Sherlock Holmes and the Druid Sacrifice: a novel in progress

Sherlock Holmes and the Druid Sacrifice

It was unusually slow on Baker Street that summer so I accepted an invitation to visit my old school chum and fellow rugger Morton Sydney. We had been fast friends in our school days but many years had rolled by since we had last seen each other. I had heard he had landed a rather nice position on the staff of Lord Cheltsford and had moved into plush quarters at the Cheltsford estate in the remote areas of Cornwall near Land’s End. I was delighted to receive an invitation to come and visit for a week or two.

Cheltsford Castle stood on a lonely precipice overlooking a beautiful beach nestled within that rugged and rocky coast. It was an old place, dating back to the 16^th century, but compared to some of the other Cornish castles and old forts it was a recent addition to the neighborhood.

 It was kept in good condition and the interiors were magnificent with artifacts and paintings and magnificent large windows which let in enough light in the daytime to negate the need for artificial lighting, though the place did have gas laid on throughout.

Lord Cheltsford and his family were to be absent during my visit so Morton and I had the run of the place.

My visit with Morton was most pleasant and he gave me a tour of the entire estate. We had been close during our school days and, in spite of the intervening years, we took up right where we had left off all those years ago.

I found the salt air and wild beauty most invigorating. We spent our days riding, reminiscing and even got in a bit of fishing. We inspected closely some of the prehistoric monuments which were scattered about on the place. I always found these relics mysterious and fascinating. What was it like to live in such an age?

One evening, following a most excellent dinner, we were enjoying some delicious brandy in the drawing room when my eye fell upon two exceptionally fine guns displayed on the wall.

“I say, those are magnificent shotguns.”

Morton rose and took one from the wall mount and handed it to me. “Yes, these are beautiful examples of the gun maker’s art.”

“So this is a Holland and Holland twenty gauge I see.” I examined it closely, observing the beautifully polished and oiled walnut stock and hand grip, complete with the Cheltsford family crest engraved in gold leaf.

“What would you say to a little shooting? We could go out in the morning for a little bird hunting,” said Morton.

“That is a capital idea!” I was delighted with the suggestion!

“There is a large field near here which runs to the cliffs overlooking the beach. This time of year it should be full of grouse. Maybe we can bag a couple for tomorrow night’s dinner,” said Morton.

The following morning we were up early and proceeded to the kennels where we selected two fine looking hunting spaniels and headed out.

Though it was summer the strong sea breeze racing over the highland meadow on the cliffs near the coast was quite bracing. It was invigorating to be on the hunt in such a wild area. We walked through some high grass near the edge of the cliff when suddenly our dogs froze. They were onto something. They were well trained and required no command as they suddenly squirted forward, flushing two birds from cover. The birds flew on a low trajectory a scant ten yards in front of us. Morton and I fired simultaneously. One hapless bird dropped and appeared to go over the edge of the cliff.

The dogs unhesitatingly went right over the edge and disappeared from our view. We followed as quickly as possible and found ourselves descending on a narrow, winding trail, down the face of the cliff. We didn’t see the dogs but we could hear them and we soon found them in the interior of a large cave which faced the sea. The entrance was wide and open and the light easily found its way within. We entered and found the dogs unusually quiet and still. They were staring up at something. We had to walk a bit closer to see what it was.

We were both shocked into silence when we realized what we were seeing. There, upon an altar of some sort, made of piled rocks, was the severed head of what appeared to be a young girl.

We were momentarily frozen, so great was the shock at this gruesome and unexpected sight.

“Who is she?” Morton stammered, his voice quavering. “How did she come to be here in such a state?”

“I am sure I have no idea.”

We approached the ghastly remains. The girl had apparently been a beautiful, young woman, possibly in her late teen years or perhaps her early twenties. It was difficult to tell. Her eyes were gone, as were her lips and other soft tissues such as the ears and part of the nose, apparently gnawed off by sea birds and other carrion eaters. The skin on her face was pulled taut, giving her an other worldly expression. A garland of dry flowers still decorated her long, curly blond hair.

Dried blood covered the top of the altar and had stained the side nearest the entrance and the floor of the cave. I recovered my senses somewhat and immediately I thought “What would Sherlock Holmes do?”

“Morton, don’t touch anything. Let’s get out of here. I need to get in touch with Holmes about this. And of course, we need to contact the local authorities.”

“Yes, yes you are right.” He was more than ready to exit this place.

We returned to the manor house and I drafted a note to Holmes.

 “Holmes, come quickly. We have discovered a most gruesome crime here. Have not yet notified the authorities, will wait for your reply.”

The estate had no telephone. Morton had said the Lord Cheltsford was opposed to “these new-fangled contraptions” and found them bothersome in the extreme.

Morton called for Garn, the main grounds man and sent him into the nearby village, which had a telegraph office, to send the message. Garn was told to wait for a while to see if there was a reply. He gave instructions to also get in touch with the local constable and have him come to the manor.

We retired to the den and the fireplace for a spot of brandy and here we reviewed our experience.

Morton seemed stunned. “Did we really see that?”

“I am afraid so,” I replied.

“I think I will turn in,” Morton rose and walked toward the stairway. “Good night Watson.”

“Good night Morton. Perhaps we will see it in a new light in the morning.”

After another short drink, I followed and retired to my bedroom. My bed was very comfortable and, to my surprise, I drifted off to a good night’s sleep.

We were a bit late to breakfast and we both sat silently as we ate our meal. Shortly Bradford, the butler, announced the arrival of Holmes. Holmes entered with a flurry of bluster and energy. He was clearly eager to take on the challenge.

“I might join you for breakfast if that is convenient?” Holmes took a chair.

“By all means Holmes! We are delighted you could get here so soon.” I said. “Morton, let me introduce you to my friend and colleague, Sherlock Holmes.”

Morton extended his hand which Holmes gave a perfunctory shake.

“It is indeed a pleasure to meet you. I have heard much about you and of course I have followed Watson’s accounts in The Strand.”

“Oh yes,” replied Holmes with an expression of sardonic disdain.

“I am afraid those accounts are somewhat sensationalized and often overlook the finer points of the solution of the crimes involved.” Holmes shot me a brief sideways glance; I think in order to see if his comment had pricked my pride a bit.

“Yes, those stories do seem to be fantastic,” continued Morton. “It seems the solutions are often painfully simple and perfectly obvious.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows and gave Morton a long, penetrating look. “You come from a family of means, you were once athletic and you received a good education. You were in a clearly unhappy, short marriage. I can see you have come here to be clear of most of society and to get over the pain of separation. You had no children and are lacking of any great ambition, being content to live a quiet country life in relative ease.”

“Holmes! You don’t have to so rude!” I was unhappy with the treatment of my friend.

“No, no Watson, he is perfectly correct. I don’t know how he can tell those things with a mere glance,” said Morton.

“Don’t be shocked, Watson told me of your background!” This was Holmes’ idea of a joke!

Holmes took a cup of coffee and soon he had a plate of eggs, ham and Cornish biscuits. “So tell me what it is that is so important you so urgently summoned me.”

“Holmes, we have uncovered what appears to be a ghastly crime. It is hard to believe, really,” said I. “Morton and I were out shooting and we followed a fallen bird down the cliff face where we came upon a cave. Inside we found the severed head of a young woman.”

“That is indeed ghastly! Have you told anyone else?” Holmes was clearly taken aback!

“We sent for the constable but he has yet to arrive,” I said.

“Did you tell him the reason for your summons?”

“No, we just requested that he come by as soon as possible,” I replied.

“Then we must quickly go there before he arrives. I need to see an untrampled upon crime scene if possible.”

Soon we were out on the field overlooking the beach. We easily found the faint trail which led to the cliff precipice and down the face to the cave. Holmes entered first. He looked on in silence for a moment and then he went to work.

He pulled his magnifying glass from his coat pocket and carefully examined the unfortunate object of our attention and the pillar upon which it rested. Then he flung himself to the floor of the cave which was covered with a thick layer of sand, apparently blown in on the nearly constant sea breeze.

“Aha!” Holmes excitedly rose with something in his hand. It was a coin which he minutely examined with his glass. “Look at this Watson. What do you make of this?”

I took the coin. It was about the size of a British Crown. It appeared to be made of some sort of bright, gold colored alloy. On one side was an image of a dog and on the other a picture of someone who must have been an ancient Greek. This figure held a lamp. There was Greek lettering wrapped around the edges.

“If I am not much mistaken this reads “Diogenes; Searching for an honest man.” Holmes had, as did many in British schools, studied Greek. “The other side reads; “Faithful Companion,” said Holmes. “Look here, this is a mint mark. I don’t recognize it but it may provide a clue.”

