by Enrico Solito
translation by Alessandro di Francia
- It seems all pretty clear to me, - he smiled, - so much so that I hope to leave tonight, or tomorrow at the latest, for London. I only need to look here and there in the executive offices, searching for the last link. I think I shall then be able to close the case going back down in that horrible pit we visited last night: some details are still missing... In the meantime you could test the miners' mood...
I did not reply; I knew it would have useless: he was clearly not going to tell me anything yet. If I had insisted, at best he would have smiled friendly and advised me to apply his methods, which I must knew by now, to the facts we both had witnessed. As my readers know well, there was no harshness meant on his side, nor was he thus underlying his intellectual superiority: Holmes simply had his own personal liking to the coup de theatre, to uncovering the truth suddenly and only when he thought it best. Still, I had no intention of visiting the miners' hovels at all, with the risk of arousing the men's suspicion upon us. I therefore spent the morning on my own, pondering over the facts of the previous day, thinking about the few elements ensued by our talk with our client, the examination of the bodies, the visit to the Doomed Gallery, as I would call it between myself.How on earth could Holmes have understood whether Rodbee was a murderer victim of his own trap or an assailant died in a criminal attempt? How could he hope to calm down the turmoils that might have arisen at any time? I confess, shamelessly, that the only results of that terrible intellectual strain were an annoying feeling of inadequacy and a terrible headache that didn't leave for the whole day. When at last it was clear to me that I was not getting anywhere, I took my pipe from my pocket and prepared to wait for Holmes smoking the time away.
No more than half an hour later, my friend came back: - Shall we go, Watson? I hope waiting for me wasn't too boring.
- You don't mean to say we're really going back down there?
- I'm afraid so, old fellow. And with the manager in person, this time. I told him what I was going to do in the gallery, and he insisted upon coming with us; actually, mister Dreeson seemed really impatient: the excitemebt of his words, the trembling of his hands, the flushing of his face clearly showed a state of deep emotion the poor man wasn't able to dissimulate at all. Of course I understand the importance of the matter for him - an attack at the mine, if successful, would have ment the intervention of the Army, more turmoils, and terrible problems anyway - , but I cannot repress feeling disguted at the idea that the death of two men to him simply faded in the background before his own problems.
And so it was that, despite my unwillingness to enter the mine once more was known to Holmes, it was carelessly ignored and in a few minutes we were briskly led to the cages of the elevator hoists by the manager, who never stopped asking questions to my friend ,to which he received only an enigmatic smile. As Dreeson worked on the descent mechanism, plunging us down into the bowels of the earth, a beam of light slashed through the last crack between the cage and the pit; once more I felt the shiver of horror that had taken me at the beginning of my last underground trip, but this time I was somehow prepared for what was awiting me, as I remember I was less negatively impressed by the wide open space we entered into as we got out of the cage.
It was now filled with men working all around us and corfs coming and going in all directions. The manager led the way without hesitation, taking the tunnel heading to the abandoned gallery. We entered the black tunnel, through the narrow vault and along walls very close to one another, leaning on the poles and trusses placed every two feet to prevent landslides; we then descended to where the footprints were, and then to the open space, where we were at last able to stop walking in a row and to look at each other in the face, at the light of the lantern.
The fact that my friend hadn't taken notice of almost anything during our walk had struk me as quite peculiar. We had walked briskly all the way, and Holmes had never stopped once, as if in a hurry to follow the manager to the end of the gallery. So atipical had been his behaviour, so different from his careful and enquiring way of doing, capable of gathering any evidence that might come his way, which I knew so well, that I understood something was wrong. I sensed a danger that I had possibly never felt so clear in my life, with the exception of the day of the battle at Maywand: and I bitterly regretted I had not listened to my friend's advice, leaving my faithful revolver in my suitcase.
- So, mister Holmes! - said the manager after he had caught his breath. - You say you'll find the final proof you've been looking for all this time in this very place. Can you see it?
- Please, don't be in such a hurry, mister Dreeson; just give me a little time... But, dear me, you're unwell!
- No, it's nothing, really. - Said Dreeson weakly, wiping the sweat from his now pale face asI was getting closer to him. - It must have been the strain. I'm not used to it...
