The Adventure of the Gibraltar Spy, Part 2
Oh, final exams are JOY. Not. Self-scheduled exams, however, are rather nice. And I submitted my last final paper today, which was a relief. Anyway, here be part two of three.
Part Two
I had of course been to Gibraltar on several occasions during my time in the Navy, but I never failed to marvel at its singular beauty- the rock rearing up out of the sea and towering over the cluster of buildings and ships at its base. It was a bustling British port at the mouth of the Mediterranean, a small outpost of civilization in a vital strategic position. Despite the balmy air, a startling change from the gales we had shivered through only weeks earlier, the docks were full of the same ordered hubbub of officers bellowing orders, men loading supplies, bumboat women peddling their wares, and coils of rope and mountains of barrels that might be found at Portsmouth or Plymouth.
Since we intended our stay to be of some little duration, Holmes gave most of the men shore leave, keeping but a skeleton crew on board under Hudson’s command. The two of us accompanied Lestrade as he dropped off his dispatches from England with the Port Admiral, before proceeding together to the headquarters of the army garrison at Princess Amelia’s Battery. When we stated our business, General Crean, the officer in command of the regiment permanently stationed there, immediately received us in his office. He rose to meet us with hand outstretched, a smile on his craggy face and lighting his kind blue eyes.
“Here, let me take that,” he said affably, as Holmes proffered Sir Joseph’s letter of introduction. The General glanced over it, then looked at us with admiration.
“I am very pleased to see you, gentlemen,” he said. “This matter has been weighing on my mind this past month, and it’s a relief to have your assistance, I’ll tell you frankly.”
“Why don’t you start from the beginning,” Holmes suggested. “When did you first suspect the presence of a spy in the garrison?”
General Crean paused a moment in consideration.
“It must have been the beginning of October, because that’s when the Levanter wind was strongest this year-when it starts blowing, that’s when all the smugglers from the Bay try to slip through the Straits. Usually we can pick off at least a few of them from the battery at St George’s Hall, which was tunneled out to provide a sweep of the north side of the rock. However, we’ve been low on both men and ammunition, and have had to conserve our resources by rotating which vantage point was to be manned at any one time. And somehow, those blasted smugglers knew which were our vulnerable points, and sailed close in to them, passing us in perfect safety!
"The problem seemed to concentrate around the Notch, where St George’s Hall is, but all out efforts were in vain. Clearly someone inside the garrison was passing information to the enemy, but we were perplexed by how quickly he did so. We thought he might give some sort of signal when the battery was unmanned, but we kept it carefully guarded, and there was never any indication of such a thing.”
Holmes, who had been listening attentively up to this point, interjected, “What is the full extent of the defenses here?”
“We have several above-ground batteries- Princess Caroline’s and Princess Anne’s here, as well as Princess Amelia’s, and then Farringdon’s to the east. That’s where the entrance to the Notch tunnel is, which the Company of Soldier Artificers carved out during the Great Siege, about twenty-five years ago. We’re just as happy for it now, for St George’s Hall affords the northernmost point of bombardment on the Rock.”
“I understand. And now, please tell us every detail that may possibly be of assistance to us in the matter of Major Duncan’s death.”
The General took a deep breath.
“Algy Duncan was one of my best officers- a soldier through and through, and the men loved him. He should have been out on active duty somewhere, rather than commanding a battery here. It was the night of New Year’s Eve, so all the officers at Farringdon’s battery were having a bit of a party in the barracks. No one seems to have noticed at exactly what time Major Duncan left, but his absence was noted at midnight, when we had the toasts. He had not returned by the time the party broke up at about 2.00, but we assumed he’d gotten tired and gone to bed. One of the guards who patrols the tunnels discovered his body there the next morning, and raised the alarm. The surgeon confirmed that he had been dead for several hours- he had been strangled.
