Текст книги "A Farewell to Baker Street"

Автор книги: Mark Mower

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

The footsteps from the hallway drew nearer and PC Curtis entered the study a couple of seconds later. He was red in the face and a thin sheen of sweat clung to his forehead – clearly not the sort of day to be running around in a heavy police uniform. “As you rightly guessed, Mr Holmes, there is a car parked in a clearing among some elms which back on to the fence at the rear of the estate. The new-style tax disk gave no hint as to the car’s owner, but on the front passenger seat were some papers, headed up with the words ‘Henshaw Legal Services’.”

“Capital! I will forgive you for your suggestion that I merely guessed at the location of the car, PC Curtis, when it was in many ways the only feasible explanation for what had happened to Henshaw’s vehicle, but then I digress. I was about to share some other observations on what occurred within this house earlier today.”

PC Curtis looked suitably admonished, but when I cast a glance in Wattisfield’s direction, I saw him give the young officer a sly wink of approval. Holmes seemed not to notice and carried on with his deliberations.

“Heinz Descartes had already informed Henshaw that he was to take a walk around the estate after his cooked breakfast. Having left Henshaw at the dining table, he returned briefly to his room, to pick up his rucksack and, no doubt, a few provisions for his hike. I think it unlikely that he would have taken the rucksack down to breakfast with him. Having collected this, he then left the manor and began to walk off down the drive. However, he retraced his steps back to the house only a short while later, perhaps to retrieve something he had forgotten or to spy on the movements of Henshaw. Either way, Mrs Dawson was not wrong in her assertion that Descartes had left the house twice this morning. For his part, I imagine Henshaw had left the breakfast table as soon as Descartes was out of earshot and had made for the study, fully intent on emptying the money from the safe, while all of the other occupants were busy.”

“What motive do you imagine he had for taking the money, Mr Holmes, was it just greed – a simple matter of theft?” asked Wattisfield.

“In this case, I believe it was simply that, Chief Inspector. With his impending wedding to the wealthy socialite, Verity Ainsworth, we can surmise only that he needed to supplement his solicitor’s salary with some extra funds. However, I am certain that he was the only person alive who knew the cash was in the hidden safe – it was originally a nest egg of Harker’s. In the reading of the will, there was no mention of the extra cash, which makes me believe that Harker had been content for the money to be secreted in the safe for some purpose other than the general maintenance of his family or the running of the estate. With Harker dead, Henshaw hoped to take the money for his own purposes.”

“If that was the case, why did Henshaw not take the money earlier, Holmes,” I enquired.

“A good question. But this is where our friend Descartes comes into the story. I am inclined to believe that it was no accident that the German arrived at Trimingham Manor looking for work soon after the Harkers had died. A search of his room a little later should confirm my thoughts on that. For the moment, let us assume that with the unexpected arrival of Mr Descartes, Henshaw was forced to put his plans on hold, until he could find a suitable opportunity to retrieve the money from the safe.”

“So, are you saying that Descartes knew about the money then, Mr Holmes?” asked Curtis, clearly keen to make sense of the story as we all were. “It’s just that I thought you said earlier that only Henshaw knew about the contents of the safe.”

“Yes, Curtis. I am certain that Descartes knew about the money, he just didn’t know where it was. Only Henshaw knew about the hidden safe and he retained the key to open it. Descartes cannot have been immune to the fact that no one other than the solicitor was allowed in the room. Perhaps that is why he came back to the manor, to see what Henshaw was up to.”

Wattisfield was the next to comment. “Working along the lines of your theory then, Mr Holmes, we have Descartes returning to the house and catching Henshaw in the act of taking the money from the safe. An altercation then takes place as a result of this, and Henshaw is either pushed, or falls back accidently, against the mantelpiece...”

“Quite so, my friend. We are indeed fortunate that Henshaw took to keeping the door of the study locked and the room out of reach of Mrs Dawson and her excellent cleaning regime – I have rarely seen a more pristinely maintained domestic interior than the area outside of this room. But, with the curtains opened up a fraction, you will observe that we have a revealing layer of fine dust on all of the furniture surfaces. Look closely at the desk top and you will discern that we have preserved a small record of what occurred between Descartes and Henshaw in the moments before the latter’s demise.”

