Authors: Carole Bugge
“Yer the ones wantin’ a lift, are ye?” he said, scratching himself. At that moment I had the unpleasant thought that the rest of his body might be of the same excessively hirsute condition as his face.
Holmes stepped forward.
“Yes, please—and there’s extra money in it if you can get us there quickly.”
“Thar wantin’ to see Flora Campbell,” said the stationmaster with a wink.
“Aye, Flora Campbell, is it?” said Jack Crompton. “Well, I reckon my horse knows the way thar—I’ve delivered ’er milk these past five years with ’im. ’Ee’s good horse, is my Bill,” he said as we followed him out to the back of the stationhouse. A big white Clydesdale gelding stood dozing over a bucket of oats. He was harnessed to a surprisingly smart-looking trap, a little red two-wheeled gig. “Ee’d rather sleep than eat,” said Jack Crompton, tossing the bucket into the back of the cart. “It’s strange fer a horse, don’t ye think?”
“Yes,” I said politely, looking dubiously at the little rig. “Do you think there’s room for all of us?”
“Aye, thar’s room enough,” said Jack Crompton as he hoisted himself onto the driver’s seat and picked up the reins. “We’ve carried heavier loads than you two, ’aven’t we, Bill?” he said, addressing the horse, who turned his gigantic head lazily toward us, giving us only the most cursory glance before returning to his nap. If ever a horse could have shrugged, this one would have done just that. Instead, he snorted and closed his eyes again. Holmes and I climbed aboard, squeezing in knee-to-knee behind Mr. Crompton.
“Aye, yer wouldn’t believe ’ow much a load o’ milk bottles weighs, I don’t suppose,” he said amiably, snapping the reins over the animal’s broad back. To my surprise, the horse backed immediately, turned, and broke into a brisk trot.
“That’s a well-trained horse you’ve got there, Mr. Crompton,” I said as we clattered along the dirt road which seemed to be the only road to the train station.
“Aye, ’ee’s a good horse, is my Bill.” Crompton sighed happily. “Doesn’t waste much energy—’ee’s too smart for that. Aren’t ye, Bill?” The big horse twitched his ears as if in reply.
We passed a few cottages sprinkled about the thin, rocky soil. They looked isolated and lonely out here on the moors, whitewashed walls bravely facing the sea, their little flower gardens desolate and windswept. Mrs. Campbell herself lived in a little white cottage a few miles from the station.
“Do yer want me to wait?” said Jack Crompton as we clambered down from our cramped seating position.
“Yes, if you don’t mind,” answered Holmes. “We may need you again. I’ll see that you are well paid for your troubles,” he called over his shoulder as we hurried up the path to the front door of the cottage, past a little windblown flower bed with some bedraggled-looking chrysanthemums.
When Mrs. Campbell greeted us at the front door of her house it was clear from the expression on her face that she was not expecting us. Like her sister, she was short and sturdy, with the ruddy complexion and fair hair of her Scottish ancestors.
“Why, Mr. Holmes, Dr. W-Watson,” she stuttered after we introduced ourselves. “What are you doing here?” I was struck by how similar her voice was to her sister’s; a little higher, perhaps, but there was the same faint but unmistakable Scottish cadence, the same Highland music in her speech.
“We got your telegram and came as quickly as we could,” said Holmes.
“What telegram?” she asked, her broad face blank with surprise.
“The one saying your sister was in danger,” I began, but Holmes cut me off.
“Never mind, Watson.”
“But—” I protested.
“I’ll explain
later
,” Holmes said sharply. “Where is your sister?” he said to Mrs. Campbell.
“Why, she’s out at Tintagel—”
“Did she say when she’d be back?”
Mrs. Campbell scratched her head. “Well, she’s been gone an awfully long time, though I expect she stopped for lunch at the pub.”
“We haven’t a moment to lose!” cried Holmes. “Quickly, get your coat!”
Overriding Mrs. Campbell’s confused protests, Holmes bundled her inside and returned a moment later with a thick red overcoat and long scarf.
“But I don’t understand,” she said as we hurried her back down the path to Jack Crompton’s waiting carriage.
“I’ll explain everything as we go,” said Holmes. “But please believe me: We must hurry!”
“Tintagel Castle, if you please, Mr. Crompton,” said Holmes, helping Mrs. Campbell climb up beside Jack Crompton. There was barely room for her broad frame on the narrow seat, and Crompton had to squeeze himself into the corner to accommodate her. As we all piled aboard, the big white gelding turned his head, looked at his new load with dismay, and sighed mightily.