“Of course we investigated thoroughly- all the other officers had been more or less continuously at the party, barring calls of nature and such, and the men had been in their barracks, under guard. There are also guards patrolling the batteries and tunnels, but any one spot may be unguarded for a good half hour, depending on where it is on the guard’s route. Major Duncan’s body was in a dark corner, so the guard must have passed it, but not noticed it until daylight. That doesn’t say much for the security of our fortifications, I’m afraid, but we are rather more concerned with attack from the outside. The entrances are much more heavily guarded- it would be impossible for any one to get in unnoticed, which means that the spy must be someone within the garrison. The thought of his being here, among us and undetected, has been driving me mad for the past weeks. But we must keep the defenses running.”
“Have you taken no measures to try to prevent the man from communicating with the enemy, however he’s doing so?” Holmes interjected.
“I have given orders to tighten the security- no one is allowed out the barracks unless they’re on duty, and the men are kept under strict observation. Beyond that, what can we do?”
“That is why I am here,” Holmes replied. “I should first like to see the place where the body was found. I deeply regret that I could not have been here at the time, for there would have been so much information I could discover- but there may yet be some indication to point us in the right direction.”
“There is one thing. This was found by Major Duncan’s body that morning, and no one has any idea how it could have gotten there.” The General opened his desk drawer and took something out, which he displayed on his open palm.
“Why, it’s only a tiny chip of pottery,” I said, disappointed.
“It may still prove useful to us, Watson. General, if I may take it with me?”
“Of course, if it will be of assistance. Now, follow me.”
General Crean led us for the short, scenic walk along the cliff top from one battery to the next, then down into the tunnels dug through the heart of the rock itself. They were rough, wide passages, the ground worn smooth in tracks by the weight of gun carriages, and all their surfaces glowing creamy gold where the sunlight filtered in and reflected on the pale rock.
“This is all limestone, is it not?” Holmes asked.
“I believe so, yes,” the General replied, seeming a little surprised by this academic question, when much more serious matters were at stake. “It’s relatively easy to carve out, at any rate. This is what we call the Notch, containing St George’s Hall,” he added, as the tunnel opened out into a gallery that obviously followed the outer protruding curve of the rock. A formidable ring of cannon, standing before holes cut through to the outside, filled the space. It was smaller in size than a gundeck on a man o’ war, but higher-ceilinged and airier due to the light and fresh air allowed in. I looked out of one of the embrasures, to see a view of Gibraltar Bay, and the curve of coastline on the opposite side.
“You can see the Spanish coast from here,” General Crean explained. “Over there is where all the smugglers come from. And this,” he gestured toward a natural alcove in the back wall of the room, “is where Major Duncan’s body was found.”
“Did he appear to have fallen there, or his body placed there after death?” Holmes asked, absorbed in a close examination of the surrounding stone.
“I should say he fell there- his limbs were all at awkward angles.” The General’s tone was cold and emotionless, but I could read in the clench of his jaw, the furrow of his forehead, how painful it was to recall the sight of his friend’s body lying there.
“Halloa!” Holmes’s face was inches from the floor. “Do you know what could have made this mark?” He sat up, indicating to us a small indentation in the rock. It was about four inches in diameter, shallower in depth, and perfectly smooth. “Look at the rest of the rock, how rough the chiseled and powder-blasted surfaces are. This was produced in an entirely different manner- but how?”
“I fail to see how this is relevant,” Lestrade, who had been watching Holmes’s investigation with an expression of amusement, commented. General Crean’s face reflected similar skepticism.
“It is curious that such a unique mark should be at the very spot where the murder occurred. Still, as you say, it is surely coincidental.” Holmes stood up, turning his attention to the gunports and peering out of one as I had done. Standing near him, I heard him give a low whistle of astonishment, which I took to be a response to be the battery’s impressive height and range. He proceeded to examine each hole in turn, leaning half out for a view of the outside.
“General,” he said, returning to us, “Have you a record of how many times this battery was unmanned?”