Holmes then walked around the desk and positioned himself to one side of the heavy oak bureau, with the fireplace behind him. “Henshaw would have stood somewhere around here. And as Descartes moved towards him, or wrestled with him, we can see how Henshaw’s hand swept back over the desktop leaving a distinct trail in the dust. The fingerprints at the edge of the desk are where he tried in vain to cling to the woodwork before falling backwards.”

Wattisfield continued to look unconvinced: “So, Descartes then makes off from the scene, carrying only the possessions he has with him. There is, of course, one obvious flaw in this imagined chain of events...”

“And that is, Chief Inspector?”

“Well, if Descartes knew of the money as you suggest and had come to Trimingham because of it, he missed an obvious opportunity. All of us can see that theft was clearly not his game plan, as the money is still in the safe.”

Holmes was quick to chide the officer. “What we see and what we deduce from those observations are two different matters. I am convinced that Descartes was motivated to take only a proportion of the money – possibly an amount that he had been told was his or that he believed he was entitled to. Either way, he took £40,000 in cash, no more, no less.”

PC Curtis let out a whistle. “That’s a tidy sum, I’d say, Mr Holmes. But how do you know how much he took?”

“He took exactly half of what was in the safe. If you examine each of the bundles of banknotes, you will see that the individual serial numbers run in a consecutive sequence, indicating that they were withdrawn in one batch as brand new currency. Luckily for us, Descartes drew his share from half of what was in the safe, ignoring those notes which Henshaw had already placed in the briefcase. In effect, he took a portion of banknotes from the middle of the consecutive sequence. Taking the first serial number – which is in one of the bundles in the case – and the last, which still sits in the safe, we can calculate that the total haul was worth £80,000. Counting up what is in the safe and the briefcase indicates that just half of that amount remains. A simple matter of mathematics.”

Wattisfield looked impressed at last. “Mr Holmes, my apologies. I knew that you would be the man for this job. That is a very neat piece of deduction, I must say.”

Holmes swept aside the compliment. “We still have a few dots to join up I fear. Would it now be possible to have a look at Heinz Descartes’ room?”

“Certainly, Mr Holmes. Perhaps I can ask PC Curtis to take you up there this instant. Not that you’ll see much – Descartes has very few possessions and clearly brought little with him when he travelled to England. You must excuse me for a few moments. I have to put in a quick telephone call to Scotland Yard to check on progress elsewhere.”

We were led up the grand stairway of the manor house and into the rooms and chambers of the first floor, where Heinz Descartes’ bedroom was situated towards the back of the house. Entering the room, I could see that it was indeed sparsely furnished. In addition to a small single bed, table and armoire, I could see only one other piece of furniture – a small walnut bureau decorated with scarlet and gilt inlays.

Holmes headed immediately for the piece without even bothering to check the drawer of the table or corner armoire. I recognised the gleam in his eye, the traditional fervour and thrill of the chase that he had always displayed on our earlier Baker Street adventures. Seconds later, he was lifting the box, examining its sides, checking for drawers and probing its operation. With two faint clicks, he had removed an interior veneered panel to reveal a hidden recess from which he pulled a folded document. PC Curtis and I looked on in astonishment.

“By God, Holmes!” I gasped. “How could you possibly have known that you would find that?”

“A hunch, my dear Watson, but a strong one. I was always convinced that Descartes came here with the knowledge that some money awaited him. There had to be some documentary evidence for that, something he could refer to, to prove his claim. A document that he would, quite naturally, wish to keep hidden, until asked to verify the claim. Where better to hide such a document than in this – what looks like his only personal possession. And one which he had no opportunity to retrieve this morning in his haste to escape from the manor after his altercation with Henshaw.”