After the examination of the floor his attention was turned to the markings on the cave wall. All of this was done in silence and with complete concentration.

When he was done he turned to me.

“What do you see Watson?”

“Well,” I said. “First of all the cleanness of the cut appears to be almost surgical.”

“Very good Watson!” Holmes interrupted. “What else?”

“There doesn’t seem to be enough blood.”

“Right again old friend. Which indicates?”

“That would indicate the victim probably was not killed here.”

“You are on track my dear fellow! What do you make of the markings on the walls?”

“That, I have no idea. They would seem to me to be some sort of pagan symbols but I have no knowledge of such things.”

“How long has the victim been dead,” Holmes asked.

“That is hard to say,” I replied. “But I would say death occurred about six months to a year ago.”

“Watson, you have been learning well throughout our adventures!”

I may have flushed a little. I admit I was pleased with such high praise from Holmes!

“Do you have your pencil and note pad?”

“Oh yes, I don’t even go on vacation without those,” I replied.

“Good. Please draw on the pad facsimiles of these symbols so we might be able to study them more fully.”

This I dutifully did.

Watson’s drawings

So we withdrew, rather somberly, and returned to the manor. There we were greeted by Morton.

“Did you chaps turn up anything?” He managed a more cheerful attitude.

“Perhaps,” said Holmes. “We do, of course, need more facts. It’s much too early to draw any conclusions but this case certainly has its points of interest.”

I knew Holmes well enough to know his curiosity had been roused.

“I received word from the constable’s office and they informed me he was on his way and should arrive here any moment,” said Morton.

As if on cue we saw a wagon pulling onto the road leading to Cheltsford Castle. Two uniformed officers climbed down once the wagon stopped. They were met outside the door.

“Gentlemen, I am Constable Buford and this is my deputy Johnson. And you are?”

Morton spoke first. “I am Morton Sydney. I am the manager here. Lord Cheltsford and his family are away. This is my friend Dr. Watson and his colleague Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock Holmes? My goodness, what brings you here? It must be something important.”

“Yes constable. It seems my friends have stumbled upon the possibility of a horrible crime.” Holmes maintained his usual cool demeanor. “I think it best if we just show you the scene of the crime.”

“Very well,” said the constable. “Please lead on.”

The constable’s reaction to the crime scene was very much more pronounced than mine had been. I didn’t know if it was the shocking nature of the crime which so struck Constable Buford or, perhaps, something else? I had a queer feeling about this.

“Horrible! Simply horrible,” gasped Constable Buford. He was shaking. “I think I need to go outside for some fresh air.”

We climbed the trail back to the top of the cliff.

“What do you think Constable?” Holmes was now in his full work mode and was very much to the point.

Buford was slow with a reply so Holmes pressed on. “Have you any missing persons or kidnappings recently in your district?”

“No. None. A young girl went missing once before but that was about eight years ago. I don’t think this is her. She was never found but her hair was jet black.”

Holmes produced the coin we had found.

“Does this mean anything to you?”

“No, I’ve never seen one like it before.”

“What about the markings on the cave wall? Do they convey any meaning to you?”

“No sir. I’ve never seen anything like that either,” Buford replied.

“Very well. Please make arrangements for the removal of the remains. I will return to London tomorrow and make a visit to Scotland Yard.

Holmes and I returned to Cheltsford Castle. That evening we sat in front of the fireplace and discussed the situation. My friend Morton, still upset by it all, retired early.

“Well, Watson,” asked Holmes, as he leaned back, placing his hands behind his head while stretching out his long legs, “What do you think?”

“I think it has all of the appearances of some kind of pagan ritual or something along those lines.”

“Yes, it does that.” Holmes slowly sipped his glass of sherry and stared into the fire for a moment.  “Well, of course we need more facts. Supposition at this point just won’t do. When do you plan to return to London?”

“I originally had expected to stay for two more days but I am inclined to return with you tomorrow if that meets your approval,” I replied.

“That would be splendid,” said Holmes. “You know you are always of invaluable assistance to me.”

After a carriage ride to Penzance we took the overnight sleeper to London and in soon we were once again in our familiar surroundings, refreshed and ready to begin our efforts anew.

Holmes wasted no time. He sent me to the offices of The Times to check on any news reports of missing girls. When I returned Holmes was sitting, puffing his pipe. He glanced up at me for a moment.

“I have sent a message to Lestrade and asked him to look into any missing person reports that might match our unknown victim.” Holmes was energized with this new mystery. “How did you make out at The Times?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t find a likely story though there were over a dozen girls that went missing within the purview of The Times over the last six months. As far as I know none of these cases were ever resolved.”

Holmes produced the coin we found at the site of the murder. “What would you say about a visit to my brother Mycroft at the Diogenes Club?”

“At the Diogenes Club?” I knew the club discouraged visits by outsiders.

“Yes,” said Holmes. “I want to show this coin to Mycroft and see if it has any meaning to him. They do have a visitor’s room where we can talk.”

There was a knock at the door and Mrs. Hudson entered. “I have a message for you Mr. Holmes. It is from Inspector Lestrade.”
“Thank you Mrs. Hudson.” Holmes took the missive and gave her a perfunctory wave with his hand and closed the door.

“Watson!” He held out his right hand and handed me the note. “Read this.”

I did so. It was from Lestrade.

“Holmes,

I am sorry but I cannot come now. I will see you soon. Police business you know.

I have sent along the missing persons reports concerning girls and young women we have in our department. I will call on you tomorrow morning.

Lestrade”

Attached to the letter was a paper with 10 missing persons reports. Perhaps one or two of them could possibly describe the unfortunate victim in the cave but the others were clearly not applicable to this case.

“Looks as though there is nothing here Watson,” said Holmes. “We will concentrate our efforts elsewhere.”

Lestrade did make his appearance the following morning.

“Ah Inspector! So good of you to come,” Holmes was beaming! His effusiveness seemed to make Lestrade somewhat uncomfortable.

“Well, yes Holmes, I am happy to help.” He entered and took a seat. He declined an offer of tea, and he produced a printed page which he handed to Holmes. On it were five more missing persons reports.

“I’m afraid that we have come up with little so far but I have two men on it. I can’t stay but if you keep me informed on your progress I will do the same and perhaps we can get to the bottom of this. Good day gentlemen,” said Lestrade as he strode out the door.

Holmes quickly reviewed the list. “Look here Watson! This name might be of some interest. It seems Abigal McPhail’s body disappeared from Salisbury Medical School. It seems the unfortunate Miss McPhail’s body was found in an alley off Berwick Street. She had none to claim her body thus her cadaver was to be used in anatomical instruction.”

“Good God, Holmes! It recalls memories of Burke and Hare! Except the other way around! Here the body was stolen from the medical school.” I was struck with revulsion.

“Quite,” said Holmes. “Let’s be on our way. Mycroft awaits us.”

We went out to the street and hailed a cab. We were off on our way to the Diogenes Club.

For those unfamiliar with the Diogenes Club the following description was included in my story, The Greek Interpreter.

"There are many men in London, you know, who, some from shyness, some from misanthropy, have no wish for the company of their fellows. Yet they are not averse to comfortable chairs and the latest periodicals. It is for the convenience of these that the Diogenes Club was started, and it now contains the most unsociable and unclubable men in town. No member is permitted to take the least notice of any other one. Save in the Stranger's Room, no talking is, under any circumstances, allowed, and three offences, if brought to the notice of the committee, render the talker liable to expulsion. My brother was one of the founders, and I have myself found it a very soothing atmosphere."

Soon we were seated in the Stranger’s room and were there joined by Holmes’ brother Mycroft.

“Brother Mycroft!” Holmes was nearly beaming as he greeted his older brother.

“Sherlock! Good to see you.” The two brothers greeted one another warmly but there was no physical contact between them.

“So what brings you here brother?

“I want you to take a look at this.” Holmes produced the coin and handed it to Mycroft who examined it closely.

“Where did you get this, Sherlock?”

Holmes related the circumstances surrounding the discovery of the coin,  and the head in the cave. He showed him the drawings I had made of the markings on the wall of the cave. Mycroft listened attentively, then spoke.

“I might have something on the origin of the coin. I will have to make some inquiries. It may or may not be connected with the Diogenes Club. It is unimaginable a member in good standing would have such a coin as this struck. It is quite against our bylaws for members to publicize or advertise our club in any way. I will call on you shortly when I have some information.”
“Thank you Mycroft, I knew I could count on you.” With that we made our exit.

As good as his word, Mycroft came calling three days later. Mrs. Hudson tried to announce him but he practically steamrolled by her and entered the room like a blustery gale, with all of his exaggerated personality and larger than life presence.

