The Lost Radio Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (10 page)

“If you know
what’s good for you, you’ll do what I say!”

And with that,
he turned his horse around and rode off, whipping at the poor beast with his
riding crop.

“Impertinent
jackal,” I said, quite inflamed, “he spoke to you as if you were a stable boy,
Holmes!”

“Really?” Holmes
laughed, “he was quite refreshing. I’m reminded of an apt quotation of my young
friend James Elroy Flecker: ‘Thine impudence have a monstrous beauty, likened
to the hind quarters of an elephant’!”

“He’s almost as
much disliked as his brother before him.”

“Tell me,
Professor, does he succeed to the title when his brother is declared legally
dead?” asked Holmes.

“Yes. And what’s
more, he’s Helena’s unofficial fiancée, the worst luck!”

“I see.
Personally I’m beginning to get a trifle bored with the affairs of the
Clavering family. Let’s go on to the lime caves, shall we?”

Whitnell led the
way and soon we came upon a great cavernous opening that led down. Here and
there about the cave entrance were picks, shovels and wheelbarrels, indications
of Professor Whitnell’s work. The sun was at the proper angle and its light
penetrated the cave opening, giving us a chance to see its gigantic size and a
portion of its depth. We continued walking, ever downward, watching ourselves
carefully, lest we stumble on the broken limestone on the floor of the cave.

“These caves are
amazing,” I spoke, “we must be fifty feet below the level of the ground now,
aren’t we, Whitnell?”

“More than that,
I should say.”

“The rock
formation is most unusual. I see now it is a series of caves connected by a
veritable honeycomb of tunneling.”

“Quite right,
Holmes. I think I’ll light my lantern now. It’s getting darker, and I haven’t
explored this particular cave before. I’ve had a wall cave in on me a couple of
times, so you had best watch where you are walking. Let’s go deeper, shall we,
but do watch your step.”

Professor
Whitnell led the way, but Holmes, in his always deep rooted curiosity had
strayed away towards one wall, carefully glancing over the rock formations.

“Hello,” he finally
said, “what’s this in the crevice here? Looks like a mummified bird of some
kind.”

The Professor
raised the lantern higher to better observe Holmes’ discovery.

“It is,” said
the Professor in excitement, “A beautiful specimen!”

“Judging by its
markings, a black streak here, and bars of white in the tail, I’d say it was a
peregrine.”

“That’s exactly
what it is, Holmes, a falcon. Dating back a couple of hundred years, I should
say. And in a perfect state of preservation. This is a treasure.”

While Holmes and
Professor Whitnell were examining the bird, I had wandered further on to what
appeared to be a large pile of broken stone wedged against one wall.

“Seems to be
another cave over here,” I said, “I’ll try to remove some of this—”

Suddenly the
stone crumbled away, coming down full force to the floor of the cave.

“Good Lord, the
whole wall has collapsed!”

“Watson, you’re
not hurt, are you?”

“No, no, Holmes,
I’m all right.”

“Why, you’ve
unearthed another cave, Dr. Watson,” the Professor remarked, “Let’s go in. I
think we can just manage to crawl through.”

Holding his
lantern aloft, Whitnell crawled through the opening, followed by Holmes and
myself. Our clothes were now caked with limestone dust.

“Great Scott,” I
commented, “I don’t believe my eyes!”

“Magnificent!”
Holmes exclaimed, “Whitnell, this is a treasure, indeed. Look here. A perfectly
preserved body dressed in 18th century costume, powdered wig and all!”

“Yes, and there’s
no mistaking who it is. Look at that typical beak profile. It’s a Clavering! And
it isn’t hard to identify which one.”

“You mean the
one that Lady Clavering told us about this afternoon?” I asked.

“Exactly,” returned
the Professor, “without doubt, this is the body of Sir Nigel Clavering, who
disappeared in 1777! Let’s search his pockets, but be careful, as this material
is quite old and can tear and crumble most easily. We might find some
identification. Ah, here’s a snuff box of the period. And some coins.”

