Many of the past accounts of adventures I have had in the company of my friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, appear to have left some readers with the opinion that he is a man without humour or care for the troubles of others. While I vehemently disagree with those critics, particularly as they did not know him as well as I, there were occasions when he would remain morose and aloof for days at a time. This usually was a result of boredom or, infrequently, when he had failed to solve some mystery quickly enough to satisfy his ego.
To provide a more accurate picture of the character and great spirit of my friend, I am now able to place before the public an incident that, although it happened many years after we first took up rooms together, serves as an illumination to the uniformed.
It was several months after the untimely death of my beloved wife that I was again residing at my old rooms at 221B Baker Street. While he had to some degree acted as a salve to my aching heart, Holmes was obviously of the opinion that I needed to lift myself out of the self-imposed isolation of spirit into which I had drifted. He made several attempts to coax me to accompany him to the theatre or to dine at a restaurant, but I was too miserable to consider it. Little did I suspect how concerned he was and to what lengths he was prepared to go.
It had been a particularly cold, miserable day and the evening bode no better. Holmes entered the room, flinging aside some papers, and sat down noisily in his favoured chair near the fireplace.
"You appear upset, Holmes," I said.
"So too would you be, Watson, had your fortunes turned against you."
His tone indicated to me that no reply was wanted, so I returned to my reading of an absorbing article in my medical journal. A short time later, casting a furtive glance in my direction, Holmes rose quietly and disappeared into his bedroom. I gave the matter no more thought and, as Holmes did not reappear, after an hour or so I placed my journal on the cluttered table and went to bed.
The following morning was typical of the last day of March, dull and wet. As I had no plans, I rose late, and it was not until nine o’clock that I rang for Mrs Hudson to bring my breakfast. I could see from the state of our sitting room that Holmes had breakfasted early and gone out. When Mrs Hudson entered with a tray I remarked on Holmes’ early rising.
"He rang for some tea and muffins very early, sir," she replied. "It was before seven and he was dressed rather poorly for such dreadful weather. Do you suppose he could be on a case again?"
I could not give any answer to her question so I merely shrugged my shoulders. It was not unlike Holmes to be preoccupied and not discuss his movements when on a case, though it was at times somewhat vexing.
The day passed much as others before it and I maintained my solitude by the fireplace, reading and smoking an occasional pipe. It was not until late in the evening that Holmes finally returned.
"Where on earth have you been?" I remarked when he threw off the tattered, dripping coat that he had been wearing.
He gave me a long, searching look and replied in a mischievous tone.
"I have a case, Watson. Such a case as is rare in these days without our late Napoleon of crime."
"How very nice for you." I remarked somewhat acidly.
"My dear fellow," he replied. "I do apologise if you feel I am neglecting you, but you know my habits only too well by now when the game calls to me."
I nodded and hoped he would tell me more in his own time, as any diversion from my misery would have been welcome.
"You know, Watson, you must forgive my thoughtlessness in these matters," he said in a conciliatory tone. "Let me clean off the mud and find some dry clothes, then I will give you an account of what proves to be a most instructive little problem."
With that he whirled off to his room. He returned shortly afterwards, having obviously completed a rapid toilet and exchanged his hideous garb for more conventional dress, and his favourite dressing gown. After seating himself by the fire and lighting his pipe in the singular way he had of holding a coal in the metal tongs, he began this strange narrative.
"It was a little after seven in the morning two days ago, on Monday in fact, that I received a note from the nephew of a fellow I knew many years ago, imploring me to grant him an audience. A man she described as ‘a sailor of the roughest kind’ handed the note to Mrs Hudson. I have the note here in my pocket, but I would prefer to tell you something of the chap’s uncle, a man named Canon, and my connection with him before you read it.
"You should know then, Watson, that I was a very young man when I left my parent’s home to attend college and find my way in life. As happens in many such cases, after a short while I fell on hard times, lacking as I was in the financial support that my father had previously offered. I was determined to make my own way using my own talent; however, money was scarce nonetheless. One evening I met up with two fellow students who found themselves in similar circumstances to myself. We spoke of trivial matters for some time, mostly relating to our college studies, when one of them, Simon Canon, a rough, blustering history major, suggested we could all solve our financial difficulties with a scheme he wished to put to us. The Canon’s, Watson, you may not be aware, were one of the oldest families in Sussex and, it was rumoured, had a dark past as ‘wreckers’ of the most ruthless kind. Well, given our lack of any other ‘expectations,’ of course we were both interested to at least hear him out.