“Mycroft!” Holmes greeted him eagerly.

“Sherlock! I have some information you might find very interesting. Dr. Watson, good to see you.”

Mycroft took a seat and Mrs. Hudson, nonplused as usual, brought in a tea tray and cups.

“First, about the coin. Could I see it?” Mycroft held out his hand and Holmes produced the coin from the desk drawer and handed it to him.

“See here, on the edge, there is a minute marking. Use your glass to read it.”

Holmes held the coin while he examined it with his magnifying glass.

“Do you see it? It is right here.” Mycroft pointed it out. There was written, in a tiny font, “OPM.”  Those letters stand for “Oldham Private Mint.” The Oldham mint strikes coins for various commemorative events, for transportation tokens, special order jobs etc.”

“Yes, I had noticed it before. Perhaps we can find out from the mint who commissioned the coin?”

“I am ahead of you on that, Sherlock. Of course the mint has a policy of confidentiality concerning their customers but I have certain, shall we say, “special persuasive means” available to me in my role as consultant to the foreign office and as the ‘unofficial intelligence service.’ The coin was made for Squire Richard Dawkins, of Leicester.”

“Concerning the markings on the wall, I consulted a friend who has made it his hobby to study British paganism and ancient history. He has a particular interest in the Druids. He thinks these symbols are connected with Druidism. Not the ancient ones but rather the contemporary Druids. As you may or may not know, there has been a recent revival of interest in paganism in general and Druidism in particular. This phenomenon has primarily manifested itself amongst members of the more idle rich and certain academics, artisans and intellectuals. There is a group here in London, they call their group a “grove,” and they profess to a neo-pagan belief. The oak is one of their symbols and oak groves are sacred to them. The group is highly secretive and jealously guards their anonymity. More than that I do not, at present, know. It is interesting however and I will keep on the trail if you desire my assistance.”

“Thank you, brother Mycroft. I am happy to have your assistance.” Though the two delighted in gybing at each other Holmes was sincere when he said this.

After Mycroft’s departure Holmes said “Well Watson, it appears our next step is to make contact with this Squire Dawkins. Please hand me the Gazette and we will see if is mentioned there.”

I did as he asked and Holmes eagerly thumbed through it until he came to an entry that might be the man.

“Here is a listing for Richard Dawkins Esq., of Leicestershire. I see no other such person here,” said Holmes. “Squire Dawkins is the scion of an established family that was very successful in the textile industry there. I would like to know if he frequents London and if he might be a member of the Diogenes Club. Brother Mycroft is an invaluable ally, aye Watson?’

“Indeed!” I was always impressed with Mycroft’s intellectual abilities.

Over the course of the next several days we were busy chasing down any information which might help in our investigation. Holmes was fully involved, this was a case that offered a challenge and he was like a hound on the trail.

Lestrade informed us that the remains had been moved to a room in the London morgue and he was busy trying to identify the victim, with no success as of yet. Holmes had said that the identification of the hapless girl could possibly yield some important clues towards the solution of the mystery.

Mycroft assured us that Squire Dawkins was not a member of the Diogenes Club but it was possible he had been to the visitors’ room. He was still checking on it.

 Holmes had obtained a picture of Squire Dawkins and had made copies made which he had distributed amongst the legions of his irregulars, confidant that if Squire Dawkins spent time in London he would be found.

“Well, Watson, we have set our machine into motion. Now we will see what develops!”

Holmes next sent a message to Lestrade identifying Abigail McPhail as a person of interest and requesting any information Scotland Yard might have on her. He did the same in a missive to the Salisbury Medical School. He also requested any information concerning Squire Dawkins as well.

Our next move was an easy choice when Mrs. Hudson interrupted us with a serving tray with a most delicious home-cooked meal. Even Holmes had an appetite. I always took that as a good sign! “Ah Mrs. Hudson! How delightful. Come on Watson, dig in!”

I did not need any further prompting!

“What do we do no,?” I asked?

“We Wait,” said Holmes as he lit his pipe.

And we waited. We passed the remainder of the day relaxing, smoking and reading The Times. Holmes had spun his web and he sat there like a great spider waiting to detect any vibrations upon his web.

It wasn’t long before results began trickling in. First came a note from Lestrade.

It read: “Holmes, I have word on Abigal McPhail. We don’t have a missing persons report but she has an arrest record with numerous arrests for prostitution over the past two years.”

“Ah Watson! It’s not much but it may be a clue to the girl’s identity and it might not but we will continue our inquiries along that line.”

Later the same day some of Holmes’ irregulars showed up at Baker Street. They were announced rather gruffly by Mrs. Hudson who never quite knew what to make of these street urchins.

“Ah come in Little Jimbo. What have you for me today?”

A rather small but tough looking young boy stepped up with a picture of Squire Dawkins.

“Mr. Holmes, me and some of my boys are quite sure we saw this man more than once going in leaving from the Cock and Bull Tavern and Inn on Dean Street.”

“Good work Jimbo! Here is a little something for you and your boys. Keep up the surveillance until I say otherwise, will you?”

Holmes handed the boy a handful of shillings.

“Yes sir Mr. Holmes! Thank you and we won’t let you down.”

Thank you boys, now run along.”

They left in a scurry and excitedly headed back into the streets.

“They are invaluable to my work Watson!” Holmes looked out the window to the street to see the boys hurrying to fulfill their mission. A hint of a smile crossed his face.

“Well, now we have a lead. Tomorrow we will be off to Soho.”

Early the following afternoon we took a cab to the Cock and Bull Tavern and Inn and entered the place.

“Would you care for a pint?” Holmes asked.

“Why certainly,” I said as we took a seat at a table near the bar. The landlord, a rather seedy looking chap with a three day stubble of whiskers and a dirty shirt approached us. “What’ll it be gents?” he said with a wary glance at us.

“Two pints of your finest ale if you please landlord,” said Holmes.

“Aye, two pints it is.” The landlord went behind the bar and drew two pints which he delivered to our table.

Holmes placed two shillings on the table. “Please, keep the change.”

”Thank you sir,” replied the landlord with a half-smile.

Holmes produced the picture of Dawkins.

“I say, have you seen this man? I understand he sometimes frequents your establishment.” Holmes observed the man keenly.

This, of course, caused the publican to react with obviously heightened suspicion.

“Why, no sir, I haven’t seen this man.”

“His name is Dawkins, an old friend I have been seeking.”

Holmes placed three more shillings on the stack.

“Oh, now I recall. Yes sir, a Mr. Dawkins. Yes, he keeps a room upstairs but he’s not here now.”

“How often does he come here?” asked Holmes.

Oh, it’s hard to say. He comes here usually three, four times a month. Sometimes he stays for a few days at a time.”

“Do you know where he is from?”

“No sir, I don’t know that. I know he is from out of town.”

“Thank you, landlord. I will come back soon and perhaps I will find him here.”

We finished our ale and departed.

“Well, Holmes, that is some progress.”

“Yes Watson, I think I will now have the irregulars watch this place to alert me when Dawkins is here.”

We had only shortly settled down in our chairs at Baker Street when Mrs. Hudson knocked.

“Come in Mrs. Hudson.”

“Mr. Holmes, there is a man here to see you, a Mr. Jones he said.”

“Mr. Jones?” Holmes looked at me with a questioning glance. “I was not expecting him. Oh well, send in him Mrs. Hudson.”

“Mr. Jones! Please come in and make yourself comfortable.” Holmes seemed a bit amused by the appearance of Mr. Jones. His hair was a bit long and somewhat unkempt and his beard was full and equally scruffy. His dress was a combination of outdated fashion and shoes which were obviously cast offs.  His coat was old and reminiscent of an earlier era. Around his neck was a heavy silver chain upon which was suspended a circle with three bars. The center bar was vertical and the others were placed on either side and tilted at an angle. There were three dots, placed with one above each bar. Upon his head was a tall, conical, brimless hat emblazoned with stars and comets. For all the world it resembled what the magician Merlin was said to have worn. His manner betrayed no sense of embarrassment or discomfort connected to how he might be perceived publicly.

Mr. Jones took a seat.

“Now, Mr. Jones, I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my colleague Dr. Watson. What can we do for you?”

“Well, I think the proper question is what can I do for you? I was told you had an interest in Druidism and was asked if I might be able to inform you.”

“Well, that is exactly correct. I know about ancient Druidism but I understand there is interest today in a Neopaganism revival. That’s what I want to know about.”

“I am just the one to inform you. I am a member of the London Grove, as we call it, and I have made a long study of the ancients and their history and beliefs.”

“Excuse me Mr. Jones,” Holmes interjected. “This ‘grove’ you mention; exactly, what is that?

