The Lost Radio Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (23 page)

“Is the watch
still running?” he asked.

“Yes. And that’s
another thing, Holmes. What will the police say when they find that you took
the dead man’s watch?”

“I have no idea.”

“Why did you
take it, anyway?” I asked.

“You sound
sleepy, old chap,” was Holmes’ reply.

“I’m
confoundedly sleepy.”

“Then why don’t
you go to bed?” he said.

“What are you
going to do?”

“Continue my
vigil, with my pipe and the watch of a dead man.”

I rose and
walked heavily to my room, turning only to say goodnight to Holmes, which he
acknowledged with a nod of his head. Somehow, without my remembering, I slipped
beneath the covers and fell into a deep sleep. It seemed like only minutes had
gone by when I heard a distant voice calling. I stirred as it grew louder
gradually realizing Holmes was seated on my bed beside me.

“Watson! Watson!
Wake up!”

“What time is
it, Holmes?” I said, yawning.

“Five o’clock in
the morning.”

“What are you
doing up at this hour?”

“The watch has
just stopped. I’m about to rewind it,” he said, expectation in his voice.

“What are you
rewinding it for, Holmes?” I asked. “Especially since you’ve waited over 24
hours for it to unwind.”

“When I know how
many turns it takes to wind it fully, I shall have the answer to this whole
business!”

He continued
winding the watch as I sat up in bed, brushed the sleep from my eyes, and
watched him intently.

“Ten, eleven . .
. .”

“You’re being
confoundedly mysterious, as usual, Holmes,” I said in puzzlement over Holmes’
reason for this whole watch thing.

“Fourteen!
Fourteen turns and the watch is fully wound. Get your clothes on, old chap.”

“For Heavens
sake, Holmes, where are we going at this hour?” I said, quite annoyed.

“To the house in
Camberwell. Now I know who murdered Gerald Lovelace!”

Mumbling to
myself because of Holmes’ irritating habit of plunging into matters at a
moments’ notice, I dressed and joined him downstairs where he was impatiently
waiting with a Hansom.

It took me
almost the entire trip to the Camberwell house for me to be sufficiently awake
to gather my wits about me. It was Edmund Lovelace who opened the door for us.

“Ah, I’m glad it
is you that let us in, Mr. Lovelace. Please take us up to your young cousin’s
room at once,” Holmes said.

“Gilly,” Edmund
Lovelace said, quite puzzled, “what do you want with him?”

“I’ll explain in
a moment. Please take us up to him.”

“Of course, but
what brings you here at this hour of the morning?”

“Mr. Holmes
knows who murdered your cousin,” I said.

“Well, I’m glad
to hear it. It’s more than the police seem to know. They were here half the
night cross-examining us.”

We climbed the
staircase and went the short distance to Gilly’s room. Holmes was about to take
the liberty of knocking, when Edmund spoke up.

“I don’t think
we need knock, Mr. Holmes.”

Edmund opened
the door and we entered. Edmund stood by Gilly’s bedside and gently shook the
boy.

“Gilly.”

“I’m awake,” came
Gilly’s immediate reply. “We heard you coming up the stairs, didn’t we
Gladstone?”

Gilly looked up
and saw Holmes and I standing behind Edmund. He clutched at Gladstone, pulling
back from us.

“It’s the same
men again. You’re not going to take Gladstone away, are you? Please don’t take
him away.”

Holmes seated
himself on the bed alongside Gilly and Gladstone, a gentle smile on his face.
He ran his hand along Gladstone’s body, petting him softly.

“Don’t worry,
Gilly, we’re not going to take him. Gilly, you really love that dog, don’t you?”
Holmes said.

“Of course I do.
More than anything or anybody.”

“I believe,” Holmes
went on, “you’d even kill a man who’d try to hurt Gladstone, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh yes, sir. I
would.”

“Gilly! No!”
exclaimed Edmund in total disbelief.

I too stood in
astonishment at this revelation and was about to speak, when Holmes gestured to
us to remain silent. He turned back to the boy.