“Yes, an examination of my journal should provide that information. But it was unmanned at the time of the murder, I can tell you that.”
“I should like to know, nonetheless.”
“Very well. But as to practical matters- what can we do to catch this traitor?”
“It is too early to tell yet. Now, there is one more thing I would like to see. Have you still Major Duncan’s effects in your possession?”
“They are in his quarters, which have been untouched since his death. But can you offer me no reassurance, Captain?” General Crean asked. “One worry which has preyed on my mind since Major Duncan’s death- is there any chance that he could have been in alliance with the spy?”
“It is a distinct possibility.” Holmes replied. “I am sorry to have to tell you, but you must prepare yourself, should that be the result of my investigation.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We returned to the upper part of the battery, and General Crean showed us to the officer’s quarters, a line of plain rooms along one hallway. Major Duncan’s room was small and unremarkable, a cot, desk, and trunk being the only furniture.
“I have gone through his papers,” the General said, “and everything seems to be in order. No debts, saving up most of his pay, letters from his family- parents and two sisters, no wife and children. No sign of anything in code or at all suspicious.”
“All of his writing things are out.” Holmes noted, looking at the desk.
“Yes, we found them there when we first searched his room. The only thing he had written, however, was a short note earlier that day, so he must have been careless and left them out.”
“Would that be characteristic of Major Duncan?”
“Well, no. He was generally a very meticulous man.”
“We may then take it as a working hypothesis that either something unusual occurred to distract him or- or- is there no indication of there having been anything else written later?”
“I suppose it is a possibility, but we found nothing in the room, and no one has mentioned having received a message from him.”
Holmes made a brief examination of the room, but did not appear to find anything of interest. As we exited the room, we nearly ran into a pretty, dark-complexioned girl who was hurrying out of the adjoining room with her arms full of crumpled linens. She blushed and curtsied in apology, a handkerchief fluttering from the pile as she turned away. It fell at Holmes’s feet, so he picked it up and returned it to her with a gallant nod.
“Who is she?” Lestrade asked, with an admiring glance at her neat figure as she disappeared around the corner.
“That is Lucille, a local girl who does the laundry and cleaning for the officers.” General Crean explained. “She’s generally good and hard-working, although rumor has it she and our Lieutenant Saxon are lovers. But it’s none of my business as long as it doesn’t interfere with discipline.”
“As long as this Mr. Saxon isn’t the jealous type,” I added, considering the situation of one attractive young woman in the middle of a group of officers.
“No, he’s a good-tempered cheerful fellow. He was quite shaken up over Major Duncan’s death- he was his second-in-command, and has taken charge of his division now. He has been doing a fine job- I plan to recommend him for promotion in my next dispatch.”
“Whose room did Lucille just leave?” Holmes asked, preoccupation evident in his tone.
“Why, Lieutenant Saxon’s. But come, sir, I hope you are not implying-”
Holmes waved his hand dismissively. “Where will she be now?”
His question was answered the next moment, as she returned with a stack of clean linens.
“Excuse me, miss.” Holmes intercepted her. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am investigating the death of Major Algernon Duncan. Might I ask you a few questions about him?”
The girl visibly paled, and glanced among the four of us as if cornered, but nodded.
“Pray excuse us a moment, gentlemen.” Holmes drew her into the dead man’s room and shut the door.
General Crean, Lestrade, and I withdrew to the end of the hallway.
“Never mind all this tomfoolery,” Lestrade said, with a critical glance at the closed door. “It seems to me that all you need to do is station a group of soldiers at St George’s Hall on the night before it’s going to be unmanned and catch the rascal.”
“Do you think we haven’t tried that?” Crean asked, his sturdy patience clearly beginning to fray at the edges. “Lieutenant Saxon waited there himself with a group of men, and they didn’t see a hint of trouble. But still the smugglers slipped through that day.”
The door to Major Duncan’s room opened with a clatter; Lucille, in a state of agitation that was
apparent even from a distance, exited, and Holmes followed her into the next room- Lieutenant Saxon’s.