He began his tale by telling us that several years ago, his older half-brother, Richard, happened upon a letter while studying old naval manuscripts in the college library’s archives. Although a gifted student in history, he was unsure of the meaning of the language and various references to the old Cinque ports. As it appeared to be written in early Spanish and seemed unrelated to the text in which he discovered it, he determined that he should take it to the Spanish master, a man named Garcia, to seek his opinion. Garcia, it seems, was much excited when he saw the letter and asked that it be left with him to translate. His reason was that it was written in an unusual dialect and would take some time to decipher. Reluctantly the brother agreed, on the understanding that he would return the next day to learn what Garcia had been able to translate. The following morning, when he returned to the master’s room, Garcia had gone. Enquiries with the porter and some of the other lecturers failed to explain his absence.
The fellow was understandably much perplexed by this turn of events. He sought out the senior librarian for some enlightenment regarding the possible content of this strange letter. He could learn nothing as none of the library staff knew of any such document among the old archives. He repeatedly returned to the Spanish masters’ room in the hope that he would return; but he did not. On his third visit, however, he noticed something amiss. He could not explain what it was, other than a feeling that something was out of place. Later that evening, just as he was falling asleep, the revelation came to him. He returned to Garcia’s room and hurried to the fireplace. He immediately spied that which had so perplexed him. It was a small pellet of burned paper at the front of the grate. He removed it carefully and unfolded it upon the desk. After lighting a lamp, he smoothed the wrinkles and could faintly see pencilled words on the charred paper. By holding it up to the light he was able to make out what appeared to be a note of sorts, although the grammar was very strange. He wrote down what he could make out, though some of the words were burned beyond recognition."
Holmes removed a folded paper from the pocket of his dressing gown.
"This is a copy of that note," he said. "I have kept it amongst my records as a curiosity from my early adventures. Read it while I continue." Holmes handed it to me and I read the note, which ran thus:
"…given over to…Don Diego…the golden ship…Panama…sailed…beyond the Cape of Good…from new lands…riches…lost on coast…cliffs of white and rocks to the north…King’s ranso…lost in…waters…small island two leagues south…headland half…league northwest…gre.t…temple…"
While reading, I noted that the paper was remarkably well preserved. Indeed, had Holmes not hinted at its age and history I would have suspected it of being written quite recently. While I was still glancing through the note, Holmes continued his narration of Canon’s fascinating monologue:
"This fellow, Richard, thought for some minutes on what this could mean. He felt certain that it could only be a translation of the letter he had discovered, but could not grasp its meaning. As the library was closed and Garcia had not reappeared, he could do nothing more that evening and it was not until early the next day that he was able to pursue the matter. On returning to the archives he searched for the tome in which he had discovered the letter. As luck would have it, he stumbled upon it almost immediately, although he later thought it was not in the place where he had left it.
The book was an ancient Benedictine monastery record from the twelfth century, recording the history of a desolate stretch on the coast of Sussex, where the monastery was then located. This part of the coastline was renowned, he knew, for its treacherous tides and many ancient shipwrecks. You will understand that the fellow realised instantly what he had discovered.
For the next three days he pored over many of the old texts, maps and charts, studying ancient Spanish history, accounts of folk stories from southern England and medieval records of shipwrecks. He found little to confirm his growing suspicion that he had stumbled onto the forgotten record of a lost treasure ship, but learned much about the history of the area surrounding the old monastery and the source of some of its wealth. I believe that his discovery sealed his fate.
"Having satisfied himself that he knew the precise geographic location of his goal, at least as far as the vagueness of the ancient account allowed, telling no-one of his intentions he set off. I suppose he discovered that the monastery had long since decayed, however the cliff overlooking the island mentioned would have still exhibited the characteristic mounds where the old stones were scattered and buried.
It seems that he spent a day or two making measurements, consulting his charts and watching the tides. He had been staying at a small inn about four miles from this place and had confided much to the landlord, a man of some age and much local knowledge. It was from the landlord that I learned much of this early part of the mystery.
