The Lost Radio Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (24 page)

“Yes, Watson,
and from the size of the box, at a rough guess, I should estimate its cubic
content in gold to be around five thousand pounds. Not a vast sum, perhaps, to
a business man like Mr. Small, but a windfall to an impecunious Scottish
baronet.”

“Yes, I suppose
it is,” I returned.

“A strong young
man, Mr. Murdock,” Holmes continued.

“How do you mean
strong, Holmes?”

“A box that size
full of golden sovereigns would weigh a considerable amount, and yet the lawyer
carried it in single handed.”

“Gentlemen, and
lady,” Sir Walter said loudly to everyone assembled, “let us retire to the
dining room where I have a bonnie supper for us all to mark this great occasion.”

Amidst bright
conversation, we seated ourselves at the designated places at table and
prepared for the meal at hand. Sir Walter rose from his seat, a great smile on
his face, raising a glass of his famous and well deserved Creme of Dunbar
before him.

“Now that we’re
all assembled, I am going to propose a toast. Though it is still some hours off
yet, let us drink to the New Year. That means a lot to some of us. To 1900!”

Surrounded by
good cheer and good food we all touched our glasses together, one to another,
around the table. The last was Miss Small, who turned to Sir Walter and spoke.

“We should toast
more than just 1900, Sir Walter, we should drink to the new century that is
about to begin.”

“I’m afraid that
wouldn’t be quite appropriate, Miss Small,” I commented. “To be accurate, the
20th century won’t begin until January the first, 1901, and not 1900.”

“Of course,” Mr.
Small added, a wry smile on his face, “that’s it. Dorothy, I’m afraid your
wedding can’t take place for some time yet.”

“Father, what are
you talking about?”

“I read an
article in the
Guardian
the other day that said just the same thing as you, Doctor Watson.
And what’s more, it said something even more important. It said that 1900 is
not a Leap Year!”

“Rubbish!” Sir
Walter exclaimed. “Leap year comes every four years. There was one in eighteen
and ninety-six, and obviously 1900 is also a leap year.”

I think Mr.
Small may be right, now that I think of it. What do you say, Mr. Holmes, do you
know?” Ian asked.

“Well,” Holmes
answered rather bemused, “I had hoped no one would bring up this point. It’s
the little ‘problem’ I referred to on the train, my dear Watson.”

“Holmes, for
Heavens sake, answer!” Sir Walter said, his face draining of all its color. “Is
1900 a Leap Year or no?”

“I’m afraid it
is not, Sir Walter,” Holmes answered firmly, “because of a slight imbalance
that would otherwise be produced in the calendar. Of the even century years,
only those divisible by 400 are Leap Years. In other words, 1600 was a Leap
Year, the year 2000 will be a Leap Year, but 1800 and 1900 are not Leap Years.”

“Then you have
no birthday next year, Sir Walter, and I’m afraid I can’t open the box tonight,”
young Murdock added.

“And the Dunbars
won’t get their inheritance,” Dorothy Small said, quite visibly shaken by the
news.

“And you, my
dear,” said her father, “don’t marry for a few more years. I won’t allow you to
marry a pauper!”

“Mr. Holmes, are
you sure of your facts?” Ian asked.

“I’m very much
afraid that I am, young man.”

Sir Walter
slumped back in his chair at the head of the table, a complete look of
desolation written on his face.

“This is
terrible. I canna stand any more!”

“Now, now, don’t
take it too badly, Sir Walter,” I said, leaning forward with a drink in my
hand. “Here, drink this.”

With trembling
hands, Sir Walter drank from the glass, then once again fell back into his
chair.

“After all,” I
continued, “you only have to wait another four years.”

“Another four
years! At my age, young man, at my age! Oh no, I shall never live that long.”

