The Lost Radio Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (18 page)

“Are you
carrying a revolver, Dr. Watson?” Le Villard asked me.

“No, only a
stethoscope. I’m afraid I was prepared for sickness when I left the house
today, not for crime.”

“I too am
unarmed. How about you, Monsieur Holmes?”

“Only a
magnifying glass, I’m afraid. Hardly a lethal weapon.”

The door opened,
revealing a well dressed woman with dark hair, pulled well back on her head.
She seemed somewhat cold of attitude when she spoke.

“Yes, gentlemen?”

“My friends and
I are calling on Mr. Quilter,” Holmes said.

“Oh, who are
you?”

“My name is
Sherlock Holmes, and these are my friends, Dr. Watson and Monsieur Le Villard.”

“Is Mr. Quilter
expecting you?” she said coldly.

“I don’t know,” Holmes
continued, “we read his advertisement in the Agony column of the Times today,
and came down here at once. Are you a relation of his?”

“I’m his niece,”
she returned. “My name is Doris Favisham. Come in, won’t you?”

We entered the
house, which, to my surprise, looked far larger on the inside than I had
expected. It was very richly decorated with exquisite furniture. As I glanced
about I noticed a beautiful stairway that led to the upstairs floor.

“Miss
Favisham, I suppose it is?”

“Yes, doctor, it’s
Miss Favisham.”

“We heard three
revolver shots as we were walking up the driveway. They gave us quite a start.”

“Yes,
Mademoiselle,” Le Villard added, “we were afraid that we might have arrived at
a
time of tragedy.”

“Tragedy?” she
said in surprise, then laughed. “My hobby is revolver shooting. I was doing
some target practice in the back garden as you arrived.”

“Revolver
shooting, Miss Favisham? That’s very interesting. I flatter myself that I’m
something of a marksman, myself,” Holmes said.

“Really?” Miss
Favisham returned, seeming to warm to us a little. “Perhaps we can have
a
match. Won’t you sit down?”

“Your challenge
intrigues me, Miss Favisham, but before I accept it, I’d like to see Mr.
Quilter.”

“Uncle George is
paralyzed, you know. Spends all his time in a wheelchair. I’m not at all sure he’ll
see you.”

“Well, at least
you could ask him, can’t you, Miss Favisham?” I said.

“It is his
custom at this time of day to take a little nap. Perhaps tomorrow,” she
answered.

“Doris, Doris,” came
an elderly voice from upstairs, “who’s in there?”

“It seems he is
still awake,” she said, then turned towards the stairway. “Some men have come
to see you, Uncle.”

“Well, bring
them in, bring them in!” Mr. Quilter yelled down at us.

“Follow me,
please, gentlemen.”

Miss Favisham
led the way as we went upstairs into a richly wood paneled room. There, seated
in a wheelchair, a blanket lain neatly across his legs, was Mr. Quilter, gray
of hair, and quite stooped in body; but his eyes were bright and revealed a
great inquisitiveness for so old a man.

“Uncle, this is
Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson and Monsieur Le Villard.”

“Sherlock
Holmes, eh?” he said, brushing aside the introduction. “Took you long enough to
decipher my message and get here, didn’t it? Your brother’s a much faster
worker, isn’t he?’

“What makes you say
that, Mr. Quilter?” Holmes said, quite chagrined by this news.

“I received this
telegram from him at 11 o’clock this morning. Read it for yourself.”

“What does it
say, Holmes?” I asked.

“Most amusing.
Listen to this: ‘Suggest you consult my brother Sherlock.’ And it’s signed
Mycroft Holmes. Yes, Mr. Quilter, my brother is a much faster worker. Or, shall
we say that he suffers from the unfortunate habit of early rising. He
undoubtedly read the Agony column three hours before I did.”

“Don’t know
about that, but I’ve been expecting you all day. I imagine you know why I
inserted that advertisement?”