He opened out the papers onto his lap and scanned the first and last page of the document. His facial expression remained unchanged, giving little away. In fact, the absence of any reaction meant that I was unprepared for what he then went on to reveal. A moment later, he observed, rather casually: “This appears to be a letter from David Harker to Heinz Descartes, written from this manor in the summer of 1921, just after Harker had moved into his new home. Out of courtesy, we will await the return of Chief Inspector Wattisfield. We should then be ready to hear what brought Mr Descartes to these rural shires.”

Wattisfield did not keep us waiting long, but the anticipation of what we might find had Curtis and I speculating wildly about the contents of the letter. As ever, Holmes remained impassive and impervious to our banter.

“Gentlemen, you must forgive me,” exclaimed the Chief Inspector, on entering the room, “but I have good news! The pathologist has confirmed that the cause of death was indeed the blow to the head – the trauma of which is consistent with a fall against something like a mantelpiece. He could find no other significant marks on the body to indicate that an assault had taken place, so we may be looking at a case of manslaughter rather than murder. But the real news is that Heinz Descartes has been arrested this afternoon at a boarding house in Poole. He is being held overnight at a local police station in the town. It should therefore be only a small matter of time before we can put our questions directly to him, Mr Holmes, and resolve this matter once and for all.”

Holmes was quick to praise the police effort. “My dear fellow, that is tremendous news. Let us hope that Descartes is forthcoming in his answers. While you were making your calls, we were also making very good progress,” said he, holding up the letter with just a hint of glee. “It appears that we may already have some answers within this document, which was secreted within Descartes’ bonheur-du-jour.”

The Chief Inspector could hardly contain his joy. “Perhaps then, we should retire to the drawing room, gentlemen. And I will see if I can prevail on the goodly Mrs Dawson to provide us with a small brandy or whisky to accompany your recitation, Mr Holmes.”

***

Some ten minutes later, we were all seated in the dining room, with glasses and cigars to hand. Holmes then read the letter as follows:

Trimingham Manor

Guildford

Surrey

England

18th August, 1921

Dear Heinrich,

You will have to forgive me for the fact that I am communicating with you by letter rather than face to face. I am also very sorry to have to write this to you in English, but whilst I have some mastery of both the French and Dutch languages, I cannot claim to be fluent in German. All will become clearer as I proceed.

This is not an easy letter for me to write. It concerns both of our pasts and, significantly, our futures too . I have thought long and hard about how I would set the facts down on paper and have concluded that I can but tell the truth as I see it. There appears to be no other way. As such, this letter is as much a confession on my part as it is an explanation to you. When you have read this, you will know more about my past than any other person alive, including those nearest and dearest to me. I hope that the facts will remain known only to the two of us.

I will try not to bore you with irrelevancies, but do need to delve sometime back into the past.

I was born in the English village of Cratfield in Suffolk in the early winter of 1900, one of two brothers from an established farming family. From an early age I think I knew that my destiny would have little to do with the family business. In any case, my brother, Tom Coleman, being the eldest by one year, was set to inherit the farm and all of our land, so there was always a general expectation that I, Peter Coleman, would have to make a life of my own . From an early age I read and dreamt of travelling and was hungry to learn more about the world outside of our small village.

With the war in 1914, our lives were turned upside down and steadily we watched as increasing numbers of our friends and relatives went off to fight on the Western Front. I imagine your memories of that time are no less frightening. Working on the farm, Tom and I had plenty to keep us busy and I have to say that neither of us had any great desire to join the army – in any case, I was still too young.

From the early part of 1916, we faced a more immediate threat to our safety. Zeppelin airships began to attack the eastern coastline with frightening regularity, bombing coastal ports and towns and terrifying the local population. You will understand that we were not used to such attacks and were unprepared for the war to be brought to the doorsteps of our homes and farms. In fact, I am sure that the fear of those attacks was generally much worse than any actual damage the airships inflicted.

It was during one of those early airship raids that my story really begins.