One day, after seemingly completing his preparations, Richard bade farewell to the landlord, saying that he would return that evening with a tale worthy of an ale or two. He never returned. The landlord, naturally, reported the matter to the local constable who searched the cliffs and beaches without result. No trace of the young man was ever found. Scotland Yard sent an inspector, but he too failed to succeed any further than the locals. In the end, the Coroner returned an open verdict at the inquest, and there the matter has rested for many years.
"By this stage of Canon’s story, Watson, you can imagine that my friend and I sat unmoving in our seats. I could see several possible explanations for the events he had so far described, but I had no chance to voice them before the tale was continued.
" ‘Now gentlemen,’ he said to us, ‘are you game for adventure? For you see I could not let the matter rest. So when I had sufficient means I took it upon myself to solve the mystery of his disappearance and complete the quest. Now I have finally discovered the secret my brother searched for so long ago and was lost in the seeking. Riches! Untold wealth! Security forever, that is what I have found! Preparations have been made and all I require is two stout helpers to recover it.’ "
"Well, Watson, you will understand we were much in awe of such a prospect. Our circumstances being poor, avarice overtook common sense, so we agreed instantly to assist. After some brief preparations, we accompanied Canon by train to a small village in Sussex, from whence we embarked on a lengthy trek to the coast. A more desolate and lonely place I cannot recall, except perhaps of the scene of your account of our adventure of ‘The Devil’s Foot.’ We made our way to a rough, shingled beach where he showed us a small cave set back at the base of the chalk cliffs. On entering I saw at once that considerable effort had been expended in obtaining equipment used by sponge divers in the deep waters off the coast. An old, though serviceable air pump, a diving suit and monstrous steel helmet all lay about the cavern floor. After helping move the air pump and hoses onto the beach, our friend coaxed us into assisting him into this musty rig. The water was grey and choppy, yet the wind was fairly calm. Though late in the day Canon insisted on testing the equipment in the water. I foolishly thought he wished only to test it before making an effort the next day at recovering anything from the wreck I now assumed he had located. Tragically, I was wrong.
"He had just waded waist deep into the sea when a muffled cry of absolute terror came from the diver. The water suddenly boiled up like wild surf on a reef and he disappeared beneath the now raging waves. It was fearful, Watson. We tried to pull him back using the air hose, but struggle as we might no amount of effort could retrieve the fellow. It was as if he was in the grasp of the Devil himself. A moment later the hose snapped apart and we were thrown to our backs upon the beach, still grasping what remained of it in our bloodied hands. Without thought for our own safety we rushed out into the water as far as we could, but there was no sign of him. The water was calm now, though still murky. It was as if the bottom had been greatly disturbed by some denizen of the deep. Nothing. We searched until it was dark, but we had lost him.
"Both of us sat, wet and in silence, at the entrance to the cave. We had been sitting for some time when my companion rose and said he was going to find the inn and report the matter to the police. I bade him take care and watched him walk off into the moonless night. The series of events consumed my thoughts. For the life of me, Watson, I could not conceive of any explanation for the events we had witnessed. None of my reasoning gave me the slightest hint to ease the sense of mystery I felt at the loss of our companion. Eventually, I decided that action may succeed where reason had failed, so I set about making an examination of the cave. It gave the appearance of being fairly small, not extending far back into the cliff. However, after some searching I discovered an opening concealed behind a pile of rocks. With some little effort I as able to force my way through, using what light I could manage from the bullseye lantern I had thought to bring on our little outing. Once through the opening, Watson, what do you think I discovered?"
Engrossed as I was by this singular narrative, as you may imagine I said that I had not the faintest idea. At my reply he seemed to smile and went on.
"There was a small chest, laying open. It contained various unremarkable items, save one. There was a folded paper to one side, which appeared rotten from the salt air. I opened it, taking care not to have it disintegrate in my hands, and saw it was the very same charred translation that Canon had described. The original in face of the note you are holding. It also bore a brief notation in red ink. Watson, it was a date."
I was enthralled. "What date, Holmes?" I said, scanning the paper in my hand, in vain, for any reference to a date.
"It was the First of April, Watson," he said with a huge smile. "All Fools Day; as it is today!"
I sat, momentarily confused as to the meaning of this revelation. I looked over at Holmes, who appeared ready to collapse with mirth. I understood at that moment that he had broken the spell of mourning I had cast over myself. I realised that the only real treasure one has is a true friend. We both burst into uproarious laughter.
(This story is ã copyright 1996 Peter L. Buckley)