guilt, which points directly at Horace Ledbetter?'"

"It's signed: 'One who knows,'" concluded Bennett.

"Your anonymous correspondent might just as well have affixed his name," said Holmes.

"My thought exactly, Mr. Holmes. Vincent Staley trying to implicate his enemy. I came here at once, but they said that you had already departed. Therefore, I went to Staley's home. There was no response to my knock, but I noticed the door ajar. Something prompted me to look inside and it's a good thing I did, gentlemen. I found Vincent Staley in his bedroom with his head bashed in."

"Good heavens!" This news set me back for fair.

"Hmmm!" added Holmes. "A turn of events I certainly did not foresee."

Bennett looked harassed. "I haven't made the fact known as yet."

"Just as well," was the detective's comment.

"I thought you gentlemen would accompany me to Ledbetter's farm. He is a tough old coot and I may need assistance in placing him under arrest."

I was dazed. "But he has an alibi."

Holmes explained the situation to Bennett. "Constable Farquhar of Marley assured me that Horace Ledbetter was under lock and key in the Marley jail the entire night of the murder of Trelawney."

Now it was the constable's turn to look dazed. "Farquhar, eh? A good man. Bit of a local celebrity since he is our best dancer in these parts. Considered the master of the English Quick Step."

"Well, he has quick-stepped our only suspect right out of the picture."

"Not necessarily, my dear Watson."

"Half a moment, Holmes. Young Charles is innocent, being a left-handed man and incapable of delivering the death blow to his stepfather in the manner in which it was done. Staley has been murdered himself, and Horace Ledbetter has an ironclad alibi. Surely you cannot make anything sensible out of this hopeless tangle? Unless another suspect appears in a deus ex machina manner, we are at a hopeless dead end."

Holmes' eyes had narrowed thoughtfully. "The only way of arriving at what can be true is the careful elimination of what cannot be true. And there is a glimmer of light relative to this complex affair. Our solution lies in following your thought, Bennett, and departing immediately for the Ledbetter farm."

Using the four-wheeler that Holmes had secured for his trip to Marley, we were soon heading down a country road with Holmes at the reins. He set the horse at a good pace and it was not long before we pulled up in front of the substantial farmhouse that was our destination. We were met at the door by Agnes Bisbee, a comely girl with the creamlike complexion native to the locale. Her eyes were red from weeping.

"Agnes, we wish a word with your uncle," stated Bennett.

"He is in the barn," said the girl. "Though I don't know in what condition. The past few days have been a nightmare. He was gone all of one night and he's been drinking steadily and is up at all sorts of hours."

The recounting of recent events proved too much and she began to sob. "Now, now," said Holmes with as close to a fatherly tone as he could come. "Things may not be quite as bad as they seem. Charles Trelawney will shortly be released from custody and his name cleared of any complicity in the heinous murder of his stepfather."

The girl's tears ceased at this news and Holmes indicated the barn. "Now, if you will excuse us, I believe we can arrive at the end of this most regrettable chain of events," he said.

Holmes and I followed Bennett, who marched purposefully to the barn but found the door locked. He knocked authoritatively. "Lea' me in peace," said a slurred voice from within.

"It is Bennett, Ledbetter. Open this door in the name of the law."

There was a silence for half a minute and then the sound of a bar being removed. Half of the large barn door slid open, revealing a gnarled man of six feet in height with a weather-beaten face topped by a shock of white hair. He was dressed in work clothes. His callused hands and wide frame bespoke of strength and that durable power produced by hard manual labor.

I'm glad there are three of us, I thought. He looks as if he could be a bit of a handful.

The farmer indicated with a vague gesture for us to enter and turned inside and made his way to an anvil on which rested a depleted bottle and a tin tankard. He poured himself a considerable amount of whiskey and downed it in a gulp.

"'Tis about Staley that I'm here," said Constable Bennett.

"Aye! I've been expectin' ya."

The farmer's eyes were bleary and his speech thick, but his brain appeared to be working. I surmised he had drunk himself sober, a physical peculiarity that has been known to happen.

