I shared his desire to disappear as quickly as possible, for I knew what they did to horse thieves out in the country. I did not relish the thought of being lynched or tarred and feathered.
After helping the detective into the saddle and getting to grips with my horse I was already as battered as a bale of barley. We did not go fast, but judging by how I bounced and jostled in the saddle it was fast enough.
We had soon left Anges behind us and were headed over the dark hills and plains. It was not the most comfortable mode of travel.
The roads were miserable, the air cold, our clothing insufficient. We were warmed only by the thought, or rather the hope, that everything would soon end one way or another, and we were pushed forward by the terror of the feared Black Hand, the right hand of the devil.
In describing our journey, I will confine myself to saying that for all its beauty and diversity Scotland can be equally austere and inaccessible, especially when darkness falls and submerges the country into fog so thick that you could cut it with a knife. We rode as fast as our horses would go, resting only briefly, covering mile after mile.
Thanks to this punishing ride we indeed arrived in Glinney before sunrise, just as Holmes had predicted. We rode around the town and climbed into the highlands above.
The lofty stronghold emerged before us through the haze.
My heart leapt as I recognised the castle in the photograph. The hideaway in which she had found a refuge for the last phase of her criminal plan.
She had chosen well.
It was a mighty, impregnable mass of stone, surrounded by steep walls. Behind them was a rectangular main building, and two floors of narrow windows and square towers at the sides. We could not see more, but assumed that there were two courtyards behind the large entrance gate to which the path led upwards.
We reined in our horses and stopped. Although we were still a few miles from our goal, we had to proceed the rest of the way on foot. I was short of breath.
“We shall leave the horses here,” said Holmes. “There is nowhere to hide them at the castle.”
Despite the long ride he dismounted nimbly. Where did he get the energy?
He untied the bag from the saddle horn and tethered the horses to a stake at the side of the road.
“Leave whatever you can. We need to move quickly!”
Easy for him to say; he must have had some perpetual motion machine inside his body, but I was already tired and weak.
But I could not let him go alone. I threw off my warm jacket, leaving just my waistcoat and scarf, and huffed and puffed after him.
We halted under the ramparts and turned away from the main gates, which were locked with several latches. The walls towered above us, but apparently presented no obstacle for Holmes. He examined them carefully, took the bag from his back and pulled out a crossbow with a long rope fastened to the end.
“With a little ingenuity you do not need heavy machinery to conquer the thickest walls. Can you climb with me?” he asked.
“Certainly not!” I gasped.
The detective looked around.
“About thirty yards to your right there is a little door, probably a side entrance,” he said pointing. “Go there; I will come for you. If you hear a suspicious noise, run.”
Although these days I was not much for running either, I agreed, not wanting to spoil his enjoyment of the plan. I made my way to the spot he had indicated and watched his performance. Taking into account his age and recent health problems, I could only marvel.
He tucked the legs of his trousers into his thick socks and armed the crossbow. He took aim and squeezed the trigger. The anchor with the rope trailing behind it sailed over the massive stone wall and I heard a faint clink as it hit the rampart. Holmes pulled the end of the rope until he was certain it held firm and secured it so that he could start climbing. The knots on the rope supported his hands and feet, as did small chinks in the masonry.
Holmes mobilised all of his strength. He could not give up, not when we had come this far. He pulled himself up the rope methodically, hand over hand, his feet searching for chinks in the masonry, higher and higher up the grey stone wall. No doubt he was cold; he wore only a sweater, and in the dark I saw the white puffs of steam as he exhaled.
Then he disappeared from view and I was alone in the darkness beneath the castle. I buried my hands deep in my pockets and waited crouched at the door. It was about twenty minutes before I heard Holmes quietly steal on the other side of the door and it opened. Over the hill the sun was just rising.
Inside the gate rattled and I slipped inside.
I found myself panting beside the detective in a cold narrow corridor.
He pulled me behind him into the castle, where perhaps only the builder knew the way. The corridors crisscrossed, every now and then unexpectedly dodging to one side, held together by passageways, storage rooms and stairs.
It was dark. Electricity had still not been installed. Sometimes we came across an unlit torch and in the third room Holmes found a kerosene lamp.
“I coiled the rope and hid it on the wall,” he said to me, when I finally saw him in the light of the lamp. “I got into the north courtyard. Wait until you see what I found there! Now we must go up to the living quarters. The crucial thing is to retrieve the stolen plans and patents. With a little luck we will get out before they awaken. Then Mycroft will call the cavalry!”
I nodded my agreement.
We scurried from the cellar to a large hall and from there to the grand staircase. The interior of the castle was imposingly vast, but simple, and was silent except for the distant tinkle of cups in the kitchen. The servants were already busy and it was only a matter of minutes before the masters awoke.
We were looking for a study. Surely that was where the Darringfords kept the stolen documents and perfected their schemes.
The windows were very small and all the doors were made of wood, giving the castle a bare character. Here and there was a tapestry, curtains or a dingy suit of armour.
Finally we found it. The door to the study was bolted, but this presented no obstacle for Holmes, who expertly picked the lock.
We went in, leaving the door open just a crack behind us so that we could hear if someone was coming down the corridor.
The centre of the room was dominated by a massive round desk. It was covered with plans, maps, patents, samples of secret chemicals, and letters, which Alice and her brother studied late into the night. Apparently they felt so secure here that they did not even bother to put them away for the night or lock them in a safe. Next to them on the desk were a couple of plates and two unfinished glasses of red wine.
The detective eagerly gathered up the documents and hurriedly examined them.
“Patents from Minutti’s factory, copies of the originals that Pascuale showed us,” he cried. “I would not be surprised if his office is soon destroyed by a fire. And here are materials from Picard’s munitions factory!”
Indeed we found everything, including Lord Bollinger’s strategic war plans. Holmes handed me the most important documents and I stuffed them under my waistcoat. I had no other way to carry them.
“Please take a look around,” he asked me, fully employed with the jumble on the table. There was still a large wardrobe and chest in the corner that needed to be searched.
I looked through the chest, but did not find anything noteworthy.
“Interesting,” my friend suddenly mumbled. He stopped rummaging through the papers on the desk.
“What?”
“There are several documents here that confirm what I had suspected.”
He handed me a few of them.
The first was a letter from Emmeline Pankhurst, an official representative of the suffragette movement, expressing strong reservations about some of Alice’s actions. Although nothing of what the lady did had been made public and or performed openly on behalf of the secret faction, Mrs Pankhurst must have suspected something.