“Don’ worry, Bill, ye’ll get extra oats for this, I promise,” said Jack Crompton, and with a touch of the reins, we were off at a canter. The horse’s big hooves dug into the damp soil, throwing clods of loose dirt out behind us.
“So your sister went to visit the castle?” said Holmes.
“Yes. She always likes to roam the rocks out there. Me, I don’t see
the point, but...” Mrs. Campbell wrung her hands. “What is it, Mr. Holmes—what’s happened?”
“I hope nothing, Mrs. Campbell,” said Holmes, “except that I believe speed is of the essence.”
I was struck by his use of almost exactly the same phrase from the strange advertisement in the
Telegraph.
“Who
did
send us that telegram, I wonder?” I said.
Holmes shook his head. “Whoever it was, they don’t have our best interests in mind. They also know a lot about our movements. If I didn’t know better, I would think... well, it’s absurd, of course—and yet...” His voice trailed off and he subsided into a reverie.
For a while we all sat in silence as our gig bounced and rattled over the rocky ground, the horse’s hooves beating a steady tattoo on the hard dirt of the road. Moisture pelted and stung our faces in tiny droplets, a combination of rain, mist, and sea spray. As we came over the crest of a hillock I could see the dark outline of Tintagel in the distance, gaunt and weatherbeaten from centuries of sea air.
When we arrived at the ruins, Jack Crompton turned his trap toward The Knights’ Arms pub, a roadside establishment which evidently catered to thirsty tourists.
“There’s a chance she might be warming her feet by the fireplace in the pub, Mr. Holmes,” said Mrs. Campbell, her voice tremulous.
“Yes; we’d better check just to make certain,” Holmes replied, vaulting out of his seat in one smooth motion. He disappeared into the pub but returned moments later, shaking his head.
“I’m afraid not—the barkeep hasn’t seen anyone of her description all day,” he said gently.
Mrs. Campbell nodded, her round face crinkled with worry.
“You’d best wait in there for us, Mrs. Campbell,” said Holmes, but she shook her head.
“No, I want to come with you,” she said firmly.
“Very well,” said Holmes as I helped Mrs. Campbell down from her seat.
“I’ll get Bill some water and wait for yer in there, if that’s all right,” Crompton called to us as we climbed up the rocky hill to the castle. The misty rain had stopped, but the sky was cloudy and the wind was still blowing in briskly from the sea. Our only company along the way was the hikers we had seen get off the train earlier. I guessed that they were Swiss tourists, complete with backpacks and lederhosen. They were coming back down the path as we ascended it. One of them had hair so blond it was almost white, with a natty little mustache to match. His cap was pulled down over his eyes, though, so that it was impossible to see much of his face.
Ahead of us we could see the ruins of Tintagel, dark and crumbling in the damp Cornwall air. When we arrived at the top Holmes looked around briefly, and then, without a word, threw himself face down upon the ground.
“Good heavens!” said our hostess, who was unused to my friend’s eccentric behavior.
“Don’t worry,” I whispered to her. “He knows what he’s doing.”
After a few moments Holmes rose again and brushed the dirt from his hands.
“This way!” he said, and strode off in the direction of a crumbling stone archway.
After a few paces he stopped again, and, drawing a magnifying glass from his pocket, examined the soil. I stood shivering in the strong sea breeze, coat-tails whipping around my legs. We were on a ledge just outside the ruins, and I could smell the musty aroma of centuries of crumbling stones and dust. Below us the sea swirled and lapped fiercely at the jagged Cornish coastline.
“Observe, Watson,” he said. “You see Mrs. Hudson’s tracks going along the path here—”
“How do you know it’s her?” said Mrs. Campbell in a querulous voice.
“Well, for one thing, the shoe print,” said Holmes. “As you may know, your sister is very particular about her shoes, and always orders the same style from the same London cobbler. This damp ground is fortunately excellent for preserving prints—you see here the fine stitching? I also happen to know she favors her right side; she suffers from a touch of rheumatism in the cold weather, I believe—”
“Yes!” cried Mrs. Campbell. “It runs in the family; I myself often feel a touch of—”
“—and you see here how the right footstep is slightly fainter than the left? No, there is no question that this is our Mrs. Hudson. But this,” Holmes continued, pointing to a larger man’s print coming from the opposite direction, “this is very sinister. Here is also a London-made shoe; no one could mistake this gentleman for a local resident. You see how the prints meet here at the cliff’s edge; there are signs of a scuffle, and then her tracks stop, but the other continues—”
“Good God, you’re right!” I cried.