- Yes, I understand. - Said Holmes calmly. - I'm sure the executives have very few chances to come down into the mine personally; by the way, - he continued, with such a harsh tone of his voice that it startled me - I wonder how you managed to lead us here with such an ability, without ever esitating. I myself have already been here, but I confess I would have had some hesitations in coming so far at such a brisk pace. How could you do that?
- Well... I was given indications; you see, I often look at the maps of the mine during my work.
- That's strange. If you had looked at them as often as you say you never would have allowed a new tunnel to be opened so close to the underground river...
The bite of a tarantula wouldn'd have had the manager jumping as high as he did at Holmes' words. - What... who.... - he stammered , his back against the wall.
- Your nerves are shaking, mister Dreeson; believe me, you should rest. Of course it's a bad moment for you, I can understand that... Anyway let's go back to work now and look for that famous piece of evidence and thus close this case.
At the lamp's dim light Holmes walked up to the bewildered manager, pointing at a shadow area of the wall; - Look here: can you see the mark of a hand? I happened to notice it last night. The person who left it was very tired, too tired for a miner, I would say, and had to lean on the wall to hold himself up. The print's dimensions are such as to allow me to exclude it being the hand of one of the victims, so it must be that of one of the two intruders... yours, director, or maybe that of your accomplice the guardian. If you shall be as good as to give me your hand, we shall quickly solve this little puzzle...
- So this was your damned evidence! - roared the man, recovering from the blow. - But you won't have me!
Dreeson had moved away from the wall he had leaned on so far, and had drown closer to the exit. I moved to block his way, but Sherlock Holmes stopped me with a nod.
- Of course you think you've won, mister Holmes, but I fear that this time you've come across someone smarter than you. You see, it just wasn't that clever letting me know that you had informed the Police of our little trip; I've had the sargeant notified by your own person that the engagement was off. No-one shall come to save you, sirs; and stop looking at the gallery. Or better still, do take a look at it! Craksee, you may come now!
A shadow materialized from the darkness of the tunnel that had led us to that dreadful and deadly place. The guardian, a man of medium size with a grim face, came foward in the open space, a revolver in his right hand. - It was easy following you, director; just as you said. I just had to keep my eye the lantern.
- Did you talk to the sargeant as I had told you?
- Yes, and glad he was he didn't have to come down here anymore. Do we have to kill them like the other two?
- I'm afraid so. Have you got anything to ask me, mister Holmes? The condemned are never denied one last wish...
We were trapped. Unfortunately, it was very clear to me that Holmes' clever move - taking the murderer back to the place of the crime to have him confess, trusting on the hidden protection of the Police force, - had turned itself into a lethal boomerang that was leaving us no way out. I then decided to stake everything, and began ogling at my friend waiting for a signal. It was almost certainly useless, but I was determined to sell my life dear. Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand, leaned carelessly against the wall as if this whole matter did not concern him at all. I was not expecting such a behaviour from him, and for a second I was startled; then I realized it had to be some sort of trick to fool our enemies: when the time was right he would have sprung up in the ultimate attempt of overwhelming the assailants. I therefore commended my soul to God and prepared for the supreme moment.
- Yes, I do have one last qestion for you. - Said Holmes. - They were merely stunned when you left them here. How could you be sure they would have died?
- When this gallery was in use it was almost regularly flooded with grisou. There's a ventilation pit that prevents it from getting too heaped up: when we left them down here we blocked it, simulating a landslip. We were sure in a few minutes the gas would have killed them. As I had already told you, when the bodies were recovered I had the ventilation pit opened once more.
- And how will you justify OUR deaths? - asked I.
- We're going to blow the gallery up on our way out.You're going to be nothing more than victims of yet another landslip. No-one will be too surprised. But enough of this: prepare to die.
As he said so, a weird noise - something like a snap, like a tree breaking - resounded underneath those silent vaults. Craksee swang for a second, staring at me, his eyes wide open; then he collapsed, his nape smashed. Before I had the time to understand what was going on the violent blow of a mannel hit the bewildered manager's abdomen, causing him to bend in two, breathless with pain. Sherlock Holmes, absolutely calm, walked to the otherside of the narrow opening, took the lamp resting on a high niche and bent down on Craksee. - He's dead, - said he, laconically, - you should have been more indulgent on him, Pordees!
- Well, you see, sir- said the big man, suddenly out of the tunnel, - it was personal. He's always been a damn blackleg.