“Yes,” I said, “and
the inscription of George the Third is still visible on them. Hello, here’s his
diary. This is unbelievable. I say, what are you up to, Holmes?”

“I’m examining
the body, Watson. This man was murdered! Look at this wound just above the
heart, obviously inflicted with a sharp instrument, probably a dagger. This is
interesting! An entirely new experience for me. The opportunity of solving an
unsuspected murder committed well over a hundred years ago. Pass me that diary,
Watson old chap, and let’s see if the poor devil was aware of his fate.”

“Rather hard to
read,” I said, observing the diary with Holmes, “all the S’s look like F’s.”

“A peculiarity
of the 18th century writing, Watson.”

“ ‘They are
faying,’ ” I read aloud, “I suppose that means ‘saying’ . . . ‘They are faying
in the coffee houfef that my brother Harry haf been coveting my wife.’ ”

“This is
amazing, Holmes,” said the Professor in wonderment, “see how history repeats
itself. It’s an exact parallel of the situation existing today. Harry is
coveting his brother’s wife, Helena, and Sir George has not been seen for five
years!”

“What an
extraordinary coincidence.”

“If it were one,
Watson,” said Holmes. “As it is, it’s one of the most ingenious frauds I’ve
ever seen. The clothing appears authentic, so do the coins and the faded ink,
also the paper of the diary. And due to the peculiar mummification of the body,
it would be almost impossible to say how long it has been here. Nevertheless, I
am convinced that this is a recent corpse, and undoubtedly, that of Sir George
Clavering!”

“What makes you
so sure, Holmes?” I said, quite puzzled.

“The writing in
the diary. The 18th century used an S that looked like an F, it is true, but
never at the end of a word. You will recall, Watson, that you were reading
h-a-F, haf, for h-a-S, has.”

“That’s
perfectly true, I was.”

“That would be
incorrect in genuine 18th century writing. No, obviously this is an extremely
clever attempt to disguise the comparatively recent murder of Sir George
Clavering.”

“But this is
terrible, Holmes,” said the Professor, “and yet I believe you are right!”

“I’m sure of it!”

“What are you
going to do about it?” I said.

“Do? You and I
will mount guard over the body, Watson. You, my dear Whitnell, if you don’t
mind, will be good enough to go and fetch the police.”

And so it was
that Holmes’ old friend Evan Whitnell went for the police, leaving us in the
limestone cave. It was cold and dreary and, without the lantern to give us
light, totally dark. No matter how hard I tried, I could not see Holmes through
the pitch black of the cave. Only our voices told us where we were as we sat
upon the limestone floor.

“Holmes,” I
finally said in fatigue, “what do you suppose is keeping the police? Whitnell
must have gone over an hour ago, and the lantern with him. Here we are sitting
in this dreadful darkness in a smelly cave fifty feet under the cliffs, with a
mummified corpse.”

“Quite true,
Watson, but I don’t . . . ah ha, here comes the lantern.”

I stood up,
turning to the bright light that approached us.

“Whitnell, over
here!” I yelled.

“That you,
Whitnell?” said Holmes.

We could hear
footsteps on the cracked and broken limestone as the lantern hung in the air as
if by magic, getting closer and closer to us.

“That lantern’s
blinding me, Holmes. Is that you, Whitnell? Answer, can’t you?”

I could barely
make out a form behind the blinding light of the lantern. I turned to Holmes
who quickly stood up, a look of trepidation on his face.

“Look out,
Watson!”

Suddenly I was
hit across my shoulder and head. I fell dizzily to the ground as Holmes leapt
forward to struggle with the mysterious figure behind the lantern. In a brief
second Holmes collapsed lifeless to the ground, and just before I fell into
unconsciousness I could hear the peeling of demonic laughter coming from the
figure that stood over us, the sound echoing and echoing through the giant
caverns!

