Frank Thomas - Sherlock Holmes and the Treasure Train

He paused for a moment with a wry expression. "The news of the robbery reached us before we left, so the trip to Yarmouth had no meaning. My employer rather left this matter in my hands and I've let him down for fair. If there's anything I can do to help in your insurance investigation, please call on me."

Noting Holmes' sudden and sharp glance, he elaborated quickly. "I know where the request for me to meet you here came from, sir. It's not hard to judge what rekindled your interest in this matter."

Holmes seemed kindly disposed toward Ledger's frankness. At least he did until we had regained a hansom and were clattered back toward Baker Street. "What did you think of him?" he queried.

"Seemed forthright enough. After seeing the special freight, can't say I'd fault his plan for guarding it either."

There was a twinkle in Holmes' eyes. "The former lieutenant in the Grenadiers was not guilty of falsehood," he said.

"What then? Something is amiss or you would not be discussing him."

"You know me too well, old friend. We had visitors after you were abed last night. I learned that there is another facet to Ledger's career that he did not choose to mention—his feats of marksmanship."

"We'd already heard of that from two sources."

"But not of Alvidon Chasseur's involvement with the Wellington Gun Club."

I was regarding Holmes blankly, and bless him for not letting the matter drop, an annoying habit he had on occasion. "Industrial tycoons are not rushing down to Sussex or similar country areas for long weekends as in times gone by. Pressure of business, you know. With foxhunting and grouse-shooting on the wane, they have found release for competitive spirits and an interest in ordinance by forming gun clubs, where target shooting occupies the members. The clubs all have rifle teams and they compete in a league, which may explain the number of former members of Her Majesty's forces being employed by big business."

"Ahhh," I said. "Now I understand your remark about the man's vision."

"Ledger's reputation assures us that he has the eyes of an eagle."

"And a position was created for the shootist so that he could represent the Wellington Gun Club," I continued, feeling on firm ground.

"He's qualified in his job, I'm sure," replied Holmes, "but his offer of employment was certainly based in part on his marksman abilities. The Wellington Club has the champion rifle team of greater London and will defend their title in the near future against the Bagatelle Club, sponsored by Lord Balmoral. It might be fitting if we attended that match, Watson."

I did not have much time to consider this matter since we had returned to our chambers and Holmes was occupied reading cablegrams and several letters delivered to our door. He then wrote out answers and casually informed me that he would be off to Essex by the afternoon train and would appreciate my company if I felt so disposed. As he summoned Billy to deliver his queries and instructions to the cable office, I thought again how the sleuth had shunned the installation of a telephone in our quarters. In matters of criminal investigation, Holmes was ultramodern and I'm sure his many innovations must have influenced Sir Bernard Spilsbury, the forensic medicine genius, in later years. Why Holmes did not choose to use Mr. Bell's greatest invention I could not guess, though its absence never seemed to hamper one of his investigations.

The village of Brent being in Essex, the sleuth was going to visit the scene of the crime, and nothing would keep me away from that. It was apparent that whilst I had been the slug-a-bed the previous night, my friend had used the time to good advantage. From long experience, I knew I would just have to wait to find out what else he had learned.

Chapter 6

End of Track with Dandy Jack

WE REACHED Brent on a local and, to my surprise, found a four-wheeler plus driver awaiting our arrival. Holmes approached the conveyance with confidence.

"You would be Dandy Jack," he said to the driver.

"Not by that name in these parts, sir," responded the man, saluting briefly with his whip. His broad face was creased by a toothy grin.

"And my name is not Sherlock Holmes," responded the sleuth, "nor is this gentleman with me Dr. Watson."

"What goes in one ear comes out t'other, sir. That way it don't come out the mouth."

During this singular conversation, Holmes and I entered the carriage, which swayed back slightly as our posteriors found the straw-stuffed cushions. The driver's whip flicked lightly on the rump of a sturdy bay and we were off. Holmes offered no directions nor did the driver seem to require any.

In contrast to the city, a limpid sun tried to brighten the rural scene and succeeded in part, though the air was crisp and cold. In London, with the moisture of the Thames close by, I would have thought it raw, but not so in the dry and clear air of the countryside. Leaving the buildings of the village of Brent was a matter of a moment, and as we were setting a brisk pace, it was not long before I spied a ribbon of rails in the distance.

"Now if you was that amacheur peeler wot you mentioned," said the driver, "you might be interested in the spur line where they hit the bullion train. People hereabout are talking 'bout nothin' else, the robbery bein' the biggest thing wot's happened in Brent, you see."

"It does seem the place to be for a casual visitor," said Holmes. "I take it the rails ahead are on a straightaway and the roadbed follows an upgrade in that direction." Holmes was indicating to our right, where the rails curved around the base of a small hill.

Dandy Jack turned to view us and his face again was transformed by a grin. It changed a weathered and potentially grim visage dramatically. "Right, sir."

"How far up the grade is the bridge?"

Since no such feat of engineering was visible as yet, I well understood the expression of surprise on Jack's face.

"You've been here before," he said with sudden understanding.

"Never to my knowledge," replied Holmes.

"Then 'owd' you know . . ." Our driver's voice dwindled out and he shot another glance over his shoulder. There was a shrewd look in his eye. "Guess you're as good as they say, all right. There is a bridge, sir, as you shall shortly see. I take it that's what you're interested in."

"For the moment." The matter dropped there. I felt prompted to inquire of Holmes but chose to follow the driver's example. My friend would have probably responded with one of his pet phrases like, "It had to be, old fellow," which seemed to explain everything to him but was of scant use to me.

Dandy Jack guided his four-wheeler in a zigzag course through country lanes and soon we were riding adjacent to the rails and around the curve. Ahead loomed a vehicular bridge necessitated by a main road stretching south to Colchester, I assumed.

When we reached that point in the lane closest to the bridge, our driver reined in the bay and helped us down from our seats. Holmes requested Dandy Jack to accompany us, and he secured the horse's reins to a tree and caught up quick enough as we made our way across pastureland to the bridge. Holmes followed the roadbed under the overpass, his eyes surveying the span above us, and then we were on the other side. My friend seemed to be measuring the distance from the tracks to the top of the overpass and then he cast his eye around the open ground surrounding us on both sides. In the season this portion was tilled and for this reason Holmes spied what he was looking for. It was a straight length of wood that was quite dead and tapered at one end. Formerly a beanpole, no doubt, that had been thrown aside because of the brittleness of the old wood. Evidently it would serve Holmes' purpose, for he secured it and brought it to the point of the roadbed directly under the edge of the overpass. Measuring with his eyes, he whipped a handkerchief from the pocket of his traveling ulster and tied it to the pole. Needless to say, Dandy Jack and I were regarding him with some mystification.