“Gilly, I don’t
think you’d really kill a man. I don’t think you could,” Holmes said.

“Couldn’t I,
though.”

“Tell me then,
how would you kill him?”

“I’d hit him
first,” Gilly said as he sat up in bed. “I’d take a poker and hit him on the
head so he couldn’t fight back. And then I’d take the nasty needle he told me
he was going to stick in Gladstone, and I’d fill it full of that water he
showed me, and I’d stick it in him! That’s what I’d do. Then he’d be dead, and
. . . and he couldn’t hurt my Gladstone any more. Not ever!”

A deathly
silence filled the room as Edmund Lovelace and I stood sadly by. Holmes
scratched the sleeping dog behind its ears, then gently laid his hand on Gilly’s
arm.

“Goodbye, Gilly,”
Holmes said, “pleasant dreams.”

“Goodbye, sir,” Gilly
said smiling, then turned to his dog, pulling the creature’s head closer to him
so it would nestle in his arm.

We left quietly,
shutting the door behind us. Holmes turned to Edmund with one of the saddest
looks I had ever seen on his face.

“Are you
satisfied, sir?” Holmes sighed.

“Yes. Poor
Gilly. There’s no doubt about it, of course,” he said in great sorrow.

“How can there
be,” I added, “no one had described the murder to him, and yet he’s just given
an exact description of its method.”

“What will
happen to him? They won’t try him, will they?” Edmund said with great anxiety.

“No, no, no. A
little pressure in the right places and he’ll be released to a private nursing
home. I’ll do everything I can, Mr. Lovelace.”

“Thank you, Mr.
Holmes, thank you very much.”

“I’ll notify the
police,” Holmes went on, “and make sure everything is taken care of. Please
tell the others what has transpired here, while Watson and I take our leave. It
has been a long and tiring journey for all of us.”

We left that sad
and depressing house and hailed a cab to take us back to Baker Street. As the
Hansom made its way through the still rain drenched streets, I turned to
Holmes, who had lit his pipe and now sat back, the first signs of fatigue
filling his tall, thin body.

“Now that the
whole depressing case is finished with, Holmes, perhaps you’ll tell me how you
knew that Gilly committed the murder?”

“Consider the
time schedules, old fellow. You checked the alibis of the other cousins and
found them satisfactory. That meant that Alice Harley and Randolph Lovelace
could have committed the crime only at midnight. Edmund, only before ten.
Gilly, only around eleven. You said that the time of death could have been at
any of those hours.”

“Yes I did, but
how could you pin it down to eleven?”

“The watch gave me
the specific answer. When I picked it up I unthinkingly wound it, made one
turn, and it was then fully wound. Now when does a methodical, precise man like
Gerald Lovelace wind his watch?”

“Just as he’s
going to bed,” I replied.

“Exactly,
Watson. So it was obvious to me that he was killed precisely one watch stem
turn before I wound his watch.”

“Now I’m
beginning to see daylight, Holmes. That’s why you let the watch run down.”

“That’s what I
did, and it took twenty-eight hours, from one o’clock the night before last
until five this morning. Now how many turns did it take to rewind it?”

“Fourteen, wasn’t
it?”

“That’s right,” Holmes
continued, “therefore one turn of the watch stem equaled two hours, proving
that Gerald Lovelace had been murdered two hours before one o’clock. At eleven
P.M.”

“When Gilly was
the only one who could have done it!” I said. “You know, Holmes, I still find
it hard to believe that boy was capable of such a ghastly crime. He seemed so
gentle.”

“Oh, he is, he
is, my dear fellow. Except when his beloved dog’s life was at stake. Probably
out of some mistaken notion of kindness Gerald Lovelace warned the boy of his
intentions regarding the dog. Ah, it’s a sad business, Watson, a sad business.”

“I hate to think
of that boy spending the rest of his life in a mental home.”

“I have one
prayer for his future,” Holmes said. “The dog Gladstone can’t live very long. I
pray that Gilly does not long outlive him.”