“What can he be at?” Lestrade burst out, exasperated.
“I’m sure he knows what he’s doing,” I said, although I myself had no idea what clue he could be pursuing.
Holmes emerged triumphantly, holding up a piece of paper. Behind him, Lucille slunk out of the room and commenced to weep.
“Good God, Holmes, what have you done to the girl?” I exclaimed, moved by her pitiful appearance.
“The conflict between love and justice is often a bitter one,” was his only reply.
“Whatever can you mean?” General Crean enquired, coming forward to meet him.
“See here.” Holmes proffered the paper. “I thought it likely that Major Duncan had written something before his death, and here it is.”
The General unfolded the paper, and we looked over as he read it:
1 January 1805
To whoever may find this:
If you are reading this, then I have not returned from following Lieutenant Saxon. I believe he is the spy who has been plaguing us, and I must do my duty and confront him. God preserve me, but if the worst has happened, then Saxon is to blame.
Algernon Duncan
“God bless my soul,” General Crean muttered, almost dumbstruck. “Can this be true?”
“Lucille found it on Major Duncan’s desk when she went in to clean, and took it to her lover.” Holmes explained, and the girl burst into a fresh flood of tears.
“Then we must take action at once!” The General looked at his watch. “Lieutenant Saxon will be going to drill his men at the Notch now.”
“What proof have we?” Lestrade asked. “We have the letter, yes, but what if the Major was wrong, and it was another man who killed him? And this still does not solve the question of how he was signaling the smugglers.”
“I think we have proof enough,” Holmes replied with an enigmatic smile. “Let us follow the General’s excellent suggestion. But first, I need to stop by the kitchens.”
“What in the name of heaven for?” Lestrade exclaimed.
“If you will just bear with me, all will become clear.”
I was familiar with Holmes’s desire never to reveal his knowledge until the last possible moment, but I had never found it more vexing than during the long journey to the kitchens, which Holmes went into momentarily, coming out tucking something into his pocket.
To Be Continued...
Part Two
I had of course been to Gibraltar on several occasions during my time in the Navy, but I never failed to marvel at its singular beauty- the rock rearing up out of the sea and towering over the cluster of buildings and ships at its base. It was a bustling British port at the mouth of the Mediterranean, a small outpost of civilization in a vital strategic position. Despite the balmy air, a startling change from the gales we had shivered through only weeks earlier, the docks were full of the same ordered hubbub of officers bellowing orders, men loading supplies, bumboat women peddling their wares, and coils of rope and mountains of barrels that might be found at Portsmouth or Plymouth.
Since we intended our stay to be of some little duration, Holmes gave most of the men shore leave, keeping but a skeleton crew on board under Hudson’s command. The two of us accompanied Lestrade as he dropped off his dispatches from England with the Port Admiral, before proceeding together to the headquarters of the army garrison at Princess Amelia’s Battery. When we stated our business, General Crean, the officer in command of the regiment permanently stationed there, immediately received us in his office. He rose to meet us with hand outstretched, a smile on his craggy face and lighting his kind blue eyes.
“Here, let me take that,” he said affably, as Holmes proffered Sir Joseph’s letter of introduction. The General glanced over it, then looked at us with admiration.
“I am very pleased to see you, gentlemen,” he said. “This matter has been weighing on my mind this past month, and it’s a relief to have your assistance, I’ll tell you frankly.”
“Why don’t you start from the beginning,” Holmes suggested. “When did you first suspect the presence of a spy in the garrison?”
General Crean paused a moment in consideration.
“It must have been the beginning of October, because that’s when the Levanter wind was strongest this year-when it starts blowing, that’s when all the smugglers from the Bay try to slip through the Straits. Usually we can pick off at least a few of them from the battery at St George’s Hall, which was tunneled out to provide a sweep of the north side of the rock. However, we’ve been low on both men and ammunition, and have had to conserve our resources by rotating which vantage point was to be manned at any one time. And somehow, those blasted smugglers knew which were our vulnerable points, and sailed close in to them, passing us in perfect safety!
