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By A. Conan Fats
Special
to the Gazette
Editor’s
note: A. Conan Fats is a maternal-side descendant of
English mystery writer A. Conan Doyle, author of the Sherlock
Holmes stories. He is currently a resident of Greater Grace and
owns and operates a rare-book shop that specializes in first
editions of British mystery fiction. Acey (for A.C.) as he is
commonly known around Grace, is also a collector of notebooks,
unpublished manuscript fragments and letters attributed to A.
Conan Doyle. From these he has now written a story about a
hitherto unknown visit by Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson to
Grace in 1899 to solve what seemed at the time an insoluble
mystery. As was usual in the Holmes stories, the narration is by
Dr. Watson.
Chapter
6
Although
the landscape did not present the entanglements of the moors we
had encountered in The
Hound of the Baskervilles, it was still heavy going.
Particularly so as we scaled the steep incline of the butte,
apparently on the opposite side from where I imagined a road
most likely rose gradually to the grand manor house.
As
we crested the incline, we paused to rest and regain our breath,
and to survey what defenses Mr. Fitz might have erected to deter
our invasion. But we saw no formidable obstacles in our path
toward the imposing structure. It was designed in the style of a
large Spanish hacienda, most likely with a spacious courtyard
within its sturdy adobe walls. No lights shined from its
windows, and it seemed that the residents were most likely
asleep. This gave me confidence, until I heard the first
stirrings of the dogs, and then their alerting barks. German
shepherds, I decided, a breed I have little affection for,
having been attacked by one at the tender age of seven while at
a friend’s birthday party in the Yorkshire Dales. But that is
another story.
“Dogs,”
I hissed to Holmes. “What now? Should we retreat?”
“Not
to worry, old friend. Marshal Jonsen had the foresight to pack a
jar of those epicurean favorites of yours, the Colorado oysters.
I have since injected them with a distillation of morphine that
should put those dogs into slumber for several hours. That is
unless you would rather save the delicacies for your later
consumption.”
“I
might have, save for the morphine,” I said disingenuously.
“But here they come in a mad rush. Cast out the bovine
orbs.”
Holmes
did so, and the snarling animals stopped in their tracks to
sniff and then devour the Colorado oysters. Within seconds it
seemed, though it was probably longer, they curled up and were
soon fast asleep.
“Good
show, Holmes. Another demonstration of the superiority of man
over beast.”
“Suppress
your accolades, Watson. This is merely our first skirmish. Keep
quiet and follow me.”
In
a crouch we hastened over the expansive lawn and took cover
under a large and opulently flowering rhododendron, behind which
was a latticework supporting rose vines climbing toward the
second story.
“Now
what?” I whispered.
“Do
you have your watch with you?”
“Of
course,” I said, pulling it out of my vest pocket. “I make
it to be 4:47.”
“Precisely,”
Holmes said, replacing his own watch. “I suggest you climb the
latticework and reconnoiter the upper story while I inspect the
surrounding grounds. Do you have your pistol at the ready?”
“Of
course.”
“Then
we shall rendezvous here in seventeen minutes, which should give
me time to make at least a cursory inspection of the
perimeter.”
Holmes
disappeared into the darkness, and I carefully scaled the
latticework. At the top was a railing I crawled over and found I
was on a large verandah. I squatted to regain my breath and then
surveyed my surroundings. To my left were French doors open to
the prevailing breeze. And as my breathing stilled I could hear
two people talking: indisputably a man and a woman. They seemed
to be having an argument, but the subject was beyond my ken. I
scrambled for the meager protection of a corner, as the
woman’s voice grew louder. And then her figure appeared as she
strode purposefully onto the verandah.
“Come
back, Babalu,” the man’s voice called out. “Let’s talk
it over. This stock deal is our ticket to fame and fortune. The
grand tour of Europe. A great house in Newport. Penthouse on
Park Avenue. The sky’s the limit, baby.”
“Don’t
give me that baby business, Fritz. I’m sure you defrauded
Berry Berry, so why don’t you admit it?”
Obviously
the male voice belonged to Fritz Fitz, the pistol-toting man in
black we had seen at the saloon.
“I’m
totally innocent on all counts,” he said.
“Oh,
I’m sure you’re as pure as the driven snow. But if you ever
want to see me again, you’d better return Berry Berry’s
horseless carriage.”
“But
sweetums,” he said, “I didn’t steal it. And even if I did,
if you’ll just stifle your scruples a little bit longer
we’ll be rolling in pounds and marks and liras and pesos,
maybe even in rubles.”
Babalu
snorted in disgust. “The only thing I want to roll in is Berry
Berry’s bed. Hasta la vista, Fritz.”
After
that declamation she rushed to climb down the latticework, which
I had just ascended. I hastened to follow her, losing my
purchase and arriving in a sprawl as she reached the ground.
“Wait,
Miss O’Bunion,” I whispered. “I will help you escape. I am
here with Mr. Sherlock Homes. Let me lead you to safety.”
“Anything
to escape the clutches of that abominable man up there. Lead the
way, Dr. Watson.”
We
hurried across the lawn, and it took some time for her words to
register in my harried mind. But then I could not fail to ask,
“How did you know my name is Watson?”
“You
are a silly goose, aren’t you? If you have no idea--“
“Watson,”
a voice interrupted from ahead of us. “You’re two minutes
late.”
“What?
Don’t you see that I have rescued this fair damsel from--“
“Silence,”
Holmes ordered. “Our descent is of paramount importance.
Fortunately I have deployed my grappling hook and rope, so you
go first, Watson. The young lady will follow when you deem it
safe.”
Ever
the confidant confederate of the great detective, I descended
half way down the slope, gained purchase, then tested the rope
to see if it could support both Babalu and myself. I was
encouraged and called for her to follow me. She descended with
alacrity and soon we were safely on level ground. Holmes than
quickly rappelled down, demonstrating skills honed in the
Austrian Alps.
We
moved to the horses, and Holmes said, “Can you ride, Miss
O’Bunion?”
“Probably
better than you, sir,” she replied and nimbly mounted the
shorter horse. Holmes took the gelding, and I was ignominiously
relegated to the pack mule. We rode away slowly to avoid making
noise that might alert pursuers, but soon were at a distance
that permitted a full gallop.
As dawn was breaking we had arrived at the House of No
Regret, and Babalu invited us in for breakfast.
She
bade us to sit in red-velvet chairs that matched the wall
coverings in a sumptuous parlor. Risqué portraits of reclining
females in various states of undress lined the walls. She moved
beside a full-length oil of a beautiful woman in a ball gown and
I heard Holmes emit a gasp of recognition. I too was startled by
the vision of “the woman.” It was a near perfect copy of the
photograph of herself Irene Adler had left Holmes as a souvenir
of their battle of wits in Bohemia.
“I
see you recognize her, Mr. Holmes,” Babalu said with an impish
smile.
“I
do indeed,” Holmes replied, “and I also see what I presume
to be a familial resemblance.”
“Yes,
Irene Adler is my sister.”
In
chapter 7 ....
We're also left to wonder, was Fritz Fitz behind the theft of
the motorcar?
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