"I'll no beat the bushes abaht it. 'Twas yesterday of an evening hour. I came out here in search of some bottles that I had hid away from Agnes' eyes. When I opened the door, there was Staley, curse his black heart! He was by the stalls with a club in his hand. I'd surprised him all right and he rushed at me. 'Twas all so fast. I grabbed this here fence rail what I had been workin' on." The farmer indicated a stout piece of oak on the floor of the barn. "Wi' it, I blocked his first blow and swung. 'Twas a lucky hit or I would not be talkin' to ya now. Caught him full on the forehead, I did, and he was dead afore he hit the ground. What went through my poor addled pate then I canna tell ya. Somehow I were plagued with the idea of gettin' his carcass out of here, so I saddled my mare. She was skitterish, I tell ya, for she smelled Staley's blood, but I got him hoisted over her withers and into the saddle meself. Then I rode into Shaw and put the body in his house. I had the idea that if his corpse be found in Shaw, I would not be involved, but 'twon't work. I been livin' wi' the deed and that fierce moment for these hours past and it will nay do. I killed him."

With a groan, Ledbetter sank onto a bale of hay and buried his face in his hands.

"There seems to be ample grounds for a plea of self-defense," stated Holmes. "You said Staley had a club. Is it still here?"

Ledbetter just gestured toward a wall of the barn. Holmes crossed to the indicated spot and secured a stave of seasoned wood, which he studied carefully. "This, gentlemen," he continued, "will prove to be the murder weapon which did away with Ezariah Trelawney. The series of events seems clear. Impelled by blind rage, Vincent Staley stole into the Trelawney house and murdered his enemy. He felt that suspicion would fall on Ledbetter here, as well as himself, but when the authorities moved against young Charles, his plans went awry. Therefore, he left the anonymous message at your door, Bennett, where he knew you would find it, and then came out here with the murder weapon. He was in the process of concealing the weapon in Ledbetter's barn where it could be found without too much difficulty. However, being surprised in the act, he sprang upon Ledbetter with intent to kill."

Holmes turned his attention to the farmer. "The fact that you have made a clean breast of the matter will carry considerable weight in court, my good man. While you do have the death of another human being to weigh on your conscience, the fact remains that Vincent Staley could have faced the same fate from the law, though by different means."

Chapter 4

The Matter of the Missing Gold

ON OUR RETURN trip from bucolic Shaw, Holmes was in excellent spirits, standard at the satisfactory conclusion of a minor case, and especially true if the solution was a rapid one. When a matter dragged on, my friend felt it a slur on his reputation and indulged in self-castigation for not having solved the puzzle sooner. As I have noted on more than one occasion, the life of a perfectionist is seldom tranquil. The matter of Ezariah Trelawney and the blood feud that had festered for so long in Herefordshire was patterned to his liking. A clear set of facts, an appearance on the scene followed by a rapid and satisfactory solution.

I was not prompted to share Holmes' carefree attitude, since the Trelawney affair ranked in my mind as the third in a row in which financial remuneration had not played a part. Not that our life or the machine that my friend had painstakingly constructed would be sore pressed. Holmes could secure an assignment—and at a dazzling fee—in a trice, but such was not his way. He relished the complete freedom to pick and choose among the problems that invariably beat a path to his door. Still, his expenses were enormous. In addition to our quarters, presided over by the ever-patient Mrs. Hudson, there were at least four other domiciles he maintained around London, as a convenience in assuming various identities he had established. Five, if the house next door was included, since he owned it—and a most rewarding investment it had proven in one instance in particular. Then there was the staff at 221 B Baker Street as well as various specialists, mainly from the shadowland of the lawless, that he kept on retainers. If that were not enough, my intimate friend was known as an easy mark for some wayward soul attempting to rejoin the honest segment of society. Though his generosity in this respect was sharp-toothed. Woe be it to the former transgressor if he chose to revert to his previous way of life, for the specter of Holmes would be upon him like a mastiff on a hare.