“ That’s how we describe our group. It refers to a grove of oak trees. The oak we hold holy and revere its strength and resilience.”

“Do go on,” said Holmes.

Mr. Jones had a pleasant manner and seemed quite comfortable speaking with us on a subject that many modern people looked upon with utmost disdain and contempt.

“Our members are drawn from many stations of society. Some are dissatisfied with the established religions, some are contrarians, that is, people who fly in the face of the social and political norms, and some are just looking for something, they may not even be able to explain. A few are actually dedicated believers.”

“Which one are you, Mr. Jones?” Holmes extended his hand. “Please let me take a look at your key fob.”

Jones looked puzzled but he handed over his keychain. Holmes examined it for a moment and returned the item to Mr. Jones.

“Mr. Jones, you don’t really take this Druidism seriously at all, do you?”

“What do you mean Mr. Holmes?” Jones replied with a slightly pained expression.

“You are carrying a Saint Christopher’s medal on your keychain. Either your conversion to Druidism isn’t complete or you think it might be best to keep a foot in both camps, so to speak.”

“Well, you have me there sir. In all honesty, my interest in Druidism is rooted more in an opportunity to profit from a new fad than in actual belief. I have made a tidy sum in speaking fees and in sales of Druidic inspired regalia, candles, incense, posters, books and other memorabilia. I appeal to you, to give me the benefit of privileged communication as a professional courtesy on your part.”  

“Of course Mr. Jones.” Holmes seemed amused and but very interested in what the man had to say. “Tell me, is there any practice of human sacrifice?”

“That is a sore subject. There are lurid tales put abroad in some of the more sensationalistic press, but as far as I know there is no factual basis for the stories, yet, one does hear tales.”

“Have you been to any of the meetings or gatherings of these modern pagans?”

“Why, yes I have. They have all occurred on private land, out in the countryside. Most of these meetings are on estates or property of members of the Grove.”

“May anyone attend these meetings?”

“Well, no. A stranger must be invited to a town meeting first where he will make a case to the Grove about his worthiness to join or at least to attend other events. The new “pledge,” so to speak, must be sponsored by a member in good standing.”

“I see,” said Holmes. “Would you sponsor me so I might attend?”

“Well, I suppose so…I don’t see what it would hurt.”

“Excellent!” exclaimed Holmes. “Of course I will don a disguise and use an assumed name.”

“I am uneasy about that, Mr. Holmes. What is your purpose?”

“I am not at liberty to say at the moment. Suffice it to say that I am investigating a serious crime and suspicious behavior on the part of unknown persons. I will endeavor in every way not to cast any suspicion or aspersion on you.”

Mr. Jones was silent for a moment, then he said “Very well Mr. Holmes. I will inform you of our next town meeting and you can come and make of it what you will.”

“Excellent, Mr. Jones. Now please excuse me for I am very busy and I have affairs to attend yet today. Thank you for your troubles.”

“Then I bid you good day sir and I expect you will be hearing from me very soon.” With that he exited.

“Well, Watson, you have been very quiet. What do you make of it?”

“I don’t know Holmes. It seems to me there are quite a few people so dissatisfied with the current state of affairs that they are eager to create their own world of fantasy complete with new gods, religion and an invented history.”

“Indeed.” Holmes exhibited a rather quizzical expression. It passed very quickly and his normal cool, aloof demeanor returned which demonstrated he was in complete control.

One week later a message came to Holmes from Jones. I arrived at Baker Street after the message had been received. Holmes had it in his hand when I entered.

“Watson, I have a message from Jones. It says there will be a meeting of the London Grove on this Friday evening at Raleigh Hall on Saulton Road. I will attend this meeting. Do you think you could be of assistance?”

“Of course,” I replied. “What do you want me to do?”

“I would like you to also go to the meeting and just observe, as unobtrusively as possible, and be available should I need you for any unforeseen occurrences. You likely will not know who I am at the meeting since I plan to conceal my identity. I will tip you off when I am ready”

“I will do as you say.”

“Splendid!” Holmes seemed eager to proceed.

I arrived early on that Friday evening and positioned my across the street from Raleigh Hall where I could observe the arrival of the evening’s attendees more unobtrusively. I didn’t have to wait long before they began arriving. It was an interesting crowd, to say the least. Some of the men had blue face paint, some wore flowing white robes, many of the women wore similar dress. Many were adorned with beads, chains and various amulets. A few had hats made of animal skins, a few with the head still attached.

The doors were then opened and the strange assemblage entered the hall and took their seats. I followed closely behind. I was stopped at the door by a pleasant man who reminded of Friar Tuck.

“Excuse me sir, are you on the invited list?” He was polite but he had a no nonsense air about him.

“Why yes,” I said. “I am Dr. Mortimer, I must be on the list.”

“No sir, I see no Dr. Mortimer here.”

I slipped him a five pound note. “Here is my invitation, my name must be there.”

He took the money and smiled broadly. “Oh yes sir! Here it is, I must have over looked it. Please go in.”

I smiled and said “Thank you my good fellow,” and I entered and took a seat in the back.

A tall, bearded man, wearing the head of a deer upon his head

stepped to the podium. He was wearing a tunic, a chain necklace with an amulet and plain trousers. He raised his arms and spoke.

“Welcome fellow Druids, Bards and Ovates. I am glad you could come tonight. I am Kieran Morganfield, one of the London Bards, and I will be your host this evening.”

He lowered his hands and slowly grasped the corners of the podium. “I am pleased to announce tonight that on the full moon of October 17, we will gather on the heath and celebrate the fall season. We will meet on the grounds of the Piltgen estate in Devon. The celebration will run from sunset till dawn of the next day. I have here available pamphlets with a map and all pertinent information.”

He paused and surveyed the audience.

“I am pleased there are so many here this evening. It speaks well of our movement.”

He continued the meeting with a rather normal recitation of old business, new business and such things common to most meetings of this sort. I thought it similar to lodge meetings I had heard about. I looked in vain for a sign of Holmes. If he was actually here I couldn’t tell.

Though I was near the exit, I lingered until nearly all had left and then I too headed toward the door.

“Watson! Can’t you even bother to wish me a good evening?”

It was Holmes’ voice. I turned abruptly and faced a man with a boar’s head covering his own noggin.

“Holmes! I surely would not have known it was you!”

“Speak quietly, don’t give me away. I value my anonymity at the moment.”

We continued out to the sidewalk.

“I will see you back at Baker Street shortly and we can compare notes.”

“Very well,” said I and we took our separate cabs.

Soon we were back at Baker Street, comfortably ensconced in our familiar environs, we had Mrs. Hudson brew some tea and we discussed our experience.

“So, what do you think, Watson?”

“Well, I really don’t know what to think. It was surely a strange group. It all makes me a bit uncomfortable.”

“Watson, you know my views on religion, on its face this movement, if you will, is harmless enough but we have also seen the dark undertone of these so-called Druids. Running around in strange costumes, out in the countryside and worshipping nature is all well and good, but when possible murder and or human sacrifice enter the picture then this all moves into another realm.”

“Quite right, Holmes,” I said. “I couldn’t agree more.”

The summer was a comparatively quiet one and Holmes struggled to maintain a certain level of intellectual stimulation. There were a few cases but nothing of note. However when events were at their slowest pace Holmes would dig back into the Druid case.

One evening we were having a cup of tea, relaxing with a smoke and engaged in little conversation until Holmes spoke up.

“Well, Watson, I have turned up little new on the case of the Druids but it still interests me. I feel certain there is more than meets the eye to this.

Are you through with the Times front page?”

I handed him the newspaper and lit another cigar. A few minutes later Holmes saw something interesting.

“Watson! Lord Cheltsford. Wasn’t that the name of the estate holder where we found the head and for whom your friend Morton works for?”

“Why yes, it is.”

“Look at this.” He handed me the front page and pointed to a story. “Read this out loud, if you please.”

“Local vicar says Lord Cheltsford involved with pagan cult.”

“Pray continue, if you please.”

“Reverend Wallace Heath, of the Anglican church at Chadwell, told the Times he was concerned about reports that Lord Cheltsford, who is the patron of the local church and village, might be involved in pagan rituals and meetings involving worship of heathen gods and cruel sacrifices. Reverend Heath said this was second hand gossip as far as he knew but such news was disturbing.”

“That’s most interesting, Watson. I would imagine Lord Cheltsford would be the primary patron of that church. It is indeed unusual when the local vicar would speak out in public with such misgivings.” Holmes read the short story once again and gave me a glance.

“Perhaps it would behoove us to take another trip out to Lands End and visit your friend Morton Sydney,” said Holmes. “If you can set aside some time, we will go there as soon as possible. Can you make the arrangements?”

