Frank Thomas - Sherlock Holmes and the Treasure Train

"Burton Hananish can bear a long second look, Watson, and while here in Gloucester I will seek answers to questions which come to mind."

"His story seemed straight enough."

"In part, in part."

"The arrangement with the Credit Lyonnais involved a lot of backing and filling. Perhaps it only seemed complex to my untutored mind."

"No, Watson, your point is well taken. If man ever invents the perpetual motion machine, it will have very few working parts. The more spokes and wheels, the greater the possibility of error."

"Or chicanery?" I suggested, keen to learn what had clued Holmes. Surprisingly, his next statement provided an answer.

"Any arrangement where one party cannot lose arouses my suspicions." My friend's voice had a dreamy quality and I knew he was actually talking to himself, using me as the familiar baffle board for his suppositions, which might cement themselves into fact. "Banks and financial houses are, in essence, service organizations providing capital for expansion, development and presentation of products, creation of new jobs; all of which adds to prosperity. I oversimplify, but that's the nuts and bolts of it. Where currency is involved, loss by whatever means is a universal peril shared by all parties."

"But how could the west coast banks lose in the arrangement that Hananish outlined?" I asked.

"If I judge correctly, the French paid well for the gold they needed. If it were all so foolproof, they would not have had to. Besides, as you observed, the whole matter did seem unwieldy and we'd best unravel it to our satisfaction."

We were by now back at the Red Grouse Inn. Holmes suggested that I might profitably rest my bones and I knew what that meant. He was going to sally forth to investigate on his own, probably with the mysterious though affable Wally. As we washed up in our comfortable suite, I made mention of the man, seeking to draw my friend out. Holmes had one of his fluent evasions ready at hand.

"When dealing with a known ability, names or titles are of scant importance. Now I must check up on several matters which need not involve you, good fellow. The information, like grain in the fields, is but waiting for the gleaner."

Leaning against the doorjamb of Holmes' bedchamber, I smiled. The picture of my friend searching a harvested field for stray grain struck me as ludicrous until I realized that a detective does often face a similar situation—the poring over of incidents created by some and recounted by others, with an eye always cocked for an overlooked kernel of truth.

Shortly thereafter, Holmes was off and I did get a comfortable nap. I then took myself to the taproom since my friend was not about. With evening coming on, there were more customers present. I posed a few questions about the local fishing conditions during the season. Through my long association with the world's greatest detective, I had learned that this was a safe approach. Speak to one who knows anything about fish and you automatically become the audience for his tale of the one that got away. Whilst the story has a boring sameness, it shields the listener from questions regarding his presence and the reason for it. I exchanged words with some of the locals, lost a few coins at the dart board as befits a newcomer to an area and passed my time pleasantly but without profit. The opportunity to guide the conversation around to Burton Hananish did not present itself. When Holmes did return and locate me, I was quite ready to join him for dinner. It was at this point that my original estimate of the management of the Red Grouse was upheld, for Holmes and I dined not well but sumptuously.

Holmes chose a bottle of fine old brown brandy, very reasonable at five and two, to top off our feast. As a result, I slept very soundly that night despite my late-afternoon nap.

The following morning, when I finally forced my eyes apart, things were rather inconvenient since we had not planned to spend the night in Fenley. But I brushed off my traveling suit and found a serviceable straightedge, no doubt on loan from the landlord. Holmes was not about. It occurred to me that my friend had found much of interest in Fenley, for he had obviously been up and about at an early hour.

I decided to take a brief stroll. When I reached the street, a closed carriage was pulling up at the inn. I paused to allow the door to open and was jostled from behind. When I turned instinctively, the carriage door did open and, of a sudden, there was a large palm across my mouth, stifling the cry that rose in my throat. The man who had come up behind me had my wrists pinioned in a steely grasp and I found myself rudely deposited on the floor of the carriage. An adhesive strip was affixed over my mouth, my arms were secured with rough twine that had the smell of hemp about it, a blindfold was over my eyes, and the carriage was under way. Completely surprised and appalled though I was, I had to admire the efficiency with which my captors had pulled it off. My reluctant approval lessened when the driver, at a signal or by plan, whipped up the horse and we were outward-bound from Fenley at a rapid rate. This made little sense since I had been taken with no fuss at all and they would have been better advised to proceed quietly on their way so as to arouse no comment or suspicion. There were mutterings between what I assumed were two men, and my hat was taken from my head. There was the sound of a window of the conveyance being lowered.