It crossed my mind that I might curtail my wagers on equines that I fancied and make some moves toward reactivating my dwindling medical practice. The patients that still clung to me were a loyal group, but their ranks had been depleted. It occurred to me that I could well appeal to a more youthful group. Though my friend was most frequently pictured in the deerstalker and Inverness that he wore on our Shaw excursion, he was really a bit of a dandy. With his thin, whipcord frame enhanced by a tail coat and topper, we could have made something of a dashing pair had I possessed the strength of character to minimize my consumption of Mrs. Hudson's excellent fare or withstand the blandishments of the menus at Simpsons or the Café Royale. Along with thoughts of a stringent diet, I was entertaining the distasteful idea of abandoning my occasional billiard playing at Thurston's when we arrived at our chambers and I learned that my thoughts regarding frugality were not necessary after all.

Holmes had dispatched a cable from Shaw alerting Mrs. Hudson to our time of arrival, as was his custom. This thoughtfulness proved of value. As we alighted from our hansom, Billy was, again, awaiting our arrival. Taking our valises, the page boy informed us that a visitor was, even now, in our chambers. Billy had developed an instinct for such things and brushed off our topcoats before we ascended the seventeen steps to our first-floor sitting room.

It was Claymore Frisbee who sat in the client's chair when Billy ushered us into our chambers. The president of Inter-Ocean Trust had had dealings with the great sleuth before and good reason to consult with him when troubled.

After cordial greetings and a minimum of small talk, Frisbee accepted my offer of liquid refreshment and got to the matter at hand. "It is this gold bullion robbery, Holmes."

My friend's good-natured expression was promptly erased. Before he could comment, Frisbee beat him to the punch, no mean feat.

"I know of your meeting with Chasseur, but hear me out. You have to, you know," added the banker with a smile.

Curiosity struggled with the hauteur in Holmes' manner. "How so?"

"Have I not heard you say that to prejudge is the mark of a fool?"

Suddenly the sleuth chortled, something he did more often than people thought. "You have me there. Hoist on mine own petard. Let's hear your tale."

Holmes stirred up the fire in the grate with the poker and then seated himself in the cane-backed chair, his long, sensitive fingers steepled together and his manner that of cordial attention.

"A special train of the Birmingham and Northern was routed to Great Yarmouth with a load of gold bullion to be shipped to France," stated the banker, accepting a glass from me. Knowing Holmes' habit of devouring the daily journals, he added, "I'm sure you're aware of the basic facts."

"Let us benefit by complete coverage," suggested Holmes, "including your involvement."

"I'll get to that," replied the banker. "There was half a million pounds on the B & N flyer and the line took elaborate precautions, but the robbery caught them by surprise."

Frisbee must have sensed a thought in Holmes' mind, for he paused in his narration and the sleuth did fill the void. "I can't see why. Of all the articles of value used as a means of exchange, gold is the most anonymous. It lacks the serial numbers of currency and is devoid of geographical characteristics." My eyebrows must have elevated and the sleuth elaborated. "Gold mined in Australia or Russia is not a smidgen different from that found in Canada, the United States, or Africa. Nor does it matter how it is secured. Mined gold, panned gold, hydraulic gold, flotation gold; it is all the same. What surprises me is that more attempts are not made to steal it."

"Well, it is a mite heavy," said Frisbee, "and not available in large quantities outside of bank vaults."

"It was in this case," I said, taking my drink to the settee.

"An unusual situation," conceded the banker. "The precious metal was to be shipped to the Credit Lyonnais in France. They have an issue of gold-bearing bonds coming due, and ever since their unfortunate investment in that Netherlands-Sumatra swindle, there has been talk about their solidarity. The financial firm anticipated a considerable run on the bonds at due date with demands for payment in gold, so they strengthened their reserves by arranging a loan from a syndicate of our west coast banks that were well supplied. The metal was shipped to London from the banks involved and then placed upon the B & N special train. The B & N now employs one Richard Ledger for matters of this sort."

"I don't know his record," interjected Holmes.

