Sherlock Holmes and the Sacred Sword

expression.

'I've been had, Watson. Outwitted, and by a pigmy, no less.'

'But Holmes,' I sputtered, 'what happened?'

'I should have known when the little devil opened the window. We had him cornered, but he sailed out of the window and into a wagonload of hay, which is how he intended to leave our quarters even had he not been discovered. The hay wagon is four blocks away by now, and we shall never find it. Our little friend has made a clean getaway, but he didn't take what he was after. We can console ourselves with that.'

'He was after the dagger, of course. Why?'

'Possibly that cartouche reveals something of its point of origin. Evidently, Chu San Fu doesn't want the ancient blade in our possession.'

'Ah, then this pigmy was sent by the Chinaman?'

'You know Chu's methods, Watson. He employs dacoits, Lascars, and other unusual types with strange aptitudes. I'll give him credit for a most ingenious scheme of gaining entry here.'

Holmes was closing the bay window as he spoke. 'Fortunately, there was not enough sound to rouse the household. Best we not mention a barefooted pigmy to Mrs. Hudson, for she might not sleep soundly for a week.'

His remark brought an alarming thought into focus in my mind.

'If the pigmy is one of Chu San Fu's bizarre entourage, then the Oriental must know of your involvement.'

'It would seem so, Watson. I'll have the golden box taken to Mycroft tomorrow. Possibly it will be informative to him, though I doubt it. Just a device to get the little devil in here.' Locking the front door, he made for the bedroom stairs again. 'I'll also have the house watched during our absence.'

'Then tomorrow it is off to Surrey?'

'Why not? We may pick up the trail of the insidious Chu San Fu quicker there than here in London.'

'A moment, Holmes. This chap, Deets—or Spaulding—'

'For the time, let us refer to him by his assumed name, Deets.'

'Very good. But I don't recall his giving you directions.'

'Mayswood, the name of his residence, was enough, my good Watson.'

And on this puzzling note, Holmes retired to his bedroom.

With my lights extinguished for the night, a myriad of thoughts tried to march down the corridors of my mind. Long experience with the affairs of Sherlock Holmes allowed me to erect roadblocks, and sleep was not long in coming. However, it was invaded by filmy figures spawned from the imagination. Wild horsemen thundered over an endless sea of sand with pyramid shapes in the background sharply defined by a blazing sun. Each nomad had sharply filed teeth and was swinging a huge, curved, scimitar-shaped weapon. Heads will roll, I thought before sinking into total oblivion.

Chapter Five

Surrey Interlude

Mid-morning on the following day found Holmes and myself at Waterloo Station where the sleuth purchased two tickets to Litchfield.

Our train journey to Surrey was uneventful. During most of it my friend leaned back in his seat with his hat pulled over his eyes, his chin sunk on his chest and his long legs stretched out before him. He might have been catnapping, or his brain could just as easily have been churning. I guessed that neither was the case and that he was, instead, disassociating himself from our discussion with his brother and the events of the previous evening so that he could approach the Deets mansion and its problems with a clear mind. It was Holmes's contention that a brain free of supposition and unclouded by half-truths was like an unused photographic plate, ready to take impressions.

A four-wheeler awaited our arrival at the station and whisked us into the countryside. The rain had passed through the area on its way to London and the greens were greener because of it. A spring sun projected lukewarm rays to brighten the scene, and everywhere was a soft, almost melodious sound as swollen rivulets attempted to drain off the surface water that had accumulated during the torrents of the past few days.

As we wound through curved lanes bordered by hedges and trees eagerly displaying the first new growth of the season, there was the musty but not unpleasant odor of wet leaves and moist earth. Into these tranquil surroundings a seeming contradiction sprang to my mind and traveled to my lips.

'Did Deets mention why he lived down country?'

'It would seem your interest in the racing world is confined to the equines that you wager on, ol' fellow.'

I admitted as much.

'But they had to come from somewhere. Mayswood is well known as a stud farm.'

'By Jove, I have heard of it.'

'But did not associate it with our client. No matter. Possibly you can secure some hot tips on potential winners of the future.'

Our road now left the trees and progressed up a slope towards an imposing marble building, much as Deets had described it. I noted a considerable cluster of buildings in the rear, obviously stables, and white rail fences that subdivided lush meadowland. In one area there were several jumps, and everywhere there was the neat and clipped white-on-green one would expect at a breeding farm.

As we reached the crest of the incline, our carriage swept round the imposing house and we found Clyde—I forced myself to think of him as Deets—speaking to two gillies in the stable area. He crossed towards us immediately, a smile creasing his firm face.

'I trust your journey was pleasant, gentlemen.'

'Quite,' replied Holmes.

His busy eyes were absorbing the scene as were mine. A number of horses were being released to follow familiar paths towards pastures. Some of the animals were mature, powerful beasts given to demonstrate their fit condition with leaps and lashing feet as they gained momentum and streaked into the fenced areas that surrounded the establishment.

Our host, in riding trousers and cavalry boots with an open shirt, was a far cry from the dandy of the previous day. As he led us toward the mansion house, I could not suppress a question.

'Any potential stakes winners among your animals?'

'We always hope. Several yearlings show unusual promise and their bloodlines are excellent. There's one, sired by Nurania, that we're excited about.'

We were close by the dwelling now. A porte cochere was the main feature of this side of the mansion, and a large affair it was. Two carriages could have driven underneath it at the same time. Deets indicated puzzlement as to the next move.

'Would you care to wash up now before lunch, or does a visit to the scene of the incident appeal?'

'Being outside, let us view the balcony from the ground,' suggested Holmes, and our host led us round the nearby corner.

The north side of Mayswood had an imposing flight of steps up to a formal entryway, this being the front entrance, though I imagined the major traffic passed through the door by the porte cochere. Further along, the smooth stone walls formed a right-angle recess allowing for a second-story balcony onto which five French windows opened. The break in the rectangular shape of the edifice was a pleasing architectural touch. The balcony was fronted by a stone balustrade on which were ornamental heads of savage beasts. In the center, a lion's head was slightly larger than its companions, a nice patriotic touch I thought.

'This being the balcony that you feel the intruder reached?' questioned Holmes in a manner that indicated his query was purely form.

Deets nodded. 'For the life of me, I don't see how he made it.'

I didn't, either. The windows on the ground floor were all effectively barred. Above them the walls were smooth, and any ledges or projections of some sort that would have given a cat burglar the handholds necessary to reach the balcony were just not there. Stout English ivy, which has served the lawless so well, was also absent.