I assured Holmes it would be done quickly and in a few days I had a reply from Morton. He said we would be welcome and, once again Lord Cheltsford would be absent. I relayed the news to Holmes.

Well, that’s good Watson. I was rather hoping to meet Lord Cheltsford but this will have to do.”

In a few days we were once again within the confines of Cheltsford Castle. We received a warm welcome from Morton Sydney.

“Welcome Watson! Mr. Holmes! I am delighted to welcome you once again. I will have your things sent to your rooms, now let’s go into the drawing room for a drink, if that’s agreeable to you gentlemen?”

“Oh quite!” I was certainly ready to relax with a soothing libation. Holmes indicated he, too, was amenable to the idea. We settled in our chairs and relaxed a moment. Holmes, ever one for business first, produced the newspaper clipping we had brought with the statement of the local vicar.

“Mr. Sydney, have you any such thoughts or concerns concerning your patron?”

“No Mr. Holmes. I never imagined such a thing.” Sydney seemed very much surprised at such a line of question. “Lord Cheltsford has always been very active in his support of the local church.”

“Does he attend services regularly?”

“No, he does not Mr. Holmes, but I never questioned that. I think that a man’s personal beliefs and his routines were none of my business,” said Sydney.

“Quite so, quite so,” replied Holmes.

“So what are we doing here this time Holmes?” I wasn’t clear on that point.

“I am not sure myself Watson. I want to nose around a bit, as they say, and see what turns up. I need more facts, as you well know, before I might draw any theories or conclusions,” replied Holmes. “I propose that you visit the village tomorrow, go to some of the shops, the pub and make small talk, without being obvious, and see if you might get some indication of what the townspeople think or have to say about Lord Cheltsford.”

“Very well, Holmes. I will do as you say.”

The next morning I was off to the village. My first stop was at the Tabbard Inn for a spot of breakfast. Apparently this was a good choice as the place was bustling with local folk eating as they prepared to go about their day.

The landlord welcomed me at my table.

“Good morning sir. I think you must be a stranger, don’t seem as like I has seen you before.”

“You are correct sir. This is my first visit to your establishment. It came recommended to me by Lord Cheltsford.”

“Oh indeed sir! Well, bless ‘im for bein’ a fine gentlemen.”

“So you know him then?”

“Oh yessir. Most all of us here works for him some in manner or another. And he is, of course, the landlord for most of us as well.”

“So I take it. Well, he does have some queer ways though.” I threw that out as a bit of bait to see if I might get a nibble, but to no avail.

“I wouldn’t know about that sir, and I wouldn’t utter a word against him.”

“Quite right, quite right.” I then consumed my very tasty full Cornish breakfast in silence.

My next stop was the laundry where I dropped off a bag of clothes, consisting of the garments Holmes and I had traveled in.

“Can you have these ready soon?”

“Oh yes sir,” said the proprietor, a broad man with a clean shaven, ruddy face and a big smile. They should be ready by this afternoon, early, I should think.”

“Fine, I will be back shortly after lunch. Does Lord Cheltsford have his laundry done here?”

 “Oh no, sir. He has his done by his staff in his place. I rarely ever see his lordship. I think his lordship wouldn’t like his dirty laundry aired in public sir. No, I don’t think he would.” The laundry man gave me a sly wink and seemed to be implying something.

“I see. I hear he is a bit of an odd duck.”

“Sir, around here it is hard to find anyone who isn’t a bit of an odd duck.”

“Oh, I meant no offense.”

I spent the next hours walking about town.  I visited the dry goods store, a book store and several shops selling knick knacks and local craft items. The village was quant, attractive and exuded Cornish charm with the added attraction of a coastal town and its docks, fish market and salt air on a steady sea breeze.

I dropped Lord Cheltsford’s name frequently but none had a cross word to say about the man. This struck me a little odd. Surely he couldn’t be such a paragon of virtue that none had an ill opinion of him!

I went by the church to see the vicar who had made the statement in the Times. He was not there, away on business for a while they said there.

I returned from my day trip late in the afternoon and found Holmes in the drawing room. Over a cup of tea we discussed the events of our day.

“Tell me, Watson, what sort of sordid tales did you uncover today?”

“Well, that’s just it. I found no sordid tales, no dark stories, not even a cross word concerning Lord Cheltsford. He seems too good to be true.”

“Indeed! I spent the day here on the grounds. It seems to be an absolute model of a country gentleman’s estate, well-kept grounds, an immaculate stable with some beautiful horses and a household which runs like a clock. I could induce no employee to utter a cross word against Lord Cheltsford.”

“Do you think that’s the whole story? Can you believe such a man exists?”

“No, Watson. No, I don’t! Did you see the vicar?”

“I did not. When I called on the church they said he was away for a few days.”

“Now I am more eager than ever to meet this “perfect” man. And I don’t want to leave here without seeing the vicar. Watson. Let’s take a room at the inn so we don’t impose any longer on Lord Cheltsford’s hospitality. That will give us a freer hand of action as well I think.”

So the next morning we checked into the Tabbard Inn and took adjoining rooms, which we were fortunate to get. Once again I enjoyed their most excellent breakfast while Holmes sat apparently deep in thought and barely touched his food.

As we finished our meal a young man approached and asked “Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” Holmes indicated his identity with a gesture and the fellow handed an envelope over. Holmes opened it and read.

“Well, Watson, it seems Reverend Wallace Heath has returned early and says he could see us now if convenient. What say you, Watson, is it convenient? Holmes exhibited a slight smirk, his feeble attempt at humor I thought.

“Why yes, Holmes! I should say it is wouldn’t you?”

“Quite!”

 And with that we were off to the church.

We found Reverend Heath in his office behind his desk upon which was scattered numerous books and piles of papers. He seemed a very typical example of the country vicar.

“Come in gentlemen, come in! Sit down” He greeted us most effusively. “I am Reverend Wallace Heath, at your service.”

“I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my colleague Dr. Watson.”

“Very pleased to make your acquaintance. Now, what can I do for you gentlemen?”

“Reverend, I am investigating a very delicate matter and I would like to ask you a few questions in the strictest confidence.”

“Investigating you say? Sherlock Holmes, oh yes, I have heard of you. Pray tell what can I have of interest?”

Holmes produced the clipping in which Reverend Heath had made the statement concerning Lord Cheltsford.

“Oh yes! That silly thing. Well, I regret I ever opened my mouth about that.” Reverend Heath seemed a bit put out. “A reporter was nosing about and he asked me some questions about rumors he had heard about paganism and witchcraft and such things going on around here. I merely told him I had heard stories but that I knew nothing about the veracity of such tales. I’m afraid the reporter made rather more out of it than was there in my reply.”

“I see,” said Holmes. “So you haven’t actually “heard” anything then?”

“Well, as I said, there are stories floating around but I have no firsthand knowledge of the truth of any of them. I say, it does seem a bit odd that you are asking similar questions. Is there something to these stories?”

“There has been some indication of secret cult meetings, that’s all I can tell you at the moment.”

“Goodness me!” The vicar seemed genuinely shocked.

“Should you come across anything please contact me. Good day Reverend.”

“Well, we didn’t learn much from that meeting,” said I, in mild exasperation.

“To the contrary, dear Watson. We did learn a few things.”

“What was that, he seemed totally in the dark.”

“We learned there must be someone about who knows something, and they must have talked about it somewhere. Otherwise no reporter from a major newspaper would be prowling about. That alone lends some substance, though thin indeed, I agree.”

“So what do we do now,” I asked.

“Nothing, we must go back to the Tavern and wait. Our presence here is now well known and anyone we approach will on their guard and not likely to divulge anything of interest.”

The next two days were rather dull as we hung about the tavern, mostly keeping to our rooms. At least the food was good here. We spent much time reading and I worked on some of stories for The Strand. As usual, Holmes chided me about the quality of my writing and the content.

“Watson, you do continuously exaggerate and miss many of the important points. I fear you are intent on writing for the uninformed masses, eager for titillation.”

As I often did, I ignored Holmes’ critique.

The boredom was relieved one day when we received a message from Morton Sydney. Morton informed us that Lord Cheltsford had returned and had made an appointment for us that evening, if convenient. Holmes quickly scribbled a note agreeing to be there at six o’clock.

We arrived promptly on time and Morton ushered us into the drawing room.

“Gentlemen, may I present Lord Cheltsford,” said Morton Sydney.

“I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my colleague Dr. Watson,” Holmes said in a businesslike fashion. He did not extend a hand and nor did

I or Lord Cheltsford.

“Gentlemen, how do you do? How may I be of service?”

“I assume you know the reason for our visit?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, Mr. Sydney and the local constable have informed me of the unhappy event which brought you here.”

“Can you shed any light upon the subject?”