I was woken in the early hours of 12th August, 1916 by the familiar sound of artillery guns further down the coast. Instinctively, I ran to my bedroom window and looking skyward saw a continuous tornado of shells being sent up against what I imagined to be a German raiding party. Searchlights from the ground were moving across the sky trying to locate the attackers and at one point I saw the lights catch and hold a Zeppelin in their grasp. I could hear the sound of the airship’s engines droning high above. All the while, the guns continued to pound. For whatever reason, I decided to dress and go outside.

Out in the cold air, I watched as the Zeppelin continued across the sky, tracked by the searchlights, and visible in the growing dawn of the new day. I had made my way down through some woodland about a mile from our farmhouse and pulled myself up onto a wooden gate. At this point, the guns fell silent and I could see the lights of three or four aircraft rising up to attack the airship that, by this time, had shut down its engines and appeared to be drifting out of control towards the coast. The aircraft began to attack the Zeppelin, the rapid bursts of their machine guns being clearly audible from where I sat.

As I watched the events unfold, I was startled to see and hear an explosion at the rear end of the airship. Bright orange flames began to appear above the tail of the craft, moving steadily forwards towards its nose. You might think that I would have felt some joy at seeing the destruction of this hostile invader, but I can say that I felt only horror at the thought of the airmen trapped aboard her flaming hulk. I could hardly bear to watch as the airship dipped at the rear and began to fall to earth. But it was then that my fears become more acute. Over the course of the next five minutes, I watched as the ship fell closer and closer towards our land.

As the Zeppelin fell, I could see a tall column of fire stretching up above her and a long trail of black smoke tracing out her descent. Getting ever closer and nearing the ground, I watched as the stricken craft barely cleared the woods to my side and passed overhead, showering hot debris throughout the trees and across the open field ahead. I remained fixed to the gate, too terrified to move. At less than one hundred feet from the ground, I saw what I thought were black bombs being launched from the airship, but as I watched and waited for the explosions, I realised to my horror that these missiles were in fact the bodies of some of the crew jumping or falling into the field. At that point, the Zeppelin hit the ground with a tremendous bumping, grinding and twisting of metal and continued to travel across the ploughed soil before coming to an abrupt halt on the far side of the field. A large explosion followed and numerous fires across the site flared up and continued unabated.

I could go on at length to tell you about the aftermath of the crash and the efforts made by countless Englishmen to save the few crewmen that remained alive in the burning debris. To explain how the crash site attracted thrill-seekers from far and wide and to commiserate with you about the fact that in the end, all nineteen German airmen lost their lives in this tragic episode. No doubt you will know much of this, and I imagine you will already have guessed how you are linked to the story. But there is much, much more, to tell.

For the two hours immediately following the crash, most attention was focused on the field where the Zeppelin came to rest. All but one of the crew died there, having burned to death in the craft or having fallen from the airship before it crashed. The one crewmember not found there had jumped from his position in the rear engine car of the airship as it passed over the woods adjoining our farmland. He had been spared the agony of burning to death, but as he fell through the trees at speed had broken numerous bones in his body, including his neck. He lived for an hour after the crash before being found by an English Army doctor. I know this because I spent those last precious moments with him, comforting him as he passed away. You need to know this, because he was your father, Franz George Descartes.

I appreciate that it may be difficult for you to come to terms with all that I am about to tell you, but you must bear with me. Franz would have wanted it that way – he told me so.

I did not move from the wooden gate until the airship had hit the ground. At that point, I realised that I must get help. In fact, I need not have worried as within minutes people from the village began to arrive at the scene, running across the field towards the burning ship. As I jumped down from the gate intending to follow the others, I heard a voice from the woods nearby. I climbed back over the gate and proceeded into the trees, following the sound. I could catch only odd words as I stumbled through the semi-lit woodland, but recognised that those words were in German .

When I finally reached Franz, he lay on his back as if sleeping. As I stood above him, unsure what to do next, he smiled up at me and said in perfect English, “Please do not be afraid, my friend, you can see that I am in no position to hurt you!”

I was surprised by the calmness in his voice, as I could already see that he was unable to move his limbs and must have been in tremendous pain. “Please, sit beside me,” he continued. “I may have only a short time to live and have much to say. What is your name? Please, do not worry about getting me any food or water, it will only waste time.”