II

“Watson, old
fellow, wake up. Come on, that’s it!” I heard Holmes’ distant voice become
clearer as I regained my senses. I felt, rather than saw my old friend
crouching over me.

“What the devil
happened, Holmes?” I said as I unsteadily got to my feet.

“Whoever that
was with the lantern knocked you down with a spade. I fought with him, but my
feet slipped on the crumbling limestone and our adversary got the better of me.
I’m afraid he was able to knock both of us unconscious.”

“Good gracious,
my head feels like I’d been hit with a sledgehammer,” I said, feeling the
damage.

“Anything
serious, Watson?”

“No. Just a bad
cut on the back of my neck; the blood has already coagulated. I think I’ll be
all right.”

“Well, our
assailant had the advantage. With that blinding lantern it was impossible for
either of us to see what was going on until it was too late. I only came round
minutes before you, Watson.”

“Where the devil
are we?” I said, again trying to see in the darkness.

“I took the
liberty of checking that out. It seems we are in the bottom of a deep, and
narrow pit. Our assailant must have dragged us here when we were unconscious.”

“Can we get out,
Holmes?”

“Possibly,” he
said, “get your coat off, and your shirt. I’ve already done with mine, and tied
them together. Come on, Watson, off with them!”

“Whatever for?”
I said feebly, still dazed by the blow I’d received.

“Dear me, that
blow on your head must have been severe. I’m trying to make a kind of rope,
Watson, a rope to get us out of here!”

“What’s the good
of a rope unless there’s someone on the ledge above us to pull us out?”

Without
answering me, Holmes began whistling as loudly as he could.

“What are you
whistling for, at a time like this?”

“I’m whistling
for help!” he said impatiently.

“Then why not
shout?”

“A whistle
carries farther.”

I sat down to
gather my strength and continued to rub my head in an attempt to increase
circulation and dull the pain I was feeling. Holmes must have continued his
whistling for some ten or twenty minutes before it finally grated on my nerves.

“Who could
possibly hear that, Holmes?”

“Daft Timmy, I
hope. Remember he was having a bonfire on the cliff tops tonight. My whistle is
that of a nightingale, a song unheard in Sussex at this time of the year. If he
does hear it, I’m sure it will bring him down here.”

“I hope you’re
right. Seems to me that Whitnell and the police will never find us here. We
shall mummify just as the filthy murderer intended us to!”

“Courage,
Watson, I—”

Holmes and I
heard whistling from a short distance above us. It grew louder until a figure
stood at the edge of the pit.

“It’s worked,
Watson! It’s Timmy, carrying a burning log!”

“Nightingale,” said
Timmy peering down into the pit, “pretty birdie, what are you doing down there?”

“Timmy!” yelled
Holmes, “I’ve tied these clothes together to make a rope. I’m going to throw
them up. You ready? Catch!”

Holmes bundled
the clothes together and threw them with all his might. Timmy caught the
clothes and stood looking down, puzzlement on his face.

“Now, Timmy,
lower it to us!”

“Oh, I shouldn’t
do this. They’ll whip me.”

“No, no one will
whip you, Timmy. And we both want to give you a shilling to come up and see
your bonfire.”

“That’s
different,” Timmy said in excitement, “two shiny shillings. I’ll lower the rope.”

In a moment I
was at the top of the pit, lowering the rope to Holmes, who then climbed out to
join us. Exhausted, we rested for a moment. Timmy, poor boy, had to be told
there was no nightingale. His disappointment soon vanished when we gave him two
shillings to take us to his bonfire. Cold and weak, we stood before the fire,
our hands outstretched, gathering in the warmth of the flames.

“Did you ever
see a finer bonfire?” said young Timmy, the flames dancing in front of his
happy face.

“Never, Timmy.
It’s lovely.”

“It’s the most
comfortable sight I’ve seen for the last couple of hours,” I said, as the damp
and cold slowly ebbed from our bodies.