"Former army. Service in India. He sold his commission and was taken on by the Kimberly interests as a security man. Comes well recommended. Ledger planned the shipment rather like a military campaign. He arranged for the flyer to make the run from London to Great Yarmouth nonstop. He had a solo locomotive out ahead of the train to prevent tampering with the tracks."

"With a means of communication should the advance engine come upon something, I assume," said Holmes, his attention definitely caught at this point in the story.

"A signal rocket," said Frisbee. "The treasure train consisted of an engine and two boxcars, with the gold in the second one, though that was a carefully guarded secret. On the roof of the first boxcar, Ledger had constructed a miniature block house with steel plating on the outside and slotted windows. Not a large affair, since he had to figure bridge clearances, but serviceable. In it he had four marksmen whom he trained himself. Ledger has a considerable reputation as a dead shot."

"So we were told," I commented, and then wondered why I had spoken at all.

The banker continued: "The marksmen had an uninterrupted view of the sides and rear of the train, and Ledger stated that it was impossible for anyone to board the flyer once she was under way."

"A miscalculation, it would seem," said Holmes in a thoughtful manner. "These riflemen could not see the rear of the train from their fortified position, I would judge."

"No," replied Frisbee, "but the flyer never traveled at less than thirty miles per hour once clear of the B & N yards. To get to the rear of the second boxcar, hijackers would have had to approach from one side of the track or the other and been plainly visible."

"The entire trip being made during daylight?" I queried.

"It was planned that way."

Holmes rose suddenly and took a turn around the room, going over the matter with his quicksilver mind. Then he returned to the mantle and gazed moodily into the hearth fire. "You might well take a shot at the newspaper game should banking ever bore you. You've described the matter far better than the journals."

"With more information," replied Frisbee modestly.

"What happened?" I asked, on tenterhooks.

"The bullion train was two hours outside of London and on an upgrade when suddenly smoke bombs were thrust through the slits in the riflemen's cubicle. They were blinded by the fumes and so choked that they could not even shout for help."

"And there being but one exit from their position, they were trapped within." The banker nodded in agreement with Holmes' remark, and the sleuth threw me a glance.

"Static warfare. Ineffective in modern times, Watson. The old feudal castles served their purpose but are antiquated now as is the entire enclave theory."

"But we're not discussing a military campaign," I remonstrated.

"The defense of the train was planned like one, and I would say the robbery had overtones of army tactics as well. In any case, we have the guard hors de combat momentarily . . ." Holmes turned suddenly toward Frisbee. "Was there any attempt to eliminate the riflemen?"

"None," replied the banker. "Whoever used the smoke bombs, and it had to be more than one person, effectively jammed the half-door leading into the armored cubicle and went about their business."

"Which was?" queried Holmes.

"They disengaged the rear boxcar from the train."

"You mentioned that this happened on an upgrade. The train continued up the slope and the boxcar rolled back down the track in the opposite direction."

"Fiendishly clever, wasn't it?" said Frisbee. "At the foot of the grade there was a stretch of level ground and an unused spur line. The boxcar rolled along until it came to the spur, which the thieves had switched. It then followed the feeder track until it came to a stop of its own volition some distance from the main line. There were marks of a wagon and horses there, and obviously they transferred the gold from the boxcar and made their escape."

"Aided, I judge," mused Holmes, "by the fact that it took some time to discover how they made use of the abandoned spur line."

"That did slow up the pursuit," said Frisbee. "As soon as the robbery was made known to the engine driver and fireman, the locomotive went into reverse and there were signals all up and down the line. By the time they reached the station between the scene of the robbery and London, it was obvious that the missing boxcar had not come that way. Then someone recalled the old spur line, and the local constables, augmented by railway police, hurried back to it. By that time the wagon and the hijackers were long gone. Neighboring villages were alerted but nothing came of it."

Holmes had taken his cherrywood from the mantle and stuffed it with shag. Now he ignited it and puffed furiously. "Anyone," he said finally, "who could plan a theft so meticulously would not leave the disposition of the loot to chance."