I told him who I was and how I had watched the airship descend. He then asked me if any of the others had survived the crash and I told him that I thought it unlikely. He appeared to be upset by this and fell silent for a few moments. I asked him where he came from in Germany and he told me that he lived in Hamburg with his wife Gretel and young son, Heinrich. He seemed pleased that I had asked him about his homeland and said that his family meant more to him than anything else in the world. It was for this reason that he needed to talk and he asked only that I listen to what he had to say. I was in no position to argue, and my only fear was that we would be discovered before he was able to finish what he had to say. I then sat beside him and listened intently to every word he uttered.

Let me begin by saying that Franz was an incredible narrator. Even in that final hour, suffering untold pain, he was able to tell his story with colour and vivacity. And in those passing moments, I think he recognised in me a yearning for adventure and an eagerness to hear all that he had to say about parts of the world I had yet to explore. I have never been a deeply religious man, but I have always thought that there was a degree of predetermination in the way that our lives were brought together that fateful morning .

Franz explained that he had been born in France in 1880, the only son of Jean Descartes, a wealthy diamond merchant. His family moved around Europe at frequent intervals and by the time he was eight years of age, the young Franz could speak excellent English, German and Spanish, alongside his native French. However, as a result of his father’s declining health, the family finally settled in a large house in the provincial French town of Albert during the summer of 1890. Franz loved the house, with its elegant blue façade and the line of topiary trees that stood in large pots along the front of the building. And he had fond memories of the countryside throughout the Picardie Region of Northern France.

Within six months his father died, leaving the family with some assets, but some even larger debts. Franz’ grief-stricken mother, Karin – a German by birth – could not understand how the family could be left in such a position given Jean’s lifetime of successful business dealings. But, in short, she was forced to accept the situation, selling the townhouse less than a year later to pay off their debts and moving with Franz back to her hometown of Mansell on the banks of Lake Constance in Southern Germany.

All of this was stressful enough to Franz, but on his sixteenth birthday he received a mysterious package from a firm of solicitors in France that Jean Descartes had always turned to for legal advice. On opening the package, he found that it contained a small key and a letter written to him by his father. Jean had written the letter on his deathbed, without the knowledge of Karin, and had arranged for it to be sent by the firm after his death. Urging Franz to ensure that the letter did not fall into anyone’s hands but his own, he went on to explain that over the years he had accumulated a fortune in diamonds, which he always planned to live off in his old age and to pass on to his family. However, his health had worked against him and so he found himself in the position where he had to think only of the family he would leave behind. But herein lay a problem.

Jean had known for some time that Karin Descartes had a lover, the 28-year-old Mayor of the town. At first, he had ignored their liaisons, hoping that the relationship would not develop into anything serious. He explained to the stunned Franz that their marriage had been loveless for a number of years, so he had always feared a situation like this. Karin had not been prepared to give up her lover and the relationship had become public knowledge throughout the town, much to Jean’s distress and contributing to his ill health. As a result, he determined that whilst Franz should inherit what was rightfully his, he would not leave more than an adequate amount to his widow. In any case, Jean knew that Karin’s rich family back in Mansell would never see her fall on hard times.

Jean Descartes had struggled to think of a way of preserving Franz’ birthright without involving Karin and avoiding a complex legal process. He felt certain that any legal resolution would be challenged by lawyers working for Karin’s family. This he could not risk . But he did, finally, engineer a solution. He explained that he had withdrawn from the security of numerous bank vaults, his full supply of diamonds and had placed them within a locked safe built into one of the interior walls of the French town house. This had been bricked over and the whole plan had been executed in secret when Karin and Franz had been away for a week in Paris. Franz now held the only key to that safe and Jean wished him every success and happiness in his life ahead.