Return to table of
contents

RECENTLY,
after a joyous Thanksgiving and Christmas spent quietly at home, a
small package came by post, addressed to me. When I opened it I found, much to
my pleasure, a most expensive pipe, a small pouch of my favorite tobacco, and a
beautifully stitched wallet of Moroccan leather. I opened the note that was
tucked inside the wallet and read this:

“To Dr. Watson,
for his help in enlisting his dear friend Sherlock Holmes to put to rest the
problems of the Dunbar clan. A Joyous Christmas. Signed, Sir Ian Dunbar.”

The receiving of
this gift brought back, vividly to my memory, an adventure that Holmes and I
had, and in which Sir Ian played a prominent part. The adventure I am about to
relate took place the day before New Year’s Eve in 1899.

Sherlock Holmes
and I sat in opposite corners of a first-class railway carriage as we sped
towards Edinburgh in the Flying Scotsman. This adventure actually started off
as a holiday visit after my old friend Sir Walter Dunbar had asked Holmes and I
to spend a few days with him on holiday at Dunbar Castle, some twenty miles
outside Edinburgh. After we left Kings Cross station Holmes, his sharp, eager
face framed in his deerstalking cap, dipped into the bundle of fresh papers he
had brought with him. We left Bedford far behind us before he thrust the last
ones back into their pouch and placed it on the seat beside his tall, gaunt
frame. He leaned across the aisle and offered me his cigar case.

“Care for a
cigar, Watson?”

“No, thanks old
fellow, but I’ll stick to my pipe. What papers were you working on, Holmes?” I
asked.

“Just some notes
for a monograph I intend to write on snake venom, its various antidotes and
uses in medical science.”

He glanced out
the window for a moment, quickly perused his pocket watch, then turned back to
me.

“The Flying
Scotsman is living up to its name,” he said. “We’re going splendidly. Our
present rate is fifty-three-and-a-half miles per hour.”

“Oh,” I
commented, “I hadn’t noticed the quarter mile posts.”

“Nor have I, but
the telegraph posts from this line are sixty yards apart. With the aid of a watch
the calculation is a simple one. Watson, my dear fellow, we have several hours
ahead of us. Tell me more about Sir Walter Dunbar. I have a feeling he is in
some kind of trouble, and that you haven’t wanted to talk about it.”

“Well, it’s not
exactly trouble, Holmes, but there is a strange problem that confronts the
Dunbars. A problem that will be settled at midnight tomorrow.”

“Indeed. The
night of New Year’s Eve?”

“Exactly. But to
really appreciate the story, Holmes,” I continued, “I have to begin by telling
you of the death of old Sir Thomas Dunbar, the father of Sir Walter Dunbar. Sir
Thomas was severely wounded at Waterloo though he managed to last long enough
to get back to Dunbar Castle. The story goes that, as he lay on his death bed,
he told his wife of their plans for their unborn son, gently holding his wife’s
hands in his as she continued to weep for him. He tried to comfort her as best
he could and managed to make her understand that he was not afraid of his soon
to come death. His deepest pain was that he would not have a chance to see the
child his wife would bear him. Sir Walter Scott, the great poet and novelist,
was Sir Thomas’ closest friend, yet he had not come to pay his last respects.
This too bothered the dying man. There was a knock on the door and in came
another friend of Sir Thomas. It was Sandy Murdock, the lawyer and executor of
Sir Thomas’ estate. Seating himself beside the dying man, he listened intently
as Sir Thomas told both he and his wife that the best part of his wealth was in
the form of gold in a large iron box placed under the bed. It was essential
that Sandy Murdock keep the iron box in trust for Sir Thomas. He was to turn
the box over to his as yet unborn son, on the New Year’s Eve before his
twenty-first birthday. Sandy Murdock protested, for the child could turn out to
be a girl. Sir Thomas would hear none of this, for he knew the child would be a
boy and insisted that the young lad be named Walter, after his good friend Sir
Walter Scott. No amount of insistence on the part of Sandy Murdock would change
Sir Thomas’ mind. It was to be a boy, Sir Thomas said, he was sure of it. With
these words, the dying man watched as Sandy Murdock wrote up the legal document
that would make his last wish binding. He then asked Sandy Murdock to pull out
the iron box that he might add something to the gold for a rainy day. It was
his way of making quite sure his son would not want for money. Shortly
afterward, Sir Thomas Dunbar died peacefully. As it happened, much to the
surprise of Sandy Murdock, it was a boy that was born to the Dunbar family.”