"The problem seemed to concentrate around the Notch, where St George’s Hall is, but all out efforts were in vain. Clearly someone inside the garrison was passing information to the enemy, but we were perplexed by how quickly he did so. We thought he might give some sort of signal when the battery was unmanned, but we kept it carefully guarded, and there was never any indication of such a thing.”
Holmes, who had been listening attentively up to this point, interjected, “What is the full extent of the defenses here?”
“We have several above-ground batteries- Princess Caroline’s and Princess Anne’s here, as well as Princess Amelia’s, and then Farringdon’s to the east. That’s where the entrance to the Notch tunnel is, which the Company of Soldier Artificers carved out during the Great Siege, about twenty-five years ago. We’re just as happy for it now, for St George’s Hall affords the northernmost point of bombardment on the Rock.”
“I understand. And now, please tell us every detail that may possibly be of assistance to us in the matter of Major Duncan’s death.”
The General took a deep breath.
“Algy Duncan was one of my best officers- a soldier through and through, and the men loved him. He should have been out on active duty somewhere, rather than commanding a battery here. It was the night of New Year’s Eve, so all the officers at Farringdon’s battery were having a bit of a party in the barracks. No one seems to have noticed at exactly what time Major Duncan left, but his absence was noted at midnight, when we had the toasts. He had not returned by the time the party broke up at about 2.00, but we assumed he’d gotten tired and gone to bed. One of the guards who patrols the tunnels discovered his body there the next morning, and raised the alarm. The surgeon confirmed that he had been dead for several hours- he had been strangled.
“Of course we investigated thoroughly- all the other officers had been more or less continuously at the party, barring calls of nature and such, and the men had been in their barracks, under guard. There are also guards patrolling the batteries and tunnels, but any one spot may be unguarded for a good half hour, depending on where it is on the guard’s route. Major Duncan’s body was in a dark corner, so the guard must have passed it, but not noticed it until daylight. That doesn’t say much for the security of our fortifications, I’m afraid, but we are rather more concerned with attack from the outside. The entrances are much more heavily guarded- it would be impossible for any one to get in unnoticed, which means that the spy must be someone within the garrison. The thought of his being here, among us and undetected, has been driving me mad for the past weeks. But we must keep the defenses running.”
“Have you taken no measures to try to prevent the man from communicating with the enemy, however he’s doing so?” Holmes interjected.
“I have given orders to tighten the security- no one is allowed out the barracks unless they’re on duty, and the men are kept under strict observation. Beyond that, what can we do?”
“That is why I am here,” Holmes replied. “I should first like to see the place where the body was found. I deeply regret that I could not have been here at the time, for there would have been so much information I could discover- but there may yet be some indication to point us in the right direction.”
“There is one thing. This was found by Major Duncan’s body that morning, and no one has any idea how it could have gotten there.” The General opened his desk drawer and took something out, which he displayed on his open palm.
“Why, it’s only a tiny chip of pottery,” I said, disappointed.
“It may still prove useful to us, Watson. General, if I may take it with me?”
“Of course, if it will be of assistance. Now, follow me.”
General Crean led us for the short, scenic walk along the cliff top from one battery to the next, then down into the tunnels dug through the heart of the rock itself. They were rough, wide passages, the ground worn smooth in tracks by the weight of gun carriages, and all their surfaces glowing creamy gold where the sunlight filtered in and reflected on the pale rock.
“This is all limestone, is it not?” Holmes asked.
