Frank Thomas - Sherlock Holmes and the Treasure Train

Holmes shook his head. "Doubtful. Last night I was attempting to discover what chemical combination might have been used. To no avail, I might add."

"Something else happened then, for you seem well pleased."

"Have I become obvious through the years?" The sleuth indicated the cable I had noted. "A considerable report from our friend John Bennett, constable of Shaw, on the late Ezariah Trelawney."

" Quid pro quo ," I said without meaning to.

"My, you are of a scholarly turn this evening," commented Holmes. "A working arrangement between elements of law and order is beneficial, as I'm sure you agree. Bennett has unearthed interesting possibilities." He indicated the letter again. "I'm trying to decipher quid hoc sibi vult ." There was a twinkle in his eye and I wished that I had never resorted to the few scraps of Latin patient instructors had pounded into me.

"What does that mean?" I asked registering defeat.

"'What does this mean' is the exact translation, old chap. Bennett's report might mean a lot. When we investigated the death of Ezariah Trelawney, all we knew about his background was his trade, banking."

"Along with the blood feud that played such an important part in the matter."

"Agreed. You do recall that Trelawney's association with the bullion matter decided me on accepting the case?"

"I've wondered about that."

Holmes took a cigarette from the desk container. "I am too much of a pragmatist to dwell on thoughts of a predetermined destiny. However, oft-times fate does enter the picture and I chose to follow its beckoning finger this time."

I placed a whiskey and water on the desk for Holmes and retreated with my own to the armchair beside the fire, my brain awhirl. Despite our long association, I had seldom been able to anticipate his unerring logic, but the years had made me conscious of certain signposts that occasionally pointed me down the right path.

"You think that Trelawney's death is tied up with the bullion matter." I took a sip and then rejected this idea. "But we solved the banker's murder."

"Did we?" questioned Holmes. "We discovered that Vincent Staley attempted to plant the Trelawney murder weapon on Horace Ledbetter. He then attacked Ledbetter and was killed by him. Because of the circumstances, we assumed Staley killed the banker, but that fact was never proven."

"I doubt if it can be now."

"I'm forced to agree with that, Watson. However, Ezariah Trelawney was involved in the shipment of gold to the Credit Lyonnais, so I had Constable Bennett instigate additional inquiries. Trelawney was miserly. As a young man he was with the army in the Crimea." Suddenly the sleuth's keen gaze shifted to the door. Then I heard footfalls on the landing.

"Come in, Billy," said Holmes as there was a gentle knock.

"'Tis Inspector MacDonald, sir," said the page boy from the half-open door.

"Show him up, by all means," replied the detective.

I was amazed at this turn of events. The anticipated storm had broken while Holmes and I had talked and the wind was blowing at near-gale proportions. Wailing gusts served as an eerie chorus for the timpani of rain spattering against the glass of our Baker Street windows.

It was a wet and disheveled Inspector Alec MacDonald who entered our sitting room. As I helped him out of his coat, Holmes stirred up the hearth fire so that it radiated a welcome warmth for the dour Scot. A comfortable chair and an extra tumbler from the sideboard erased MacDonald's scowl, but there was still considerable dissatisfaction on his rough-hewn face as he toasted us both and took a sizeable draft.

Holmes' eyes twinkled as he regarded our visitor. "If we've driven the chill from your bones, old fellow, possibly we can also relieve your inner stress. It is obvious your coming tonight was no idle whim. A troublesome case, perhaps?"

"I wish I was sure," replied the inspector. "'Tis the matter of Ramsey Michael."

At the sideboard, replenishing my drink, I heard Holmes' glass come in contact with the desktop forcibly. As I turned at this unusual sound, I found the sleuth regarding MacDonald intently.

"The so-called art critic," said the sleuth. "What problem involves him?"

"Ah then, you haven't heard. He was shot to death this very evening."

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed involuntarily, though I did not know the man referred to.

Something was bothering Holmes, but his laconic comment was unrevealing. "The gentleman was not popular. Do we face one of those cases devoid of clues?"

"Few needed," said MacDonald somewhat bitterly. "We have one suspect and what looks like an airtight case. And yet there's something about it that doesn't sit comfortable." He glanced at me shamefaced, then centered on Holmes again. "You'll make sport of me for saying it, but the taste isn't right."

Holmes was gazing at the inspector with added respect. "After a lengthy career in the field of criminology, it would be strange indeed if you did not possess a distinct feel for such matters. My congratulations, Mr. Mac. Now do tell us of the affair and what specifically wrinkles your nose with doubt."

MacDonald had a wary look, as if suspecting that he was being twitted, but the great consulting detective was completely serious so the Aberdonian plunged into his tale.

"Michael's body was found by his butler at six this evening in the upstairs study of his home on Belgrave Square. A bullet from an Adams .450 revolver caught him right between the eyes and was lodged in his brain. Death was instantaneous."

"You established the make and caliber of the murder weapon with admirable promptness," commented Holmes.

"And without difficulty, since the gun was on the floor of the room." MacDonald exhibited a sly smile. "Before you ask, we did check the weapon for fingerprints, and there were none."

"None at all, or none that could be identified?"

"The gun had been wiped clean." At a nod from Holmes, the inspector continued. "Besides Michael, there were three other occupants of the house. Herndon, the butler, and his wife, Matilda, who is cook-housekeeper. Also a Miss Vanessa Claremont, who was Michael's ward."

"Something was nagging at me and now I have it," I ventured. "Miss Claremont is a patient of Dr. Vernier. He has spoken to me of her." Inasmuch as the inspector and Holmes were regarding me with considerable interest, I continued. "Miss Claremont is but twenty-three and suffers from pernicious anemia. Vernier has her on a special diet fortified with liver, but the case bothers him. She weighs but seven stone and is a frail reed indeed."

MacDonald had a sour look about his mouth. "I'm told that Michael did not treat the poor thing at all well. Perhaps that has colored my thinking. But let me conclude this strange tale," he said with a sigh.

"Michael was not outside his house the entire day. The mansion itself has a bearing on the case. It contains art objects of considerable value and is something of a fortress. Bars on all the windows and secure locks on stout doors. It was the habit of the household to make sure everything was bolted up come nightfall."

"Shortly after five this time of year." Holmes' eyes were dreamy with thought.

MacDonald nodded in agreement. "It was the sound of the firearm that alarmed the butler, Herndon. He came from the servants' quarters on the run to find Vanessa Claremont on the stairs leading to the upstairs study. She said that she had been in her ground-floor quarters when she heard the shot and had started up instinctively but had become frightened."

"Whereas she might well have fired the gun and started down, for all the butler knew," suggested Holmes.

"Indeed, sir. In any case, Herndon discovered the body and raced downstairs to summon a constable. Rushing by Miss Claremont, he shouted that the master was dead, at which point she fainted. Fortunately there was an officer close by on the Square and he returned with the butler. Herndon and his wife revived Miss Claremont while the constable notified the Yard and there you are."