“A very
interesting story, Watson,” Holmes said as he lit a cigar, “and that child is,
of course, the gentleman we are going to see now, Sir Walter Dunbar.”

“Exactly.”

“And the first
baronet, Sir Thomas Dunbar, was a friend of Sir Walter Scott, while his son can
boast of your acquaintance. Why it’s a family singularly rich in literary
friendships,” Holmes said with a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

“That’s not very
funny, Holmes,” I said, “but let me continue, for in Sir Walter Dunbar lies the
irony of this whole matter. Remember I said that the iron box was to be turned
over to Sir Walter on the New Year’s Eve before his twenty-first birthday. And
the poor child was born on February the 29th. It was a leap year.”

Holmes laughed
and I chuckled with him.

“So poor Sir
Walter is still waiting for his iron box full of gold,” Holmes said with glee.

“He’ll be eighty
four next year and yet, with only one birthday every four years in the eyes of
the law, he will at last be twenty one!”

“A most amusing
situation,” Holmes added, “though I’m afraid Sir Walter finds it far from
entertaining. The lawyers must have been extremely scrupulous in abiding by the
letter of the document.”

“Old Sandy
Murdock is dead now, of course, but he too has a great grandson, William
Murdock, who still handles the Dunbar estate. He’ll be at the castle tonight to
formally hand over the iron box.”

“Under these
circumstances, Watson, I am delighted you accepted the holiday invitation of
Sir Walter. I’ve needed a rest, but I’ve always loathed too strict a one. This
situation may pose a nice little problem for me.”

“Problem?” I
asked, quite puzzled.

“Yes, I’m
reasonably certain that the aged Sir Walter Dunbar will not get his iron box
full of gold on this New Year’s Eve, either. But we shall see, old fellow, we
shall see.”

I settled back
in my seat, staring at the wry smile on Holmes’ face. Once again, in his
mysterious way, he made comment on this situation that left me completely in
the dark. It was times such as these that I wanted to shake my head in disgust
for not knowing what was going on in the mind of my good friend. But I merely
sat there, knowing full well that, if I waited long enough, I would understand
fully Holmes’ oft said cryptic words.

After the long
journey, we hired a horse and carriage and rode quietly through the
countryside, taking in its beauty until we arrived at Dunbar Castle, to be
greeted by Ian Dunbar who, with a broad grin on his face, shook my hand most
fiercely.

“Dr. Watson, it’s
a pleasure to see you and Mr. Holmes here at the castle.”

“Thank you, my
boy. Holmes, this is Ian Dunbar, Sir Walter’s grandson.”

“I’m very proud
to meet you Mister Holmes. I’ve heard a lot about you from Dr. Watson and I’ve
also had the pleasure of reading about some of your cases in stories the doctor
has written. Our grandfather will be down to meet you in a few moments. I’ll
have my man servant take your things to your room. In the meantime, let’s go
into the library.”

We followed Ian
into the castle, its majestic arched rooms looming over us in ancient splendor,
its walls of stone and wood holding history that, if they could talk, would
reveal much of the calm as well as troubled times of Scotland. In the library
Ian poured us some drinks and we made ourselves comfortable awaiting the
arrival of Sir Walter.

“I imagine Sir
Walter is quite excited about tonight’s ceremony, isn’t he?” I said.

“Wouldn’t you be
if you waited sixty-three years too long for an inheritance.” Ian returned. “Thank
the Lord I had the foresight to be born on the prosaic date of August the
twenty-first.”

“In the event of
your grandfather’s death, you would be the next baronet, I take it,” Holmes
asked.

“Yes, Mr.
Holmes. You see, my father was killed two months ago in an accident.”