“I believe so, yes,” the General replied, seeming a little surprised by this academic question, when much more serious matters were at stake. “It’s relatively easy to carve out, at any rate. This is what we call the Notch, containing St George’s Hall,” he added, as the tunnel opened out into a gallery that obviously followed the outer protruding curve of the rock. A formidable ring of cannon, standing before holes cut through to the outside, filled the space. It was smaller in size than a gundeck on a man o’ war, but higher-ceilinged and airier due to the light and fresh air allowed in. I looked out of one of the embrasures, to see a view of Gibraltar Bay, and the curve of coastline on the opposite side.
“You can see the Spanish coast from here,” General Crean explained. “Over there is where all the smugglers come from. And this,” he gestured toward a natural alcove in the back wall of the room, “is where Major Duncan’s body was found.”
“Did he appear to have fallen there, or his body placed there after death?” Holmes asked, absorbed in a close examination of the surrounding stone.
“I should say he fell there- his limbs were all at awkward angles.” The General’s tone was cold and emotionless, but I could read in the clench of his jaw, the furrow of his forehead, how painful it was to recall the sight of his friend’s body lying there.
“Halloa!” Holmes’s face was inches from the floor. “Do you know what could have made this mark?” He sat up, indicating to us a small indentation in the rock. It was about four inches in diameter, shallower in depth, and perfectly smooth. “Look at the rest of the rock, how rough the chiseled and powder-blasted surfaces are. This was produced in an entirely different manner- but how?”
“I fail to see how this is relevant,” Lestrade, who had been watching Holmes’s investigation with an expression of amusement, commented. General Crean’s face reflected similar skepticism.
“It is curious that such a unique mark should be at the very spot where the murder occurred. Still, as you say, it is surely coincidental.” Holmes stood up, turning his attention to the gunports and peering out of one as I had done. Standing near him, I heard him give a low whistle of astonishment, which I took to be a response to be the battery’s impressive height and range. He proceeded to examine each hole in turn, leaning half out for a view of the outside.
“General,” he said, returning to us, “Have you a record of how many times this battery was unmanned?”
“Yes, an examination of my journal should provide that information. But it was unmanned at the time of the murder, I can tell you that.”
“I should like to know, nonetheless.”
“Very well. But as to practical matters- what can we do to catch this traitor?”
“It is too early to tell yet. Now, there is one more thing I would like to see. Have you still Major Duncan’s effects in your possession?”
“They are in his quarters, which have been untouched since his death. But can you offer me no reassurance, Captain?” General Crean asked. “One worry which has preyed on my mind since Major Duncan’s death- is there any chance that he could have been in alliance with the spy?”
“It is a distinct possibility.” Holmes replied. “I am sorry to have to tell you, but you must prepare yourself, should that be the result of my investigation.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We returned to the upper part of the battery, and General Crean showed us to the officer’s quarters, a line of plain rooms along one hallway. Major Duncan’s room was small and unremarkable, a cot, desk, and trunk being the only furniture.
“I have gone through his papers,” the General said, “and everything seems to be in order. No debts, saving up most of his pay, letters from his family- parents and two sisters, no wife and children. No sign of anything in code or at all suspicious.”
“All of his writing things are out.” Holmes noted, looking at the desk.
“Yes, we found them there when we first searched his room. The only thing he had written, however, was a short note earlier that day, so he must have been careless and left them out.”
“Would that be characteristic of Major Duncan?”
“Well, no. He was generally a very meticulous man.”
“We may then take it as a working hypothesis that either something unusual occurred to distract him or- or- is there no indication of there having been anything else written later?”
“I suppose it is a possibility, but we found nothing in the room, and no one has mentioned having received a message from him.”
Holmes made a brief examination of the room, but did not appear to find anything of interest. As we exited the room, we nearly ran into a pretty, dark-complexioned girl who was hurrying out of the adjoining room with her arms full of crumpled linens. She blushed and curtsied in apology, a handkerchief fluttering from the pile as she turned away. It fell at Holmes’s feet, so he picked it up and returned it to her with a gallant nod.
“Who is she?” Lestrade asked, with an admiring glance at her neat figure as she disappeared around the corner.