A deathly pall
lay over us and we ate our meal fitfully when it should have instead been one
of great delight. Sir Walter hardly touched his food, his despondency so
overwhelming that it affected all about him. When it was over, everyone quietly
excused themselves, with Sir Walter the last to leave. His steps were heavy as
he ascended the staircase to his rooms, leaving Holmes and I alone at the
table. We rose and went back into the library where we sat quietly, facing each
other in comfortable chairs. Holmes pulled his pipe out, stuffed some tobacco
in the bowl and lit it while I sat, quite dejected over my friend Sir Walter’s
bitter plight. Nothing was said for quite some time until I turned to Holmes,
who was sitting with his fingertips together, a contemplative look on his face.

“What a
miserable meal, Holmes. Sir Walter has gone to his rooms, the young lovers are
nearly in tears and Small and the lawyer Murdock seem to be positively gloating.”

“Yes, a most
depressing atmosphere in which to welcome the new year. But let us, at least,
make the best of it. I think I’ll go and have a talk with Sir Walter and you,
my dear chap, might try to cheer up the young folks. Some of your experiences
in India may get their minds off their troubles.”

“A good idea.
Where are the young couple?”

“I saw them
enter the living room,” he said, rising from his chair and leaving the room. I
followed suit and, as I walked towards the living room, Holmes ascended the
stairs to Sir Walter’s rooms.

“I’ll meet you
back in the library. Call me if you want me, Holmes.”

I quietly
entered the great living room and there, seated before the great fireplace were
the young lovers. They were talking in low voices, their silhouettes dancing on
the back wall as the nearly spent fire flickered and cast a warm red glow on
everything. They looked up and saw me as I entered.

“There you are,
my dears,” I said, trying to be as cheerful as I could. “All alone in front of
the fire, aye?”

“I’m afraid we’re
not in very good spirits, sir,” came Ian’s reply.

“Nevertheless, I’ll
sit down here and join you, if you don’t mind. Misery loves company, you know.”

“You’re very
kind, doctor. I was just trying to persuade Ian to elope with me. but he’s
being most ungallant. He won’t even consider it.”

“How can I,
darling.” Ian pleaded. “I’ve got under two hundred pounds a year in my own
right. How could we live on that? I was counting on the money that grandfather
was going to give us to get me started.”

“Don’t fret, the
both of you. Miss Small, a little earlier you talked of Gretney Green, and
bread and cheese and love in a cottage. There’s a lot to be said for that, you
know.”

“A lot to be
said for it, yes, doctor,” Ian returned, “but have you ever tried it?”

I pulled a chair
up beside them, these two gentle and young creatures, still filled with wonder
and hope. And when I spoke, I meant every word I said.

“Not literally,
my boy, but I must tell you that when Mary, my wife, and I were first married,
I had very little money. In fact my income was just about the sum that you mentioned.
And, I am glad to say, we were very happy.”

“But you had a
profession, doctor,” Ian went on. “Look at me. I’ve been trained for nothing
except to be Lord of Dunbar Castle. I can’t support a wife on tradition.”

“But you’re
young, Ian,” Dorothy insisted. “You can get some kind of position, I’m sure.”

“Yes, of course,
of course you can. As a matter of fact I think that—”

The door to the
living room was suddenly flung open and there, standing in the center of the
room, his long shadow cast eerily across the room by the dying flames, stood
Holmes, tense and as high strung as a bow.

“Holmes, what is
it? What’s wrong?”

“There’s devil’s
work afoot, Watson. Come with me, old fellow. And you, Mr. Dunbar!”

“Mr. Holmes,
what’s happened?” asked a frightened Dorothy.

“It’s Sir
Walter. I went to his rooms. They were in darkness, but in the moonlight I saw
two figures struggling by the open casement. One of them was Sir Walter. As I
entered he disappeared from sight. His attacker had pushed him out of the
window, into the moat! The other man got away in the darkness. We must get
lanterns and go out to the moat at once, though I’m very much afraid, Mr.
Dunbar, that your grandfather is beyond our help!”