He resumed his seat in the cane-back, gazing into the embers of the hearth fire. "See how they chose the place to strike. An upgrade, which would slow down the engine, but more important, bring the law of gravity into play. The rate of acceleration of the stolen boxcar had to be judged carefully. Too fast and it would derail itself. Too slow and it might not gain the momentum to carry it to the spur line and beyond. You did indicate that the railway car was found some distance from the main line, did you not?" he asked of Frisbee.

The banker nodded.

Holmes laid aside his pipe, and I sensed that he would embark on one of the recapitulations that he found so helpful. I was right. "Two men at least reached the roof of the first boxcar. You mentioned smoke bombs, so I assume they were thrust through the rifle slots of the mobile blockhouse simultaneously and from both sides."

Again Frisbee agreed.

"With the riflemen temporarily out of action, they made their way to the rear of the boxcar and lowered themselves to disengage their prize from the rest of the train. Having uncoupled the connection, no difficult feat, they were now rolling downgrade with the freed bullion carrier. What would have been their next move?"

Frisbee had a ready answer. "An iron ladder would allow them to gain the roof. It seems likely that they used it to arrive above the sliding door to the boxcar. One must have lowered the other down the side of the moving car to attack the door's fastening."

"By what means?" queried the sleuth.

"Cold chisel."

"Which requires a hammer. Which indicates two free hands, so the man was lowered by rope."

"I would think so," stated Frisbee. "By the time the boxcar had rolled off the main line, the job was probably complete and they were ready to unload."

"Aided by the third man," said Holmes.

"Where did he come from?" I asked.

Holmes patiently explained. "As soon as the treasure train passed the spur line, someone had to be there to activate the switch so the boxcar would leave the main line on its return trip. Then the third man closed the switch and took after the boxcar, on foot, I would imagine. By the time the boxcar came to a stop, the third man was available to aid in the unloading. One does not move a half million in gold in but a moment."

"Might there not have been more robbers involved?" I asked. It seemed a reasonable question.

"Not it I were planning it," said Holmes. "The more tongues, the more talk."

Again I blessed providence that my friend had not been born with a larcenous twist in his great brain. Had this been so, surely he would have made the infamous exploits of the late Professor Moriarty seem like something out of Alice in Wonderland.

Frisbee was eyeing my friend shrewdly. "Inspector Stanley Hopkins was rushed to the scene from the Yard."

Holmes smiled. "Our friend Lestrade will be much put out I'm sure."

Frisbee continued: "Hopkins followed your line of thought regarding a member of the gang being positioned close to the spur line. He investigated that section closely but found no marks of a bicycle or horse."

"Then we can assume one of the thieves was fleet of foot." The detective's next question surprised me. "What was the original purpose of the spur line?"

"To service a tin mine that petered out a number of years ago."

"The boxcar came to a stop near the end of track?"

"Quite close to it." Frisbee let a silence grow, and then his eyes narrowed as he posed the key question. "What do you think?"

"I can give you a one-sentence summation," replied Holmes. "It is a pity that the security methods of the Birmingham and Northern were not planned as carefully as the robbery."

"Had they been, I would not be here," stated the banker laconically.

Holmes shook his head. "I fear your visit, as welcome as it is, has been for naught."

"We must talk of that."

"To no avail," said Holmes, and there was a note of finality in his voice. "You stated that you had heard of our encounter"—his eyes flashed to me for a brief moment—"with Alvidon Daniel Chasseur of the B & N. As a result of it, I vowed to have nothing to do with his stolen bullion."

"It's not really his problem," stated Frisbee. "Or his bullion either. Chasseur took on this gold transfer with an eye to future business. Shipments of special cargo. That's a nautical expression, but it has come to have meaning with land transportation as well. If the thing had worked smoothly, his armored-train idea might have caught on in other fields. However, that much gold in one place incurred a risk, so he took a policy on the shipment with our Inter-Ocean insurance division. If the gold isn't recovered, we stand to lose half a million pounds, the face value of our short-term coverage."

Holmes' manner had changed with Frisbee's words, but he stood by his guns, albeit in a less dogmatic manner.

"An investigation would involve my coming in contact with that man again . . ."

