The Boscombe Valley Mystery (The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes IV)

"As usual, you have everything under control,Ó said Watson. ÒI know,Ó said the cocky Bjšrn. ÒWhen I called you, it wasnÕt for you to come down. I just wanted to tell you about the awning.Ó The awning was ripped clean through in a horizontal line extending from Lincoln Road all the way to the small building behind Fleming House which Holmes also owned and where heÕd installed a small newsstand and coffee shop serving up some of Chef HilarioÕs much-prized pastries. Though Cuban, Hilario had trained for many years in France and brought a special genius to every dish that came out of what Bjšrn called his Òmad torture chamberÓ of a kitchen. Watson looked around the room. Only two tables were occupied, one by a couple of he recognized, the Madden twins, Andrew and Bernie, the other by a pair of tourists. Looking beyond them through the French doors that gave onto Lincoln Road, he saw just a couple of people with heads bowed against the stiff wind pushing ahead into the rain, one of them foolishly carrying an umbrella that had buckled outward. ÒA little problem with our awning, I see,Ó came a familiar voice from behind them. Watson and Bjšrn turned and saw HolmesÕs tall frame stroll into the room. ÒIt was only a matter of time, given the wind,Ó he went on. ÒYouÕre going out?Ó Watson asked, nodding to indicate the raincoat Holmes wore, cut in a double-breasted trench coat fashion. ÒYes, and youÕre going with me, Watson, if they can spare you here at Fleming House.Ó ÒI can certainly be spared,Ó said Bjšrn with a nonchalant gesture to the near-empty room. ÒAt least the rain makes it romantic,Ó he said dreamily. ÒYes, and IÕm sure weÕll find Table 9 not only romantic, but dry,Ó said Holmes, Òsince this wind is coming in from the southwest over the Everglades and Table 9 is situated on the northeast side of the building.Ó ÒWhere are we going?Ó Watson asked. ÒUp to a little town called Pahokee on Lake OkeechobeeÑabout two hoursÕ drive.Ó Holmes turned on his heel and walked across the lobby and into the bar just opposite, Goldeneye (named after James Bond author Ian FlemingÕs Jamaica winter house where he wrote many of the books of which Holmes was an ardent fan). Watson followed him. Holmes nodded to Leira, the Guatemalan bartender in her mid-twenties, as he walked up to the bar. There were three customers, all dripping wet. ÒNot much going on in here, either,Ó he said. ÒNo, Mr. Holmes,Ó said Leira, Òjust people coming in out of the rain.Ó ÒWeÕll be at Table 9,Ó ÒYes, Mr. Holmes. IÕll send Ulises right over.Ó Watson followed Holmes out through the open French doors that led from the bar out under the wide awning fronting Lincoln Road. Here the rain washed down over the awning and into Lincoln Road, a good six feet from Table 9. Watson felt a secret little thrill being out there ÒinÓ the rain without being in it. The awning was like a little cocoon where they sat and enjoyed the violent tempest. Ulises, the handsome Mexican waiter in his twenties (from MŽrida in the Yucat‡n), came out to greet them. ÒA nice lunch during the stormy weather, Mr. Holmes?Ó he said, bending over in his crisp white cadet style tunic with the brass buttons to clear away the unused place settings. ÒExactly, Ulises. We are certainly getting our share of April showers. What wonders has Chef Hilario prepared for us today?Ó ÒWe have a very nice confit fillet of Pacific black codfish, Mr. Holmes. Comes with salmon roe, Yukon Gold potatoes, compressed cucumber, pumpernickel and horseradish.Ó HolmesÕs eyebrows went up. ÒThat sounds enterprising,Ó he said. ÒThereÕs also a single large scallop, from Maine, and Chef Hilario treats it with apple wood smoked bacon, a ruby beet SpŠtzle, sour apples and a horseradish crme fra"che.Ó ÒIÕm delirious already, Ulises. Tell Chef Hilario that IÕll have both those dishes. I canÕt be satisfied till IÕve tasted both of them. And a half bottle of Taittinger, if you please.Ó ÒVery good, Mr. Holmes. And for you, Mr. Watson, the usual?Ó ÒYes, a burger well-done and a pint of SmithwickÕs.Ó Ulises nodded and disappeared. Holmes shook his head sadly. ÒWill I ever be successful in elevating your plebian culinary profile, Watson?Ó ÒI seriously doubt it, Holmes. I thought you had me the other night when you convinced me eat the halibut with the petite basil, but I almost choked on the, what was it?Ó ÒIt was the caramelized fennel bulb.Ó ÒFennel, thatÕs it! Who can eat that crap?Ó ÒI can eat that crap, Watson, and appreciate it. And for the record, I think Chef Hilario is on to UlisesÕs little trick of ordering your burger mediumÑthe most he will cook any meatÑand then letting it sit under the heat lamp till it turns into a hamburger with the same consistency as a hockey puck.Ó ÒAll I know is that Ulises always manages.Ó Ulises came back with the beverages and then disappeared. ÒSo tell me about the new case,Ó Watson went on. ÒYes. I have spent the last twenty-four hours mastering the particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those simple cases which are so extremely difficult.Ó ÒThat sounds a little paradoxical.Ó ÒBut it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably a clue. The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult it is to bring it home. In this case, however, they have established a very serious case against the son of the murdered man.Ó

