"My dear Watson, I doubt if this tale will spread beyond The Haven and you were quite magnificent, you know. It is the result that counts and you certainly extricated us from a sticky wicket in there. Now let us hasten our steps back to St. Aubrey, for there are some fish that must be swept into the net."
Holmes set a brisk pace back toward the town and, though pressed to keep up with him, my natural curiosity would give me no peace.
"But of what use was this foray into that shoddy pub? Lothar Gridley's words did not jibe with the facts."
Holmes's lips were compressed in a thin line. "It depends on what facts you accept. The nephew was most casual about the insurance money, which leads me to believe that Amos Gridley had income other than his antique shop. Penurious he might have been but not without assets. Lothar also admitted that the old man took trips, a fact not brought to our attention before. Therefore he could have been the man in Constantinople and at the Nonpareil Club as well. Also we know that the deceased had a scar on his arm."
"What prompted you to guess that?"
"It pays to be well-versed in the history of crime. A retentive memory is also of assistance."
Though I made several more overtures, I could not extract further information from my friend who seemed to be intent on planning his course of action. Frankly, I had had enough of action for the time.
When we reached the head of the town's main street, tree naved with ancient oaks, the porch of The Crossbow was visible. I noted Witherspoon and Constable Dankers standing there evidently watching for us. Witherspoon acknowledged our arrival with a wave of his hand and the two local residents descended to the street and walked to meet us.
"We were beginning to worry about you," said the medical examiner.
"Watson and I took time to admire the countryside," replied Holmes. "Now if I can view Gridley's place of business, we might close the book on the late antique dealer."
"We are almost opposite it." Constable Dankers indicated an early Georgian edifice on the other side of the street. He seemed grumpy and sleepy-eyed but made for the door, beneath an antiques and refurnishing sign, readily enough, extracting a key from his pocket.
As we entered a large, dark room, Dankers crossed with familiar steps to open the curtains of the two deep bay windows, which faced onto the street. The afternoon sun revealed cabinets and cupboards that seemed repositories for a goodly collection of tools. I noted an absence of period pieces, knickknacks and bric-a-brac and wondered if the antique dealer had kept his inventory elsewhere.
Holmes gave the room no more than a brief glance and then turned to face the constable and medical examiner. There was a crispness in his manner, previously unrevealed.
"So much for the late Amos Gridley who, it would seem, did little business in antiques but a great deal of refinishing, framing and reconditioning."
Dankers nodded. "Amos was handy."
"He would have to be. Twenty years ago in Devonshire there was a man called Garth who succeeded in unloading a number of art forgeries on unsuspecting collectors. Like all who plied his questionable trade, he had to be adept at framing and the composition of paints to allow his bogus masterpieces to pass muster. Such a man would be valuable to a great collector like Basil Selkirk, would he not?"
The name rang a bell with me but I could not recall where I had heard it. Danker's mouth hung open and he seemed to be having trouble breathing. Witherspoon's brow was furrowed and there was a resigned expression in his eyes as though he had feared the falling of the axe and was not surprised when it happened.
"The man, Garth," continued Holmes, "was known to have a long scar on his arm. You did not mention that Amos Gridley had a similar marking, Doctor Witherspoon."
"It did not seem important," mumbled the medical examiner.
"Garth also had a lisp as did Gridley. There are a number of things neither you nor the constable chose to reveal. Doctor Watson and I have been treated to a pleasant view of a slack-water hamlet at peace with the world. Indeed it is, but the picture is out of focus. The tin mines and the tourists are long gone, gentlemen. Nowhere do we see tilled fields and there is not a factory in sight. What do people live on hereabouts? The streets are well-tended, the houses in good repair, so there has to be a source of income somewhere. And we know where, do we not? That notorious recluse, Basil Selkirk, the eccentric millionaire collector. Selkirk is St. Aubrey. Conveniently close to London, but outsiders journey through, not to. A little kingdom to preserve peace and tranquility around Selkirk Castle, which neither of you so much as mentioned. Selkirk wants the peace and serenity of other years safe from the inroads of developers and the encroachment of the masses of the metropolis. He wants it; he pays for it; and you preserve it for him."
Suddenly, I had it. It was in Hassim's shop in Constantinople and the dealer had mentioned the famous collectors of the world. Basil Selkirk of England had been one of them. Now I knew what had drawn Holmes to St. Aubrey, the site of the millionaire's country estate. Small wonder that the death of Gridley had sparked him into action.
Constable Dankers showed signs of argument, but he evidently was taking his lead from Witherspoon who had, mentally, thrown in the sponge.
"What now, Mr. Holmes?" asked the medical examiner.
"We're no part of any crime," added the constable.
"Agreed," replied Holmes. "I'll not deny Selkirk's right to the haven of his choosing. But the façade you men are paid to preserve does not fit into my plans so I had to shred its fabric. What does suit me is an interview with Selkirk. And you are going to facilitate it for me."
"I'll be damned if I will!" remonstrated Dankers.
It struck me that the bumptious, bleary-eyed country constable was with us no more. Dankers's eyes were sharp and he had a hard core of toughness not apparent before. Play-acting, I thought. It has all been a well-rehearsed entertainment with the performers concealed behind the masks of mummery.
"Things might be worse, if you don't," was Holmes's cool response. "I've no doubt you both realized that Gridley had been murdered. But there could not be anything so gauche as a homicide in the private kingdom. Therefore, the cover-up, though I doubt if you know the guilty party or even the reason for Gridley's death."
"That's a fact," agreed Witherspoon wiping his brow with a handkerchief, though the thick walls of the old building preserved a cool ulterior.
Holmes's piercing eyes were fastened on Bankers, certainly the more truculent of the two.
"Much better a consulting detective than a batch of Scotland Yarders to deal with. Think of that. I can ad-vise Trans-Continental Insurance to settle the Gridley claim. Murder still makes them liable. For the nonce, the death can be listed as accidental for I care not a whit about that either. But I will see Selkirk."
As Witherspoon and Dankers exchanged another nervous glance, Holmes moved inexorably onward.
"There are two ways of playing it. Either I have become suspicious through some careless remark that one or both of you made and now consider Basil Selkirk to be an important cog in the mysterious death of Amos Gridley . . . that is one story we might pursue. The alternate will prove more palatable. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, while in St. Aubrey, is deeply desirous of speaking with the famed collector, Basil Selkirk, in connection with some objets d'arts that have figured in cases in Mr. Holmes's files. Do mention the Beryl Coronet and the Midas Emerald, two pieces certain to whet the appetite of a man like your employer. Make your choice, gentlemen."
Again, the constable and Witherspoon exchanged glances. The medical examiner's shrug was expressive and I could deduce their choice before they revealed it.