"That does it," stated one voice. "It's plain as day in the road."

They must have cast my hat from the carriage, which was ridiculous, for my initials, J.H.W., were plainly stamped on the sweat band. Perhaps I was being victimized by a crew of amateurs, but I could not accept that thought.

It was highly uncomfortable bouncing on the floorboards of the carriage and possibly our trip seemed longer than it actually was.

Finally, we pulled to a stop and I was removed from the vehicle with little ceremony. As they marched me with insistent prodding, the thongs on my wrists were cut and I received a violent shove from behind, which propelled me down two stone steps. I lost my footing and fell resoundingly on a cold stone floor, bruising one kneecap painfully in the process. As I lay there for a moment, stifling an exclamation of pain and feeling the fool indeed for being such an easy prey, there was the clang of a door behind me and I was alone—far from the comforting presence of Holmes, in completely strange surroundings, and captured for reasons unknown. There was a stab of fear in my heart that was promptly washed away by anger. Grabbed off, I was like a helpless child and without even an idea of the doers, for if the sleuth had appeared at that very moment I could have given him no clear description of the men involved, the direction we had taken, or the distance traversed. It had to dawn on me that this was a ridiculous situation for a middle-aged general practitioner to find himself in and undeniable proof that I was ill-fitted to dog the footsteps of the world's greatest detective and brave the dangers inevitable because of his profession. However, the practicality of my Scottish mother came to the fore. The riches of the Indies could not move the second hand of time backward and my situation had to be accepted or else I must seek refuge in the unreal world of the mentally unstable, a retreat that offered no satisfaction, though I did feel somewhat daft for allowing all this to happen.

With a groan, I stumbled to my feet, tearing the blindfold from my eyes. That was easy enough, but the adhesive gag was another matter. I pulled it swiftly, losing some skin and a bit of my moustache as well.

The walls of my dungeon were of stone, like the floor. A quick inspection revealed no crumbling masonry, and they appeared stout enough to withstand the onslaught of tools had I any available. Light came from a window set high in the thick walls and it was, alas, heavily barred, though I was in doubt if I could have gotten through the opening anyway. The room was damp and there was the smell of the river nearby. The only piece of furniture was a simple bed of modern design, metal in fact, on which one grubby blanket was thrown. It took but a moment to move the bed under the window at the far wall. Stepping up on the framework of the bed, I was able to look outside. The outer wall of my prison was right on the Severn, and by craning my neck and standing on tiptoes, I could see water washing against its base. The bars were of iron, firmly set in concrete. From the position of the building, I felt that it was part of the ruins of an ancient fort built at the headwaters of the Severn to repel the Norsemen, and reconstructed through the centuries for a variety of reasons. Judging from the lack of sound other than the washing of the river and occasional birdcalls, it had to be in an uninhabited area. My survey of the outside world complete and frustrating, I devoted my attention to the door at my prison chamber. It was formed of stout timbers secured by iron-headed bolts. The hinges were massive and designed to defy an escape attempt. Set in the frame on each side of the door were two L-shaped metal forms that puzzled me momentarily. Then I realized that the structure had originally been designed to keep intruders out rather than secure prisoners within. There was no crossbar available to place in them to secure the door, but while it might have frustrated my captors, it would have done me no good. What I wanted to do was escape, not remain. I tried to open the door with little hope, and of course I was right since it withstood my violent tugging. Breathing deeply and gnawing at my moustache with nervous teeth, I tried to analyze the situation as Holmes would have.