“That is Lucille, a local girl who does the laundry and cleaning for the officers.” General Crean explained. “She’s generally good and hard-working, although rumor has it she and our Lieutenant Saxon are lovers. But it’s none of my business as long as it doesn’t interfere with discipline.”
“As long as this Mr. Saxon isn’t the jealous type,” I added, considering the situation of one attractive young woman in the middle of a group of officers.
“No, he’s a good-tempered cheerful fellow. He was quite shaken up over Major Duncan’s death- he was his second-in-command, and has taken charge of his division now. He has been doing a fine job- I plan to recommend him for promotion in my next dispatch.”
“Whose room did Lucille just leave?” Holmes asked, preoccupation evident in his tone.
“Why, Lieutenant Saxon’s. But come, sir, I hope you are not implying-”
Holmes waved his hand dismissively. “Where will she be now?”
His question was answered the next moment, as she returned with a stack of clean linens.
“Excuse me, miss.” Holmes intercepted her. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am investigating the death of Major Algernon Duncan. Might I ask you a few questions about him?”
The girl visibly paled, and glanced among the four of us as if cornered, but nodded.
“Pray excuse us a moment, gentlemen.” Holmes drew her into the dead man’s room and shut the door.
General Crean, Lestrade, and I withdrew to the end of the hallway.
“Never mind all this tomfoolery,” Lestrade said, with a critical glance at the closed door. “It seems to me that all you need to do is station a group of soldiers at St George’s Hall on the night before it’s going to be unmanned and catch the rascal.”
“Do you think we haven’t tried that?” Crean asked, his sturdy patience clearly beginning to fray at the edges. “Lieutenant Saxon waited there himself with a group of men, and they didn’t see a hint of trouble. But still the smugglers slipped through that day.”
The door to Major Duncan’s room opened with a clatter; Lucille, in a state of agitation that was
apparent even from a distance, exited, and Holmes followed her into the next room- Lieutenant Saxon’s.
“What can he be at?” Lestrade burst out, exasperated.
“I’m sure he knows what he’s doing,” I said, although I myself had no idea what clue he could be pursuing.
Holmes emerged triumphantly, holding up a piece of paper. Behind him, Lucille slunk out of the room and commenced to weep.
“Good God, Holmes, what have you done to the girl?” I exclaimed, moved by her pitiful appearance.
“The conflict between love and justice is often a bitter one,” was his only reply.
“Whatever can you mean?” General Crean enquired, coming forward to meet him.
“See here.” Holmes proffered the paper. “I thought it likely that Major Duncan had written something before his death, and here it is.”
The General unfolded the paper, and we looked over as he read it:
1 January 1805
To whoever may find this:
If you are reading this, then I have not returned from following Lieutenant Saxon. I believe he is the spy who has been plaguing us, and I must do my duty and confront him. God preserve me, but if the worst has happened, then Saxon is to blame.
Algernon Duncan
“God bless my soul,” General Crean muttered, almost dumbstruck. “Can this be true?”
“Lucille found it on Major Duncan’s desk when she went in to clean, and took it to her lover.” Holmes explained, and the girl burst into a fresh flood of tears.
“Then we must take action at once!” The General looked at his watch. “Lieutenant Saxon will be going to drill his men at the Notch now.”
“What proof have we?” Lestrade asked. “We have the letter, yes, but what if the Major was wrong, and it was another man who killed him? And this still does not solve the question of how he was signaling the smugglers.”
“I think we have proof enough,” Holmes replied with an enigmatic smile. “Let us follow the General’s excellent suggestion. But first, I need to stop by the kitchens.”
“What in the name of heaven for?” Lestrade exclaimed.
“If you will just bear with me, all will become clear.”
I was familiar with Holmes’s desire never to reveal his knowledge until the last possible moment, but I had never found it more vexing than during the long journey to the kitchens, which Holmes went into momentarily, coming out tucking something into his pocket.
To Be Continued...