"You were watching us a short while ago," said Holmes.
"And if I was? The cottage will be mine shortly."
"I fancy so," replied the sleuth. "There will be no trouble about the insurance money by the way."
"Aye, I gave a guess that's why you was nosin' 'round. The idea . . . thinkin' that Amos would do hisself in. Life was dear to him and that's a fact." With our presence apparently explained, Lothar Gridley unbent and signaled with a hand gesture. The barman materialized with two additional tumblers, which he thumped on the table. I declined somewhat hastily though Holmes allowed a sizeable pouring into his glass. I noted that he did not drink it.
"Will you be returning to the sea?" he inquired pleasantly.
Downing a massive swallow, Gridley shook his head as he wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. His palm was horny with callous. "No chance, mate. I'll find me a little place like this, though a mite more shipshape, and it's the easy life for me. If I drink up some of me profits, what's to worry?"
Holmes looked dubious. "Five hundred pounds might not go that far."
Gridley snapped his fingers with a loose laugh. "The insurance money, you mean. We'll nay worry 'bout that,"
"I'm glad you are well provided for."
There was sudden suspicion in the sailor's eyes.
"Did I say that?"
"You did not. But it's another matter I would have words with you about in any case." Gridley's manner did not indicate that he would appreciate words on any subject but Holmes caught his attention quickly enough.
"We're agreed that your uncle's death was not a suicide. I'm not of a mood to accept it as accidental either."
There was a pause broken by the sound of Gridley's tumbler coming down on the table.
"Finally, somebody with a smidgen o' sense. I've been tellin' 'em old Amos would never ha' been on that roof."
"I heard about your testimony at the inquest. Now your ship did not make port till after the fact, but do you have any thought regarding the matter?"
The man's truculence had disappeared and his manner seemed frank and open. "Someone done fer him, 'tis a fact. I be hearin' talk 'bout some Chinee nosing around the shop but, of a sudden, they come out with the accidental death palaver and everybody's hushed up, mum as oysters."
"Strange." Holmes sat in silence for a moment. "Save for mischance, you might have joined your uncle in his business."
The sailor regarded Holmes as though he had lost his senses. "Business? If you be meanin' the shop, you're off course fer fair, matey. Amos needed no help from me."
Holmes kept probing. "There were those trips." His tone was casual but I knew where he was leading the conversation.
Gridley shook his head. "I'll nay be knowin' 'bout that, but then St. Aubrey has seen little o' me. 'Twill be seein' less when the estate's settled. They do say he hied off at times, lookin' fer antiques but that's bilge water. Whose to buy 'em if he had 'em?"
I found the conversation of the deceased's nephew a series of contradictions but Holmes indicated intense interest in his words.
"You have," he persisted, "no inkling as to who did your uncle harm?"
" 'Twas no one from these parts," replied the seaman. "They could nay ha' handled him fer he was a tough old marlin spike. 'Tis me thought that in his youth he was a wild one fer fair."
"Ahh," said Holmes, "that long scar on his right arm."
"How be yuh knowin' o' that?"
"I think the medical examiner mentioned it."
I was glad that Holmes and Gridley were intent on each other for I must have registered some surprise knowing full well that Holmes's statement was pure fabrication."
The door to the pub creaked open again and I was vaguely conscious of another man entering the establishment as my friend turned to me with satisfaction.
"Well, Watson, we'd best be back to town now."
"Watson, he said!" It was the newcomer's voice that rang out in the dim interior. It was harsh with anger and grew in volume as he continued.
"That's him fer sure. The prince of nosey Parkers. Sherlock Holmes, the detective."
The two customers in the corner pivoted toward us and moved closer. The fat barkeep reached for a bung starter.
"So, Dave 'the Dirk' Buckholtz," said Holmes. I noted that he gathered his legs under the table, ready for action. "Somewhat removed from your haunts, aren't you, Dave?"
"As be you, Holmes." The newcomer's gaze included the others in the tap room. "Not a year since he sent me brother, Mack, to Princetown. Here's a chance I canna' miss."
The man's right hand was moving toward his belt as he rushed toward our table. Judging from his name, I felt he was reaching for a knife, but did not wait to have the matter proven. Jumping to my feet, I swept my chair aloft and swung it in a half-circle, aiming the legs at the oncoming man. They caught him full on the shins and his feet came out from under him but his rush carried his body forward and his chin came down on the table top with an alarming sound. I was staggering off balance, the chair still in my hands, and the bottom of one of its legs caught the fat barkeep full in the throat. Dropping his bung starter, the man wheezed in pain and fell to the floor clawing at his windpipe. Thrown further off balance by this completely accidental collision and still clutching the chair for what reason I know not, I spun to my left on one leg and the wooden seat of the chair caught one of the two customers full in the jaw. He fell like a log. His companion, who had been closing in on us as well, suddenly backed off as I regained my balance with a desperate effort and stood breathing heavily in the middle of the room.
"Hold on, man, fer I'm wantin' no part of the likes of you," he shouted and suddenly turned and bolted through the front door. Not knowing quite what to think, I turned and surveyed a stark tableau.
Holmes was standing behind the table, his back to the window, with as close to a startled expression on his thin, aquiline features as I had ever seen. Beside him, Lothar Gridley was regarding me with a slack jaw. Dave the Dirk had fallen half under the table and was motionless. The bartender still lay on the floor gasping, his legs twitching spasmodically. The unidentified customer was on his back, inert, a thin trickle of blood coming from his open mouth. Possible concussion, I thought automatically.
"I've always said, " muttered Lothar Gridley, " 'Tis the quiet ones you watch fer."
Still breathing heavily, I regarded him with, I hope, some dignity. "I beg your pardon?"
His face turned toward Holmes. "Not a word has he said since I come in and of a sudden there's three men laid out."
"Quite," replied the sleuth. "My associate, Watson, is a famous chair fighter, you know. A method of mayhem much practiced in the Andaman Islands."
"I've never sailed to the Andamans," said Gridley.
I found myself most grateful for this information. Holmes, possibly because he could think of nothing else to say, was indulging in one of his little jokes and I speared him with a glance of reproof. My censure seemed to curb his impish humor.
"Prior to this brief interruption, we were ready to leave. I see no reason to delay, do you?"
Holmes was looking at Gridley who shook his head, indicating the bodies on the floor.
"What they got, they asked fer. Are you really, that detective, Sherlock Holmes?"
Holmes indicated this was so. "Currently conducting an investigation for the Trans-Continental Insurance Company."
Gridley was regarding me with a wary air.
"Well, I'm not knowin' much about detectives, Mr. Holmes. But it's happy I am that your associate here seems kindly disposed toward me."
I could hardly contain myself as we left The Haven and resumed the road back to St. Aubrey.
"Really, Holmes. Chair fighting! The Andaman Islands! Such nonsense. How shall I ever face my patients or dear Mrs. Hudson again with a reputation as a barroom brawler?"