The implications of the footprints were all too clear: Holmes’ poor landlady had met her death at the hands of whomever she had encountered at the top of this rocky promontory! I looked down at the swirling water below and suddenly felt once again the horror of that terrible day at Reichenbach Falls three years ago, the story mutely told by the two sets of footprints which vanished into the mist...
“Watson! Steady on!”
I recovered just in time to feel Holmes’ strong grasp around my shoulders. I opened my eyes. I could not have blacked out for more than a second or two, and yet—
“Are you all right, Dr. Watson?” cried Mrs. Campbell, her round, worried face crinkled with concern.
“We almost lost you there for a moment, Watson,” said Holmes, smiling grimly.
“If Mr. Holmes hadn’t caught you, you would have fallen over the edge!” said Mrs. Campbell.
“I’m quite all right,” I said, embarrassed. “Don’t worry about me; it’s Mrs. Hudson I’m concerned about. I’m afraid she—” I stopped myself, unable to say it.
“Ah! It may appear that way at first glance, but look!” said Holmes, pointing to the man’s tracks which led away from the point of meeting, back in the direction in which he had come. “Do you see anything unusual about them?”
“Why, they’re—deeper!” I cried. I inspected the footprints more closely. They did indeed sink more deeply into the soft black soil, the heels digging heavily into the dirt. “He—he must have been carrying her!”
“Can it be?” said Mrs. Campbell.
“It most certainly is,” said Holmes. “We must follow these tracks—quickly! Mrs. Campbell,” he said, turning to her, “do you know the schedule of high and low tides around these parts?”
“Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I make it my business—not that it’s of much use to me nowadays. My father was a seagoing man, you see, and I got in the habit of always—”
“Yes, yes!” said Holmes impatiently. “Can you tell me when the next high tide will be today?”
“Why, yes; at six o’clock.”
Holmes looked at his watch. “It is half past five! Quickly, Watson, we have very little time!”
I followed him as he hurried along the trail, nose to the ground. Mrs. Campbell trotted after us, her short little legs pumping rapidly
to keep up with Holmes’ long strides. Reaching a place where the path diverged and part of it sloped steeply down toward the water, Holmes turned to me.
“Just as I thought—he’s headed for the caves!”
It was well known that the rocky coast of Cornwall was dotted with smugglers’ caves which had been there for centuries. The caves weren’t in use anymore, but children continued to explore them, and every so often one heard reports of a child being caught up in high tide and swept out to sea. I followed Holmes down the steep embankment. Mrs. Campbell stood at the top anxiously watching our progress, shawl blowing in the breeze, her short figure silhouetted against the increasingly stormy sky. I felt a few droplets of rain as Holmes and I made our way down the scraggly slope, our feet slipping and sliding on the loose pebbles which rolled down the hill and plunged into the foaming white water below.
“Steady on, Watson,” said Holmes as my foot slipped and I slid a few feet down the muddy incline. I nodded and tried to pick my way more carefully, looking for footholds on the slippery bank. Finally we made it down to an overhanging ledge, with about ten feet of rocks between us and the rushing water below. Holmes stepped carefully along the ledge, his eyes searching the rocks for any sign of an indentation.
“There—look, Watson, there it is!” he cried suddenly, pointing to a gap in the rocks where water was pouring in. It did indeed appear to be a cave set in the side of the cliff; the water which flowed in did not seem to be coming back out. “The tide, Watson; it’s rushing in—we must hurry!” he said. I followed Holmes as he scrambled down the ragged, jutting rocks, cutting my hands on their jagged edges as I went.
We reached the entrance of the cave and looked inside. It was very black, and my heart sank when I saw that the water had already begun to rise inside so that it was at least a foot deep. Holmes did not hesitate,
though, and plunged right into the freezing water. I took a deep breath and followed him.
The water on England’s west coast, fed by northern oceanic currents, never reaches anything near swimming temperature, and the shock of that water took my breath away. It was icy and biting, making my legs feel numb within seconds of contact. Holmes strode on ahead, though, and I trudged after him, puffing in an attempt to regain my wind.