"Holmes, if we have to remit the insurance money, Chasseur's only problem is loss of face for having the bullion spirited out from under him. This matter has all the elements that I know you love so well. Take that Herefordshire banker Trelawney, for instance."

"Ezariah Trelawney?" exclaimed Holmes with a lightning glance in my direction. "What has he to do with it?"

"Trelawney arranged the consortium of west coast banks that provided the gold in the first place. Murdered, you know."

"We certainly do," I said forcefully.

Frisbee registered surprise at my vehemence but shrewdly sensed that the wind had shifted and held his silence.

Holmes had risen again and unconsciously retrieved his cherrywood. Chewing on its stem, he stared into space for a moment before returning his intense gaze to Frisbee. "Sometimes fate steps in," he stated. "All right, I'll take on the bullion case on behalf of Inter-Ocean Trust."

Chapter 5

The Armored Train

ONCE MY FRIEND had committed himself, Claymore Frisbee hastened proceedings by the simple method of saying yes to everything. He seemed plagued by the fear that the great sleuth might change his mind. I could have reassured him on that point, for when Holmes decided on a course of action, he stuck to it with the tenacity of the English bulldog. The banker agreed to arrange an appointment with Richard Ledger, the B & N head of security, and while Holmes was gazing out the bow window considering other necessary lines of investigation, Frisbee handed me an unmarked envelope that had to be a pre-prepared persuasion ploy.

I could guess what it contained. Holmes' habitual reserve was most apparent in his reluctance to consider or discuss money, an enduring neurosis of the English upper middle class. Frisbee, who knew his man, had written a generous check for expenses to nail down the detective's involvement in the bullion problem. Regardless of his motive, I mentally thanked the banker, for this case gave indications of a widespread search and Holmes was sure to involve what his brother, Mycroft, referred to as the "ragtag army" at his command. When deputizing the shadowland group he used, Holmes seemingly gave no thought to expenditures. However, his methods were not as Croesus like as might seem at first sight. The most precious commodity in the sleuth's opinion was time. "Who can place a price, Watson, on an hour?" he was wont to ask on occasion, and I must admit that my native frugality could find no response to this.

After the departure of Claymore Frisbee, Holmes was at the desk, a sheaf of foolscap at his elbow and a quill pen in his hand. I knew that Billy would be summoned shortly and dispatched to the cable office with communiqués, and throughout London, and in other places as well, the machinery of the great sleuth would grind into action.

Prior to dinner, he revealed some of the thoughts coursing through his superb mind. This delighted me, since it was not a customary procedure so early in the game. It crossed my mind that the bullion robbery being a major coup of the lawless, Holmes must have anticipated being drawn into it. Perhaps he was already more au courant with the matter than I had thought, and indeed, he might have made some plans as to his initial moves before the summons from the B & N Railroad or the entrance of the Inter-Ocean Trust upon the scene.

"Our first step, I fear, will be in a fruitless direction," he stated with a wry smile. "No matter, we must make it."

"Where is the gold?"

He threw me a surprised glance. "Quite right. The raison d'être of the robbery is no small matter, and one does not just toddle around town with that much precious metal in one's pocket. It has to be stored somewhere."

"Your thoughts being that the gold might guild the path to the culprits."

Again he registered faint surprise. "Right on, old chap. What other thoughts do you have in mind?"

It was my turn to be surprised. Usually Holmes revealed his ideas almost as though speaking to himself. My questions and comments were the rhythm background to his analytic violins, a leitmotif of the Holmes symphony. Now, with the baton thrust into my hand, I was at a momentary loss but determined to wave it in some direction if only to make my presence known.

"We are not wanting for a motive," I said. "Greed inspired by the rare substance that has driven men to desperate deeds throughout history."

"Or need," responded Holmes dreamily. "A beggar might purloin a shilling for fish and chips and a night's lodging, whereas one higher on the social ladder, beset by obligations he cannot meet, risks disgrace for a greater sum."

"The motive being the same despite the difference in the value of the stolen object," I echoed.

"Exactly. Please continue, Watson."

Drat it, I thought. The ball is back in my court.