“I am afraid I cannot. This is a large estate and I and my grounds keeper and his staff cannot watch every inch of it. It is easy for people to come on the grounds unnoticed. Local people frequently use some of the old road paths to go to the beaches and a few I allow to hunt here.”

“So you maintain good relations with the townspeople?” Of course Holmes knew the answer he would get to this but he had a way of questioning that sometimes tripped people up if they were attempting to deceive.

“Mr. Holmes, I am a fountain to my people! I hold them in affection and they return those feelings to me four fold.”

“Thank you, Lord Cheltsford, I appreciate your audience with us. We shall leave here soon, possibly tomorrow, but the investigation will continue. I want to get to the bottom of this strange affair. You will likely hear from us again. Good day sir.”

With that, we took our leave.

“What did you think, Watson?”

“I don’t think he was very forthcoming and not necessarily fully honest. That’s just my impression.”

“I agree. I think he knows more than he let on. Well, let’s go home tomorrow, aye Watson?”

“Capital idea, Holmes!”

The day after our return to Baker Street Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door.

“Come in Mrs. Hudson!” Holmes was in good voice this day!

“Mr. Holmes, one of your little street ruffians gave me this and asked that I give it to you right away.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, now be off, will you?” Holmes’ manner was cold and a bit disdainful. Mrs. Hudson handed over the note and turned on her heels and left the room without another word.

“It is really too bad Mrs. Hudson disapproves of my “Irregulars” Watson. “She looks at them as thieves, pick pockets and trouble makers. Likely she is right to do so but she doesn’t fully appreciate the invaluable services they have rendered to me. I would not be able to function properly without the benefit of their eyes, ears and virtual invisibility on the streets and byways.”

“What does the note say?”

“Ah, Mr. Dawkins has appeared. You remember Mr. Dawkins, the man had the coin struck?”

“Oh, yes. The man with the rooms at the Cock and Bull Tavern.”

“The same. Apparently he is once again within his temporary lodgings there and will be here for two days. I propose we go and visit Mr. Dawkins. Are you up for it Watson?”

“Of course, Holmes. I am as eager as you to solve the mysteries in this case.”

We arrived at the Cock and Bull Tavern shortly and made out to Mr. Dawkins door and Holmes knocked upon it.

A gruff, somewhat shaky voice from behind the door greeted Holmes’ knock. “Who is it? What do you want?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes and I am here with my colleague, Dr. Watson. We would like to make a few inquiries of you?”

“Inquiries? About what?”

“Please allow us to come in and all will be made clear.”

The door opened, slowly, and an unkempt, middle aged man peered out at us.

“Well, I guess you look harmless enough, come in then.”

With that friendly greeting we entered. Dawkins stood before us in a rather soiled dressing gown. His eyes were red and had bags drooping below them. His face was flushed and he seemed to be suffering from the effects of an intemperate evening spent in the bars and night clubs. He motioned us to sit at his table and he sat on a plush chair, looking at us suspiciously.

“So what’s this about then?”

Holmes said nothing at first but he drew the Diogenes coin from his pocket and held it close to Mr. Dawkins. Dawkins’ eyes widened and he said “Where did you get that?”

“This coin was found at the scene of a ghastly crime. We have traced the coin to you and no doubt Scotland Yard soon will as well. You are implicated in this crime.” Holmes spoke severely and watched closely for Dawkins’ reaction.

Upon hearing this Dawkins began to tremble severely and he slowly shook his head back and forth.

“I had nothing to do with it! Yes, I was there but she was dead already! It was horrible and I have had nothing more to do with them!”

“By them I assume you mean these so-called Druids?” Holmes had been fishing and had made a strike!

“Yes, I had been to some of their meetings and me, being a widower and with no children, I had been looking for something, I don’t know what exactly.”

“I suppose that was the reason you applied to the Diogenes Club?”

“You might say so. I am a man of some means and I thought I might get to know some of the well connected and more prosperous men of society. I thought perhaps I could advance my position in life, you know, hob-knobbing about with the upper crust so to speak.”

“Were these efforts successful?” Holmes was still casting for more.

“Not really, Mr. Holmes. I think I am a likable enough fellow and a hale companion but all I got from these genteel folks was snobbery and contempt! I had a much happier time in the drinking establishments and dance halls with the common folk. I enjoyed the company of the girls and the temporary comradeship of fellow drunks.”

“How did you come to be in that cave near Lands End, where the dead girl’s head was found?” Holmes was getting to the meat of it now.

“I will never forget that night. It was horrible! I had been meeting with these Druids and two of them, high bards they said they were, told me I was a good candidate for rising up in their hierarchy and they invited me to a secret ceremony only to be attended by high ranking members and a few ‘selected’ novitiates. I eagerly accepted and we traveled to that spot on that night and after a lot of mumbo jumbo we climbed down a trail into the cave. There, in the torchlight, I saw the head. I was horrified! And I knew her. It was Abby! She was a beautiful young girl I had met in the clubs. She was a girl of the street, if you know what I mean, but she was a lovely girl who had fallen on hard times and was supporting herself the only way she knew how. When I saw that I bolted and left that place and I never had anything to do with them again.”

“Was that the end of your association then?” asked Holmes.

“No, not exactly.” Dawkins paused and looked away, then he returned Holmes’ gaze and spoke, albeit a bit shakily. “A short time afterward I received a note that said if I wished my association with the Druids and my presence there at what was a crime scene to be kept secret then I should make a payment of 500 pounds to some unknown man.”

“What did you do?” asked Holmes.

“Well. I paid it! What else could I do? Something like this could ruin me if it came to light. Unfortunately that wasn’t the end of it”

“It never is,” said Holmes. “Not when it comes to blackmail.”

“This person made arrangement with me to leave the money in a predetermined place in a plain envelope. Shortly afterwards, a month or two, I received another note asking for another 500 pounds. This has continued ever since and it is straining my finances considerably!”

“Have you ever seen the person who collects your payment?”

“No, sir. Twice I did try to conceal myself nearby in order to see who it might be. Though I waited for over two hours no one came. Each time I gave up and returned to my rooms. Out of curiosity, once I returned to the place the next morning but the money was gone.”

“Did you place the envelope out in plain sight?”

“No, sir. My blackmailer had written instructions for me to place the envelope inside an empty Guinness bottle and leave it in a proscribed place, say ten paces from a mail drop one time, or 20 paces from a street light on another occasion.”

“Clever enough. That’s a system used by spies to pass information without being easily detected,” said Holmes. “Are your drop locations always on the same street or block?”

“No, he tells me in his notes where to go and what to look for.”

“I see,” said Holmes. “Next time you receive your instructions please inform me and I will make arrangements to observe the act.”

“Are you sure Mr. Holmes?” Dawkins was clearly concerned about all of this being exposed to the public.

“Don’t worry Mr. Dawkins. I will take adequate precautions to be totally incognito. No one will know I am there.”

“If you say so then.” Dawkins seemed to be lacking confidence.

One week later a note came to Baker Street addressed to Sherlock Holmes. It was from Dawkins. “Please read this aloud Watson,” said Holmes as he handed me the note.

It read: “Mr. Holmes. I am to leave the money in the usual fashion this Thursday evening at eight o’clock at Poplar and Blackwell, in front of the Green Man tavern, on the sidewalk.” It was signed “Dawkins.”

“Poplar and Blackwell, near High Street. That’s a good area to do such an action, there are lots of taverns, bars and full of sailors and other denizens of the waterfront. No one is likely to be very observant in such an atmosphere,” said Holmes. “I will be on watch during the next drop.”

“Do you want me to come along Holmes?”

“I don’t think so Watson. I am not sure what, if any action I will take. I want to see if I can get a look at this fellow. I will return here promptly after this has all taken place.”

So I retired to the hearth and read a bit and enjoyed a smoke. I was reading a copy of the diary of the explorer, Dr. David Livingston and was well enthralled in the tale when I heard Mrs. Hudson, seemingly very agitated.

“You can’t go barging in here!”

The door flew opened and in came perhaps the most pathetic, dirtiest street beggar I had ever seen.

“Sir! You must leave immediately. No one is allowed to enter here without an appointment!”

“I want to see Sherlock Holmes! I know he’s expectin’ me!”

“Mr. Holmes is not in and you cannot just force your way in like that.”

“Watson! You don’t recognize me?”

Holmes had once again fooled me. I wasn’t very pleased about it either.

“Holmes! Why do you insist on playing these juvenile tricks on me?

 “I say Watson! Pretty good disguise this, hey?”

“I would not have known you on the street Holmes.”

“Don’t be upset with me Watson. I really had no opportunity to change clothes on the way here.”

“So did you learn anything by this charade of yours?”