“Yes, I read
about it in the papers, my boy,” I said, “I’m very sorry.”

“Thank you,
doctor,” Ian returned, a look of sadness in his young eyes, which vanished as
he continued to speak. “The opening of the box isn’t going to be the only ceremony
at midnight. Dorothy and I are announcing our engagement.”

“Dorothy?” I
asked, not familiar with the lady mentioned.

“You don’t know
her, doctor. Dorothy Small. She and her father are staying here, too.”

“My
congratulations,” Holmes proffered, “and that of the good doctor also, I’m sure.”

“Thank you both.
It’s been quite a battle with her father, though. He’s a business man and isn’t
impressed with titles when they aren’t accompanied by a suitable income. But,
when we told him about the inheritance, he relented and gave his consent.”

The door to the
library opened and I expected to see Sir Walter enter, but it was a young and
beautiful woman that greeted us. Holmes and I stood as she entered.

“Dorothy,
darling,” Ian said, “I want you to meet two friends of mine, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes and Dr. Watson.”

“How do you do,
gentlemen.”

“Well, from what
this young man’s been telling us, I gather that congratulations are in order,” I
said.

“Thank you,
doctor. I finally persuaded father that Ian would make a worthy son-in-law. For
a while I was afraid we would have to elope to Gretney Green and live in a
cottage on bread and cheese and love and brave the parental wrath, just as they
do in the story books.”

What a bright
and amusing young girl she was as Holmes and I chuckled at her vibrant
attitude. We were all about to seat ourselves and have a warm chat when the
door opened again and in came Sir Walter, his great white beard and heavy
sideburns surrounding his face like a giant bush, seeming to set his mellow face
off in sharp relief. A man most fit for his years, proud of his life, his
castle and his lands. Beside him stood another man of lesser build, whom I did
not recognize, with the stern look of a business man, impeccably over-dressed
for such a casual atmosphere as existed in my friend’s castle.

“Watson, me dear
boy, ’tis good to see you again,” Sir Walter said, a bright smile crossing his
face. “And this must be your friend, Sherlock Holmes.”

“How do you do,
Sir Walter,” Holmes said.

“Very well, for
a young nipper who’ll be twenty-one at midnight. Oh, gentlemen, I almost
forgot. May I introduce Mr. Herbert Small.”

“I believe we
should congratulate you on the engagement of your daughter,” I said after the
usual introductions.

“That was
supposed to remain a secret until midnight,” Mr. Small said with irritation, “when
the Dunbar box was finally opened.”

“Ah, donna be
grouchy, Herbert,” Sir Walter chided, “the children are in love, and I’m going
to settle money on Ian. It’s New Year’s Eve, so let’s enter into the spirit of
the occasion. Bring out the glasses, Ian. I’ve had some bottles of my special
pride put out and it’s the finest port in Scotland. The Creme of Dunbar. Aye,
my father laid the first bottle down the year before I was born. And the drink
of the brew will surely warm the cockles of your heart.”

Even though Sir
Walter tried to make it a festive evening, in view of the coming ceremony, I
could see that Herbert Small was still nervous and irritated and seemed
somewhat relentless about the events at hand, though he tried to keep patient.

“When is this
lawyer fellow, young Murdock, getting here?” he said.

“Any moment,
Herbert,” Sir Walter answered, “as soon as he arrives we’ll have dinner and
then we’ll be ready for the evening’s ceremonies.”

“He’s bringing
the famous iron box with him, Sir Walter?” Holmes asked with great curiosity.

“If he doesn’t
he won’t get any dinner, Holmes! Ian, pass the glasses around, me boy.”

As we received
our drinks and chatted, the door opened for a third time and a young man entered,
carrying with him the famous iron box. Sir Walter introduced young Murdock to
us then helped Ian pour him a drink. I turned to Holmes, warmed by the coming
events my friend Sir Walter had waited for, low these many years.

“I must say that
this is rather exciting, Holmes. The famous iron box with its inheritance of
gold to finally be opened.”