Frank Thomas - Sherlock Holmes and the Golden Bird

At the top of the hill, Holmes drew the carriage to a halt to allow the horse a moment of respite. I took a deep breath as well. The ground ahead sloped gently down into a tree-studded valley. A small river curved in from the north following a serpentine course until it terminated in a considerable body of water. In the center of this lake was a mound and on it were towering battlements, looking for all the world like a miniature Dubrovnik.

My lips pursed in a silent whistle and even Holmes looked impressed. A mountain some considerable distance beyond the stout stone walls provided a rock-strewn and bleak backdrop. The scene would have been well-suited to a Graustark melodrama.

"No fairylike cupolas and spires like those fancied by the Mad Bavarian," said my friend. "An ancient feudal keep augmented by modern workmanship, for you will note, Watson, the appearance of concrete where the ancient walls have crumbled with age."

"Impressive," I mumbled. "I rather fancy us as adventurers intent on the rescue of the Prisoner of Zenda."

"Not a bad comparison," agreed Holmes, urging our horse into motion again. "But rather than use a fictional castle, allow me to suggest the city of Bar."

This meaning nothing to me, I questioned Holmes.

"A ghost town on the Montenegrin Littoral," he explained. "The stern scene before us bears a remarkable resemblance to the ancient Serbian ruins. Bar, of course, has not benefited by a modern Croesus intent on restoration."

As we drew nearer to the castle, I noted that the road terminated at the end of a promontory, which extended into the moat. Our presence had been noted for there was a creak of a windlass and the heavily timbered drawbridge was lowered ponderously to allow us to progress between massive walls and into the courtyard beyond. As we rode across the drawbridge, I noted the color of the water and drew Holmes's attention to it.

"Twenty feet deep or more," he commented. "No wading pond like the moat at Birlstone, which you recall, old friend. I note the presence of finny inhabitants. I would not be surprised if a man so preoccupied with privacy as Basil Selkirk, has not stocked his first line of defense with piranha. But no, it's doubtful that such a tropical fish could live in our latitude."

We were now passing through the walls, which I estimated to be ten feet thick, and Holmes drew our carriage to a halt before the stone stairs leading upward to the massive doors of the medieval establishment.

Basil Selkirk might well cherish his privacy but he was well-attended in his seclusion. Two dark-haired grooms were there to attend the horse, which they led away as soon as Holmes and I had alighted. A thin, fair-haired man with pale and delicate features appeared at the main door and, greeting us both by name, ushered us into the massive pile of masonry.

As we followed our guide from room to room, I felt like I was in Buckingham or the British Museum. That we strode over priceless Persian carpets past rare furniture and walls filled with masterful paintings I had no doubt, but there was not time to inspect individual pieces and my mind's eye recorded a kaleidoscope of matchless works. As we were led down a long hallway, its floorboards polished like a mirror, there was the sound of a door opening and a craggy face viewed us. Mounted on a heavily built, muscled body, it seemed familiar. A gentle pressure of Holmes's fingers upon my arm cautioned me and I did not take a second look at the silent observer. It was Sam Merton, the heavyweight fighter, and I puzzled at his presence until it occurred to me that his function was that of a bodyguard. Probably not the only one, for Selkirk might well have an army in his huge and ancient keep.

Finally, we entered what must have originally been the dining hall, and in centuries gone by I could well-imagine armored knights quaffing mead at the long table in the center. A huge chandelier threw light on the ancient festive board, but such was the size of the room and height of the walls that deep shadows curtained the corners.

In a fireplace in which four grown men could have stood with ease, a massive single log blazed without a fire curtain, for there was ten feet of stone apron between the flames and the beginning of the polished floor.

At the head of the table, with his back to the fire, sat a figure. I would not have been surprised if he turned out to be the Black Prince, but it was, in fact, the least martial figure I could imagine. Huddled in a wheelchair, surrounded by a thick blanket, sat a very old man. His features were thin and his bloodless lips revealed large teeth, which I judged to be false. But his hair was real and in profusion, combed back in a careless manner that lent a touch of madness to his appearance. Heavy bushy eyebrows topped two of the keenest blue eyes I had ever seen. The face was a thing of age and decay, but those eyes rivaled the dancing flames of the Yule-size log behind him.

As our pale young guide led us closer, the old man's scrawny neck seemed to extend in a reptilian fashion and his hunched shoulders made an effort to straighten somewhat as he forced his wasted frame backward in the chair to regard us more closely.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes. You have been to Constantinople, I perceive." His lips curved and a dry chuckle burst forth, which grew in intensity. Suppressing his merriment, he flicked a handkerchief from his sleeve, wiping spittle from his mouth. Then, those protruding, intense eyes shifted to my direction. "And this can be none other than the famous Doctor Watson."

I must have mumbled something but it is doubtful if Selkirk heard me. His attention was now elsewhere. His scrawny arm rose in a shaky and somewhat erratic gesture and I sensed that the blond young man, who had guided us through a veritable museum to what seemed like a mausoleum, was withdrawing. There was a sound of a door closing in the background and then silence. The frail figure stared intently at Holmes who was returning his gaze. There was the faint twitching of a smile on my friend's lips and it occurred to me that the two were sizing each other up like a pair of master fencers ready to reach for naked steel.

I know not what Basil Selkirk found in Holmes's manner or appearance but he seemed satisfied. Another shaky gesture indicated adjacent chairs.

"Come, come," he said. "We must talk. I entertain few visitors and my people are always after me with medicines. Foul-tasting stuff, but it keeps this ruin you see fueled for another day."

As we seated ourselves, Basil Selkirk's head cocked to one side as he regarded Holmes. It was almost a boyish movement and I felt it incongruous from one so aged.

"So you're the one that exposed that idiot—that fool involved with the Beryl Coronet . . ."

"Sir George Burnwell," prompted Holmes.

"One of the most dangerous men in England," I added. .

"Stuff and nonsense," was Selkirk's acid retort. "Fool stole three of the beryls when he might have had all thirty-nine. Had I been after the Coronet you can wager I would have gotten it all."

"Not legally, it being a public possession of the Empire," replied Holmes with a touch of severity in his tone.

"Be that as it may," said the millionaire, nodding as though to confirm his statement. "There's many ways of doing things. But enough of that. Now tell me"—he leaned forward in his chair eagerly—"it's the emerald I want to know about." The old man was rubbing his hands together and his eyes glistened with excitement.

"The Midas?"

"Of course. There is nor other emerald. Not really. But I have never seen it and you have. What was it like?"

Holmes chose his words carefully. "When I first saw the Midas Emerald it was in a jeweler's box in my hands. I opened the lid and. . . ."

"Yes? Yes?"

"Green light seemed to explode into the room."