“I found out some of my Irregulars don’t just work for me exclusively. I should have known. I got to the assigned area for the exchange quite early and selected a spot on the street and set out a cloth upon which I placed some very nice matches and I put my out and invited passerby’s to buy some. I sold some too! After a while I saw Dawkins coming down the street. He looked very uncomfortable. He came to the spot, looked around and, seeing nothing amiss, he placed the bottle on the sidewalk. He quickly walked away and I waited.”

“So what happened then?”

“I didn’t have to wait long until I saw little Timmy McFarlane, one of my own irregulars, come along and quickly pocket the bottle into his overcoat. He left the scene quickly but not obtrusively.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Oh, no. I didn’t want to interfere with his task. I plan on seeing him tomorrow morning. I have already sent word.”

Sure enough, the following morning Timmy was shown into the room.

“You wanted to see me Mr. ‘olmes?”

“Yes Timmy. I wanted to see if you might have some information for me.”

“About what, sir?”

“About the bottle you picked up last night, at Blackwell and Poplar.”

A look of surprise blossomed upon Timmy’s face. With eyes wide he said “Mr. ‘olmes, I aint supposed to tell anybody about that.”

“I understand Timmy. I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important.” As Holmes talked he slowly withdrew three shillings and placed them on the table. Timmy’s eyes focused on the coins.

“But I suppose I can tell you sir!”

“Do you know the man’s name?”

“No sir.”

“What does he look like?”

“I can’t rightly say sir. He always wore a heavy overcoat, a hat pulled down over his eyes and a muffler wrapped around his neck.”

“How big a man is he? Did he display any distinguishing features?”

“Well, he was normal height, I would say. He was not a large man. And he wore these really nice gloves, looked like sort of fawn skin I might guess, sorta tan colored and very soft.”

“How could you tell they were soft?”

“Well sir, I felt them when he handed me my money!”

“Very observant! Now here is more money, be off now!”

Holmes dropped some coins into Timmy’s eager hands and he was quickly gone.

“Thank you sir!”

“You really rely on these little urchins, don’t you Holmes?”

“They provide me with an invaluable service. They can go where no one else can go. They see things no one else would see and yet to most eyes on the streets they are virtually invisible. Yes, they are an extremely important arrow in my quiver.”

“What now Holmes?”

“I don’t know. There are a few doors of inquiry as yet but none seem to beckon at the moment. I propose to attend the meeting in Devon in October. Could you accompany me?”

“I am sure I can make arrangements to do so,” I replied.

“Splendid! I suggest you put some planning into some sort of Druid costume. Nothing too ostentatious but something that will conceal your identity.”

“Is it really necessary to go to such lengths, Holmes?”

“Yes, I think so. It will provide us with the best likelihood of getting to the bottom of all this.”

Soon it was time for the event to happen and Holmes and I made our way back to Cornwall and once again checked in at the Tabbard Inn.

The landlord knew us by now and he welcomed us.

“Welcome gents, it is good to see you again. You were wise to make your reservations well in advance, this time of year many of the local villages and estates hold parties and feasts and such.”

“Thank you landlord,” said Holmes. “It is our pleasure to once again put ourselves in your capable care.”

With that we went to our adjoining rooms and had a brandy.

“Tomorrow should prove interesting. I have arranged for a carriage to take us out to Lord Hurlbutt’s estate in the morning. I have a map of where we need to go, thanks to Mr. Smith.”

The following morning we had breakfast and were off early. It was an hour’s ride to Lord Hurlbutt’s grounds and we proceeded through an open gate marked with sign reading; “Welcome London Grove”

Lord Hurlbutt’s place was typical of what you might expect, there were grassy rolling fields, punctuated with small, rocky hills and scattered stands of oak trees. We put on our costumes, which were grey hooded robes, much like a Franciscan friar might wear. We also had the classic masks of the theater, Comedy and Tragedy, to help disguise our identities.

There were a few long tables set up and an easel held a sign and a schedule of events. We had no idea of what this was all about or what was going to happen. The attendees wore an astounding array of costumes.

A man wrapped in furs with an antler head dress approached us. “Welcome friends. Come and get something to eat.”

He motioned towards a long table covered with food of many kinds, roast pig, goose, stew, and many kinds of trimmings. We partook of the feast and observed our companions. Few spoke, nor did we.

Following the meal people went out on the pasture. Many spread blankets and sat, others stood.

Two bearded men, more conservatively dressed in flowing white robes, stepped out in front of the assemblage.

“Fellow Druids, bards and ovates, I welcome you here to our little fellowship and celebration of our order and observance of the all-encompassing power of nature and the natural world.”

He continued with a rather boring speech and it was all I could do to remain awake after the dinner.

Holmes then casually remarked to a man sitting to his right. “I am becoming weary about all of this. It’s not quite what I expected.”

The man was dressed in what might described as Paleolithic attire. He was fully bearded, his hair and beard were jet black. He had not worn a mask of any kind and I estimated his age at well over forty. He turned to Holmes and said, in deliberate, measured speech, “I think I know what you mean. It has also fallen short of my expectations.”

Holmes leaned close to the man and, in his best conspiratorial tone, whispered “I have even heard rumours, just between us you understand, that some members are being blackmailed! Imagine, blackmailed!”

The man’s eyes widened perceptibly, then he whispered something which I could barely detect but it sounded like this.

“I have heard about that. I don’t want to talk about it here, I am afraid of some of these people. If you want, contact me next week in London. Here is my card.” He slipped the card to Holmes and them got up and walked off into the growing darkness. Holmes showed me the card but the light was too dim to read it.

“Watson, let’s be off. I think we have learned something here and I would like to get back to our room before it gets too late.”

“I am with you there, Holmes. It is getting a bit too cold for my bones out here. I am sure our driver would like to get home as well.”

“Quite so.”

 Once back in our room we got a look at the card the dark haired man had handed to us. It read: Ethan Willoughby-Meyers, Earl of Chastain

His London address was there, on Downing Street.

“Goodness, Holmes, the man is a peer!”

“Interesting! Shall we go ‘round to see him?” asked Holmes.

“I should think so,” I replied.

After a few days Holmes sent Lord Chastain a note, requesting an interview. A swift response was made, setting up a meeting for the following day.

We arrived for the meeting right on time and were shown into a comfortable but not ostentatious drawing room.

“Welcome, gentlemen! I am pleased you came ‘round to see me!” He motioned us to be seated. Lord Chastain was a larger man than I had remembered. He was middle aged, very fit and had a heavy, black beard and a full head of black hair.

“Thank you for your invitation,” said Holmes.

“Quite welcome Mr. Holmes, and I take it this is Dr. Watson? I have read his descriptions of your adventures in The Strand.”

“My pleasure, sir. Thanks for your kind statement.”

“I had no idea whom I was talking to in the field at the Druid gathering! You can’t imagine my surprise when I saw your card. So, what can I do for you gentlemen?”

“My Lord, I am investigating a case that is tied in with the Druid movement. Can you tell me how long you have been involved with it and how you came to it?”

“I assume I can count on complete confidentiality from you and Dr, Watson?”

“Certainly. And I must ask the same of you. I wouldn’t want it known I attended that event in the field,” said Holmes.

“Of course. Then we all must rely on one another’s discretion. Splendid!”

“So now, how did you come to the Druids?” Holmes was alert and on the edge of his chair.

“Well, it started with boredom. I was bored. I am a relatively young man and I had nothing meaningful to do. I am the beneficiary of an old and prosperous title, complete with many holdings, land, farms, various businesses and other things. It is all set up well and everything takes care of itself with little or no input from me. The primary heads of these enterprises are from families who have long been in these positions and have made it a practice to be the most sober, competent and efficient managers one could possibly conceive of. These assets have made lots of money and moved ahead with many innovative and fresh ideas. I once tried to run the dairy farm and I failed miserably. I soon brought back the man I had displaced and soon all was righted.”

Lord Chastain paused and took a drink, brandy. He offered us one and we gratefully accepted.

He continued “Well, after a while I became rather bored and I started looking around for something to do, you understand! I tried fishing, horseback riding, shooting, sailing, you know, all of the gentlemanly activities. Well, I failed quite miserably at all of these. I wound up slipping into the water when I went fishing, being knocked off my horse when he ran under a low hanging branch and shooting out a window in my country place!”

Holmes and I glanced at each with some bemusement! I wasn’t sure if he was serious or pulling our leg!

He continued. “So I was drinking at my club one evening when a good friend, no need to mention his name, told me of something he had heard about that he thought I might be interested in. Now neither he or myself were particularly religious and we both were armchair historians, if you will, and he had been looking into the neo-pagan movement which has been  growing here and abroad, or so he said. I had heard nothing of this or really had any interest.”