Chapter 2 Murder? ÒIt is a murder, then?Ó ÒWell, they think it is. I take nothing for granted, of course, until IÕve had the opportunity to look into it personally. But I can give you the particulars, as far as IÕve been able to understand them. ÒBoscombe Valley is an area out near Pahokee abutting Lake Okeechobee, and is where a series of limestone quarries are located.Ó ÒHow can there be a place called Boscombe Valley in Florida?Ó IsnÕt everything just above sea level?Ó Watson asked as Ulises brought some bread and a bowl of English butter. ÒThere is a high ridge just west of town and it is into this ridge that the original quarries were dug by a man named Isaac Boscombe, back in the early days when they were building FlaglerÕs East Coast Railway. Because of this awkward hole in the ground, they named the place, facetiously, of course, Boscombe Valley. Other quarries were dug up in the years that followed and there is a small community of people surrounding these holes in the ground that has thrived out there in a very isolated state for a hundred years or so. They are entrenched in their rustic lives in much the same way as the Seminole Indians are in theirs.Ó ÒBut without the gambling money the Indians bring in.Ó ÒYes, there is no gambling money. In any case, the largest landed owner in that area is a John Turner, an Australian who made his money in the gold mines initially and then, when he came here, working for old man Boscombe. He invested wisely by buying up surrounding plots of land later used to dig even more quarries. ÒOne of the plots he rented to his best friend, Brian McCarthy. But even though Turner was the richer man, he and McCarthy were on terms of perfect equality, as they spent most of their time together. McCarthy had one son, a lad of eighteen, and Turner had an only daughter of the same age, but neither of them had wives living. They avoided the larger towns along the coast as much as possible and led retired lives, though both the McCarthys were fond of sports, occasionally coming down to Miami for a Dolphins football game. That is as much as I have been able to gather about the families. Now for the facts. ÒOn April FoolÕs Day, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left his house at about three in the afternoon and walked down to the Boscombe Pool, which is a small lake formed when water seeped into an old abandoned quarry. There are many such pools in this area. He had been out with his worker in the morning, and he told the man that he must hurry, that he had an important appointment to keep at three. He never came back from that appointment.Ó Ulises came back bearing their lunches. ÒSorry for the delay, but it took a few minutes extra for me to burn Mr. WatsonÕs burger,Ó he smiled. ÒIÕll have another SmithwickÕs,Ó said Watson, looking down with a satisfied smile at his burger burned to a crisp. ÒFrom the McCarthy house, on a plot called Hatherley Farm, to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a mile, and two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One was an old woman, whose name is not mentioned, and the other was William Crowder, a worker for Mr. Turner. Both these witnesses depose that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. Crowder adds that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr. McCarthy pass he saw his son, James McCarthy, going the same way with a gun under his arm. To the best of his belief, the father was actually in sight at the time, and the son was following him. He thought no more of the matter until he heard in the evening of the tragedy that had occurred.Ó Holmes put down his fork. ÒThis Maine scallop is beyond sublime.Ó ÒThe case sounds interesting,Ó said Watson.Ó ÒIt gets better,Ó said Holmes. ÒThe Boscombe Pool is thickly wooded all around, with just a fringe of grass and reeds round the edge. A girl of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of TurnerÕs caretaker, was in one of the woods picking flowers. She states that while she was there she saw, at the border of the wood and close by the Pool, Mr. McCarthy and his son, and that they appeared to be having a violent quarrel. She heard Mr. McCarthy the elder using very strong language to his son, and she saw the son James raise up his hand as if to strike his father. She was so frightened by their violence that she ran away and told her mother when she reached home that she had left the two McCarthys quarrelling near Boscombe Pool, and that she was afraid that they were going to fight. She had hardly said the words when young Mr. McCarthy came running up to the lodge to say that he had found his father dead in the wood, and to ask for the ca