“I had the
impression that you were under some form of restraint, that you were in need of
a rescue party, as it were.”

“Rubbish!” Mr.
Quilter declared, “my advertisement was a piece of subtle bait. The only person
that could decipher the message would obviously be someone who knew the
Baconian cipher.”

“A very logical
deduction, Mr. Quilter,” Holmes said.

“Yes. I’m
convinced, as any sensible man should be, that the so-called Shakespearean
plays are written by Sir Francis Bacon. But I felt that it needed a clever man
to prove the facts. I was sure that anyone who was able to decipher my message
was the man I needed. What will you take to do the job? I’m a rich man; name
your fee.”

“You mean to say
that you’ve inveigled Mr. Holmes down here just to do some research on the
origin of Shakespeare’s work?” I said, both annoyed and disappointed by Mr.
Quilter’s attitude.

“You needn’t
look so shocked, Dr. Watson,” Miss Favisham added, “My uncle has offered to pay
him a handsome fee.”

“Well, what do
you say, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” Quilter said, pressing the point.

“It would be an
interesting subject for research. I will concede that Ignatius Donnelly and
others have proved, almost beyond doubt, that William Shakespeare of Stratford
on Avon did not write the plays, but I doubt greatly that Lord Bacon did. I may
devote my leisure in later yean to some investigation on the subject, but, in
the meanwhile Mr. Quilter, I’m afraid I am much too busy to take on such an
assignment.”

“Well, please
yourself,” Mr. Quilter said with disappointment. “Show the gentlemen out, Doris.”

We bid our leave
and followed Miss Favisham to the door.

“Too bad you had
this long drive down here for nothing, gentlemen,” she said.

“Yes, I’m afraid
I quite agree,” I spoke in disappointment.

“It would seem
to me,” Le Villard added, “that your uncle has a distinct talent for practical
joking, mademoiselle.”

“Uncle? Uncle
never made a joke in his life. Mr. Holmes. Now that you’re here, perhaps you’d
like to indulge in a little shooting match?”

“Thank you, Miss
Favisham, but as I told your uncle, I’m a busy man. Good evening to you.”

“Goodbye,
gentlemen,” she returned, closing the door behind us. Holmes walked up the
driveway, with Le Villard and I on either side. He seemed in deep thought as I
spoke.

“Well, Holmes,
old fellow, you’re losing your touch. You’d never have made a blunder like this
if I’d still been living with you.”

“It is
comforting for an aspiring detective like myself,” Le Villard added, “to know
that the great Sherlock Holmes is fallible.”

Le Villard and I
laughed in good humor at Holmes. Holmes stopped and turned to us.

“And am I to
assume that I must continue the case alone?” he said in all seriousness,
bringing us up short in our laughter.

“What do you
mean continue the case? There isn’t one. Quilter is in no danger,” I said.

“He is in
desperate danger,” Holmes said, “I’m only afraid I may be too late to save him.”

“But we have
just spoken to the man,” Le Villard insisted.

“Oh no,” Holmes
continued, “did neither of you notice the traces of fresh dirt on the boots of
that supposedly paralyzed man? Gentlemen, I fear the Agony column has led us to
murder!”

“Murder?” I
said, quite stunned by my friend’s most accusing words.

“There was fresh
earth on the soles of his boots?” Le Villard questioned.

“Distinct
traces, proving that the man in the wheelchair was not paralyzed.”

“That man,
whoever he is, is impersonating Quilter to put us off the track,” I surmised.

“Then the real
Quilter may have been killed.”

“I’m afraid so,
Le Villard. Let’s stop here, shall we, now that we’re far enough away from the
house, and make our plans. This hedge will hide us from the house in case they’re
watching from the windows. Now, this isn’t a hard picture to reconstruct,” Holmes
went on. “There undoubtedly is, or was, a paralyzed Baconian scholar named
Quilter. He managed to smuggle out that ingenious plea for help, but Mycroft’s
unfortunate telegram gave the game away.”