Holmes’ entrance
was so sudden and the news so shattering that each of us felt confused shock.
Following the lead of my friend Holmes, we grabbed lanterns and rushed outside,
but it was a hopeless task. The water was eight or ten feet deep, and it seemed
obvious that the elderly Sir Walter would not have the slightest chance of
saving himself, but we searched on, the flicker of the bobbing lanterns and
scurrying figures in the frosty moonlight forming a weird and fantastic
pattern. By now the entire household had been aroused and quickly joined us in
the search. The night was cold and a biting wind had risen up from the now mist
covered hills, making attempts at rescue all the harder for us. All credit must
go to Ian Dunbar for taking the lead in the search, directing the servants and
the others in their efforts. Holmes, too, was frantically looking, his lantern
casting its yellow light across the waters of the moat in an unearthly pattern.
Mr. Small and I were searching the edges of the moat in hopes that Sir Walter
may have swum to safety, clinging to the grass for his life. I must say that
Mr. Small, to my great irritation, seemed of little help.

“I don’t see why
your friend doesn’t call the police, Dr. Watson. He’s accomplishing nothing.”

“Because there
might be a chance of finding the old man alive, Mr. Small,” I said with
irritation. “He wants to avoid a scandal, if possible, for your sake, sir, as
well as the Dunbars.”

“A scandal can’t
touch me, or Dorothy over this. Her engagement was never announced, thank
Heavens.”

“It’s a great
pity, sir. I should think that some new blood in your family would be a great
improvement.”

“You’re being
confoundedly impertinent,” he said.

“And you are
being confoundedly heartless, sir!” I returned with anger, then moved away in
disgust. Holmes came towards me, out of breath and perspiring profusely.

“Well, Holmes,” I
said, “have you given up hope?”

“I’m afraid we’ll
never find him without dragnets and grappling hooks. We’ll have to call the
police. What time is it? Sir Ian, do you know the time?”

“What did you
call me, Mr. Holmes?” Ian said as he approached us.

“Sir Ian.”

“By Jove, yes,” I
said excitedly. “It does seem a bit premature, Holmes, but of course you are
right! If your poor grandfather is dead, Mr. Dunbar, then you are the baronet
now.”

“And the time,
Sir Ian?” Holmes again asked.

“It’s a quarter
to twelve, Mr. Holmes.”

“A quarter of an
hour to the new year, Sir Ian. Doesn’t that fact suggest something to you?”

“Yes, it does,
Mr. Holmes. So I’m the new baronet, am I? Very well, then, there will be no
more talk of the police for fifteen minutes.”

Sir Ian turned
to the rest of the household who were still searching for Sir Walter.

“I want all of
you to come back to the castle with me!” he shouted. “As the last chime of
midnight rings out, I shall have a statement to make, a statement that I want
you all to hear!”

Slowly we turned
away from the moat and returned to the castle, gathering in the living room. I
stood next to Holmes, quite perplexed, while he, in his confounded way, seemed
very pleased.

“What’s he
brought us all back here for, Holmes?” I asked. “There’s something very funny
going on. I tell you, I don’t like the look of it.”

“And I, Watson,
like the look of it very much.”

“I wish you
wouldn’t be so dashed mysterious. What are you up to? You haven’t taken a step
yet towards finding the murderer.”

“Haven’t I? Then
I wonder what causes the beads of perspiration on Mr. Small’s brow. And I
wonder what causes the singular look of apprehension on the face of Murdock,
the young lawyer. You remember, of course, on my remarking how easily he
carried the large iron box?”

“Great Scott,
yes. And it would have taken a strong man to throw Sir Walter out of the window.”

“Quiet, Watson.
Do you hear the clock chiming? The new year is approaching.”

I listened, and
counted the chimes until the last chime of midnight sounded. Sir Ian stood in
the center of the living room, tall and straight, no longer the gentle young
man I had grown to like, but the new lord of the castle, surrounded now by his
servants and all the guests.

“Ladies and
gentlemen,” he began, “in view of our recent tragedy, this is one New Year’s Eve
when none of us feels like song and jollity. But there still remains a ritual
duty for me to perform. Mr. Murdock, open the iron box, please.”