“I find the modern Druids the most interesting,” he said. “They are looking into Celtic history and attempting to adopt the beliefs of the Druids. They feel that is truly more in line with the history of England and not a religion or culture imposed on them by invaders.”

“Well, I can tell you this struck a chord with me and I was all ears,” said Lord Chastain. “So we two began to read and study materials on the ancient Druids but to our dismay there wasn’t much there. By far the most detailed account that we found of the Druids came from Julius Caesar, written during his British campaigns.  Caesar produced a good narrative but, as you might think, it was totally a one sided view. Apparently his soldiers, largely uneducated and prone to superstition, greatly feared the Druids. They had found evidence of grisly human sacrifices in Druidic holy places and believed the Druids commanded a powerful form of some kind of black magic.”

Lord Chastain refilled our glasses and took a breath.

“Pray continue with your most fascinating narrative!” Holmes ill-concealed his bemusement.

“Well, my friend came by one day and said he had met someone with a knowledge of the modern Druids and asked if I would like to have him come ‘round. The next day he brought this rather odd man to my house. He was a bit seedy, wore old clothes and a full beard and he sported a tall, conical hat something like Merlin, of the Arthurian tales, was reputed to wear.”

“Ah! Mr. Jones!” Holmes appeared to be delighted at this information.

“You know him?”

“Oh yes. Mr. Jones has been most invaluable to my investigation.”

“Well, this Mr. Jones answered our questions and invited us to one of the meetings. So we went to see. At first, I was intrigued, as was my friend.”

“At first?” interjected Holmes.

“Yes. At first it all seemed like fun and games and a bit of silliness to which we were not adverse. We were encouraged to keep our identities and situations secret. Assumed names were used among us and, save for my friend, I never really met any one of them.”

“Do continue,” said Holmes. “I want to know everything you can remember.”

“Well, as I said, it was mostly fun and games. We frolicked around in nature, wore silly costumes, placed flowers in our hair, imbibed heavily with ale and mead and we took drugs as well. Many engaged in free and open sex. It was all a libertine could ask for.”

Lord Chastain paused and became more serious. “Then there was a change. The leader of the ‘grove’ as we called our group, informed us we were now to move into the spiritual realm. Our meetings took a more serious turn. We began studying Druidic gods and spirits, legends, an ancient vocabulary, though I suspect most of this was made up, as it were. I found this whole thing boring and pedantic, that is, until I heard about a truly horrid event. I had decided to end my participation right after the evening when we met.”

“Were you ever in a ceremony in a Cliffside cave in Cornwall?” Holmes was fishing.

“You’re wanting to know if I was aware of the unfortunate sacrifice of that girl. No, I didn’t see that, but my friend did and he told me about it.”

“When did you learn of this monstrosity?” asked Holmes.

“The very night I met you. I wanted no part of such things.”

“I see. Well, if you have more recollections or information, please get in touch with me.”

I will certainly do so Mr. Holmes. I must say, it is pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Good day sir.” We went out to the street and hailed a cab and returned to Baker Street.

“Well, Holmes, where do we stand?”

“I can’t say, Watson, we keep uncovering a few facts, a surprise or two, but nothing yet ties this all together or explains the purpose of all this. It is indeed very strange.”

“There is the matter of the blackmail.”

“Yes, Watson, and that’s important. It will likely help us unravel this mystery. Other than one case of blackmail so far there is little evidence of criminal activity connected with all of this. And the blackmail may just be peripherally tied in with all of this. It is a vexing problem and, I fear, I am still a long way from deducing an answer.”

A week passed and we made no progress. One afternoon we were relaxing, sipping some strong coffee Mrs. Hudson had made, and reading the current newspapers and gazettes.

Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door.

“Come in Mrs. Hudson, come in! What is it?” Holmes spoke loudly and, I thought, rather shrilly.

“Sorry to bother you Mr. Holmes but you have a visitor.”

“A visitor? I am expecting no one. Who is it?”  “It’s Inspector Lestrade sir.”

“Ah! Well show him in! Show him in at once!”

“Ah, Lestrade! Do come in. Come in!” Holmes welcomed Lestrade much more effusively than normal, I thought.

“Good day, Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson.”

“So to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

“Well, I may have some information on that case you were working. That is the case involving the Druids.”

“Wonderful! Please, take a seat. Would you care for some tea?”

“No, no thank you.” Lestrade made himself more comfortable and then related his information.

“We have discovered a number of blackmail attempts that we think are related to the so called Druids and they seem to be related to the poor girl whose remains were found in that cave.”

“Really, Lestrade?”

“Why Holmes, we…” I started to speak but Holmes shot me a sidelong look that said unequivocally “Be Silent!”

“Yes, we have heard complaints from three gentlemen we believe were there the night the ceremony was held. I am not at liberty to divulge their names at this moment. They all came in independently to ask our help and their stories are all similar.”

“Please tell me more,” said Holmes, in his best, friendly manner.

“Well,” Lestrade continued, “Some men have come forward, very prominent men I will say, many with connections in Whitehall, and they have related very similar stories. They tell of being coerced by some unknown person into leaving large sums of money in prearranged hiding places in various seedy and even dangerous parts of town. They don’t know who the individual is and he tells them his demands will cease but yet he repeats them over and over. They are becoming increasingly frustrated and demand some sort of action. I thought you should know about this. If you come up with something please let me know and I promise to withhold nothing about this from you.”

“Thank you, Lestrade, I am still on the case and I am sure you will hear from me shortly.”

With that Lestrade bid us goodbye and made his exit.

“Holmes, you didn’t think it important to tell him what you have learned about this blackmail?”

“No, Watson. I still want to gather more facts. When my soufflé is more than half baked I will present it at the proper time.”

“So where do we stand at the moment?”

“The person engaging in the blackmail obviously knows these men attended the pseudo sacrifice in the cave and that they have been a part of the neo-Druid cult. It is apparent these are prominent men, either in the government or well connected with some in government, they think the sacrifice was a murder and that they may be considered accomplices and possibly susceptible to other charges. They most likely think that any revelation of their activities with the Druids and the events in the cave will perhaps end, or at least severely damage, their careers and personal lives. Because of that they are willing to expend large amounts of cash to keep this silent. Sooner or later this will come to a head. I have never heard of a successful blackmailer who was willing to let go of a rabbit once his teeth were embedded in the jugular!”

“What do we do then?” I asked.

“We watch, we wait, we gather more facts! As always we follow the facts to an eventual conclusion.”

“So how do you get paid out of all this? You have no client as it were. How can you afford to spend so much time, effort and Lord knows you have already spent much of your own money during the investigation.” I was a bit perplexed.

“Well, Watson I suspect that once I have put to an end these various acts of blackmail I will be able to present a bill and that these gentlemen will be only too happy to pay it!”

“Why, that sounds a bit like blackmail!”

“Not at all Watson! I will be doing them a service in freeing them from this abominable situation. If they don’t pay my bill I will still maintain professional standards of confidentiality. They have nothing to fear from me. That’s the difference.”

Over the next weeks Holmes did obtain the names from Lestrade and we interviewed the subjects. Some were indignant and did not cooperate. Others were relieved that Holmes was on the case. It seems the Druid Blackmailer had been very busy!

At least two of them were willing to aid in the investigation.

test

High Street was the street of taverns, and indeed Poplar and Blackwall boasted of an extraordinary number of inns and taverns, no doubt catering to the itinerant seafaring population. On the south side were the Green Man, Black Horse, Spotted Dog, Harrow, Rising Sun, Ship and Captain Man of War, whilst on the north side stood the White Hart, Angel, Sun and Sawyers, Red Lion, Green Dragon, Old General Blakeney, Queen's Head and the White Horse.

It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

The Awen

The Mesopagan Druids have as their most common symbol the “Awen” or “three bars of light,” shown here (left) in the simplest form. The word “awen” means “inspiration” in Middle Welsh, and in Mesopagan Druidism it represents the primal sound and light caused by “the” Supreme Being pronouncing “His” name to create the universe. Mesopagan Druids have a great deal of metaphysical theory based on this and related triplicities — most of it coming from the early Unitarian preacher and prolific forger of ancient manuscripts, Iolo Morganwyg (who pretty much created Mesopagan Druidry to begin with). The Order of Bards Ovates and Druids places the Awen inside a set of three circles (right), representing Iolo’s three “stages of existence.” As you can see, some people use the Awen with and some without the three dots symbolizing the Supreme Being (and some with a single dot).

The word “awen” is used by some modern Druids as a Celtic equivalent to the Sanscrit word “aum,” intoning it when doing trancework, thusly: “aah-ooo-enn...”

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