Franz could barely take all of this in, as he read the letter in the drawing room of his new home in Mansell. Without his mother’s assistance he had no way of getting back to France and even if he could, had no idea how he could locate the safe and liberate its contents. And, to make matters worse, Karin Descartes herself died in a boating accident in 1897. In her written will, Franz learned that she had left all of her wealth to her relatives in Mansell, as she had it “...on good authority that my late husband has provided for our son, Franz, in some manner which he has not seen fit to share with me.” Franz felt betrayed.

Penniless and estranged from his mother’s family, Franz joined the Naval Reserve and began to train as an engineer in the Imperial shipyards in Kiel. Immersing himself in his work, he tried to forget about the diamonds and his parents. He enjoyed the work and was well regarded by his employers. In 1899, he married your mother, Nicole – a dark-haired, blue-eyed girl from Munich – and the pair moved to Hamburg. And, in April 1900, you were born to them, Heinrich.

Your father made it clear to me that you and your mother were always the primary focus of his life. But at intervals, he thought about the diamonds back in Albert and kept the small key to the safe within a specially fashioned locket around his neck. He even arranged for copies of the town’s local newspaper to be sent to him in Germany, feeling certain that if the diamonds were ever discovered he would be able to find out and put in a claim for them. But he heard nothing.

The years passed steadily, but with the outbreak of war, Franz was drafted into the Naval Airship Division of the German Fleet Command and became a Stoker Petty Officer on board a Zeppelin airship. Seeing less and less of his family, and risking his life during every air raid over England, he promised himself that when the war was over he would travel to France and reclaim the diamonds for you all to enjoy.

Such was Franz’ story, told to me that morning as he lay dying in an English wood, far from his family. He had told me the story because he needed to tell someone – anyone – before he died. “I am not sure why I have told you all of this, Peter,” he said, looking suddenly tired and weak, “but you are a good listener. I have only one further request of you, and that is that you get a message to my wife and son to say that I love them both and regret that I cannot be with them. Please tell Heinrich that his father was very proud of him.”

I was deeply moved by Franz’ words as the life began to drain from him. I had only known this man for less than an hour in the most surreal of circumstances, but I already knew that I felt closer to him than almost anyone I had ever met. “What about the diamonds?” I enquired, “...is there no way that Heinrich can claim them for himself?”

“I doubt it,” he replied quietly. “I have never told Nicole or Heinrich about the diamonds. You are the only person who knows about them besides me.”

“What about if I help? I could let Heinrich know the story. He could travel to France when he is older, find the townhouse and get the diamonds. Surely there is hope,” I said in desperation.

Franz looked at me wearily . “My friend, you forget that we are at war. Whilst I am French by birth, my son is German. Even if the war were to end soon, I cannot imagine that he would be welcomed, open-armed, by the people of Albert. They would hardly be placated by the knowledge that he was the son of Franz Descartes, who went off to live in Germany and became a Zeppelin raider. Those with long memories will know that Madame Descartes brought shame to the town by her scandalous affair with the Mayor. In any case, what right would he have to enter the house and break down the walls in search of the safe?”

In that moment I knew that I could not leave your father to die without hope. I told him that I would make contact with his family and pass on his final words. But I found myself going further, desperate to help this dying man – a stranger and an enemy of my country. “What if I find the diamonds and deliver Heinrich’s birthright to him?” I ventured .

Franz fixed his gaze on me, staring intently for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually he replied. “You cannot know what you are taking on, Peter. I am guessing that you have never travelled more than fifty miles from your farm. What do you know of the world? How would you do all of this? And why would you bother? I am dying. I have achieved what I wanted – all that I ask is that you pass on my last words to my family. I can ask nothing further. Please leave me now.”

I felt hurt by his rebuke, but was not prepared to give up. “As I see it, you have no choice. I will make contact with your family, but sometime in the future I will also try to find the diamonds and ensure that your family receive what is rightfully theirs.”

He winced in pain and for the first time I could see tears in his eyes. Away in the distance I could hear voices, English voices, getting ever closer in the morning light. “You are right,” he said at last, “I have no choice, I am a dead man. But I will make you promise me this. Should you find the diamonds and carry out your plan, you must promise me that you will sell the gems and take half of the proceeds.”