“Ah, I see it
now,” Le Villard said, “the people in there holding him prisoner forced him to
reveal what he had done.”

“And what they
may have done to him, Heaven alone knows,” I interjected.

“Let us continue
our assumptions, gentlemen. One of the criminals, guessing from the telegram
that I might appear on the case, posed as the crippled Quilter.”

“What’s our next
move, Holmes?”

“Remember that
singularly unattractive young lady skilled with a revolver, Watson? We must
search the grounds as unobtrusively as we can.”

“Search the
grounds? For what?”

“I can answer
that question, Monsieur doctor. To search for signs of the freshly turned earth
of a grave.”

Holmes quietly
moved along the hedge, beckoning us to remain silent. A short distance past the
house, we found an opening in the hedge that led to the grounds behind. Holmes
pointed to the rear of the house.

“There,
gentlemen. Notice how the rear windows have been curtained off completely. It’s
obvious our Miss Favisham and her accomplices do not wish anyone to see inside.
Therein lies our chance to search the grounds. While no one can see in, those
inside cannot see out. Come on.”

The three of us
forced our way through the hedge and methodically scoured the grounds for signs
of freshly turned earth. It took but minutes for us to complete our task.

“Well,” I said, “we
didn’t find any traces of the poor devil’s corpse, thank Heavens.”

“No. A great
disappointment.”

“You seem to be
very blood thirsty, Le Villard,” Holmes said with a cynical note in his voice. “Hello,
look at the old fellow coming out of the servants’ quarters. He’s trimming the
hedge over there.”

“Must be the
gardener,” I said.

“Well,
gentlemen, let’s have a chat with him. He may be able to give us some
information,” Holmes proffered. We quietly walked to where the old man was
working, while I occasionally glanced at the curtained windows to make sure
that we were not seen.

“Good evening to
you,” Holmes said.

“Good evening to
you, gentlemen,” returned the gardener.

“Do you work for
Mr. Quilter?”

“That I do, sir,”
he answered Holmes.

“And fine work,
too. I’ve seldom seen a better kept garden.”

“Thank ye, sir,”
said the man with a great smile, “I do pride myself at my work.”

“I wonder if you
can help me?” Holmes questioned.

“Be glad to,
sir, if I can.”

“Did you see a
telegraph boy deliver a message here this morning?”

“That I did,
sir. The boy came here about ten o’clock this mornin’. I was clippin’ the front
hedge at the time.”

“And you’ve been
working here on and off all day?” Holmes continued with his questions.

“Yes sir.
Brought my lunch with me today, and ate it in the garden.”

“Has anyone
entered or left the house since that telegram was delivered?”

“No, sir. No one
except yourselves. I saw you enter earlier, that I did.”

“I suppose you
run errands for Mr. Quilter?”

“Not much these
days, sir. The poor old gentlemen keeps his chair in the house pretty much all
the time, sir, he does. I did run a message for him yesterday, though.”

“Oh you did, did
you? Where to?” Holmes asked pointedly.

“Well, sir, I
was prunin’ the rose bushes under his study window, when the window opens and
his hand comes out with a message. He told me to take it to the advert office
of the Times, and to tell ’em to print it just the way it was, he did. He
looked kind of worried when he gave me the message, and he whispered to me,
just as if he was afraid in his own house.”

“I’m greatly
obliged to you, sir,” Holmes said with glee. “Here’s five shillings for your
trouble.”

“Oh, thank you
sir, I’m much obliged to you, sir,” he returned with surprise.

“Good evening.
Come on, Watson. Le Villard.”

“So that’s how
the message was smuggled out,” I said, as we retreated back to our original
hiding place.

“And no one has
come to the house or left: it since that telegram was delivered,” Le Villard stated.

“Therefore
Quilter, or his body, must still be inside that house.”

“We are going to
search the house, Monsieur Holmes?”

“Yes, we are.”