- You see, director, - said the detective to our near-murderer, - when you quit bellowing and get to your feet once more you'll better reflect on the fact that I am slightly less stupid than you thought, and my moves slightly less foreseeable. And now, if you don't mind, I would like to go back to the surface; we city people do not appreciate the darkness of tunnels that much... Stop it, damn!
Holmes' cry shook me from the state of uncounciousness I was in: with a sudden movement Dreeson had his hand to his mouth, and before any of us could prevent it, he had swallowed something. Almost immediately he collapsed, struk by terrible convulsions that ceased soon after. He was dead.
- Let's get away from here, Watson. This man has escaped the gallows.
- He has merely escaped men's punishment, Holmes. And that alone.
- Yes, let's get out of here quickly. - Said Pordees, worried. - I don't like these squeaking sounds at all. It wouldn't be the first landslip in this part of the mine.
We didn't need a better advice to put wings to our feet. I can still remember that trip back through the dark gallery, that narrow path that seemed endless, as a long breathless running. I ran into the side walls a couple of times, and often slipped in the mud that covered a good part of the ground; but that didn't slow my frantic running for a second, as I clenched my teeth and tryed not to feel the tiredness, nor the throbbing of my burning temples. I could hear sinister creacking sounds on top of our running feet, and they were getting louder and closer, and as we were approaching the exit of the tunnel into the wide entry cavern, a dull uproar began to cover all the other noises.
- The landslip! - Cried Pordees with all the breath he could muster. - Run for your lives!
A rumble followed us, increasing every istant, like the terror that filled my soul, like the exertion that was beginning to weigh down upon my legs, like the crazy rhythm of our desperate running. At last the rumble wrapped me up together with a cloud of dust and coal that blinded and suffocated: it was as though I was being raised up by a frightening force and thrown forward, in the dust. I closed my eyes and protected my head as I fell, in an instinctive if useless act, waiting for the landslide to kill me. I remained lucid and incredibly calm, I remember it well, just as I remember those moments' eternal length, during which I had the time of going over my whole life, as in a flash, and of taking leave - with one last regret - of the people who had played a vital role in it...
But the landslide never came. Slowly, imperceptibly, the noise decreased and the air became more and more breathable. Bewildered, I raised my head and opened the very eyes I had thought would never have seen the light of day again. The pressure wave caused by the earthfall had thrown me out of the tunnel, in the connecting gallery. Pordees and Holmes, who were ahead of me in the wild running, were coughing by my side: incredibly, we were safe. I stood up with a certain effort and looked at some miners rushing towards us, attracted by the noise of the landslide; I turned, stunned, to take a look at what was once the entrance to the tunnel, now a gathering of debris, broken poles and coal-dust, and I fainted.
I came to a few minutes later, already in the cage of the lift, were I had evidently been taken in the meantime. I shall never forget the feeling of liberation I felt when the cage emerged into the light of the afternoon, in the blessed light of a dying sun: my heart lightened at the sight of that muddy open space I had thought awful that very morning.
- " E quindi uscimmo/ a riveder le stelle " ( NOTE: in italian in the text ) - Quoted Sherlock Holmes, his hand on my shoulder. - Is everything all right, old fellow? I really fear that if you publish this case one day, your readers will find it rather hard to forgive me for having put you in such danger.
- Everything has gone just as you had foreseen, mister Holmes, - said Pordees before I could reply, - apart from the landslide, of course. I must compliment you. I told the miners a misfortune had occurred. If you don't mind following me to the executive offices, I'd like you to come with me: the board of directors are there and I could bring the news with you.
In the square the news were spreading quickly and the miners crowded the entrances to see what had happened. We therefore passed almost unnoticed and were able to walk to the executive offices quite undisturbed.
- Why on earth did you not tell me anything, Holmes? Oh, don't tell me: the usual " if-you-knew-you-would-have-spoiled-my-plan " theory! - Said I, quite upset.
- You have every reason to complain, Watson. But I can assure you I would never have done such a thing to you, but Dreeson joined us just as I was going to tell you about it. I had to keep silent, trusting on the good state of your circulatory system. I had him believing I was looking for the final evidence and he was beside himself with anxiety. I really depended on this, and on my false mistake of letting him know I had asked the policemen to follow us. You see, all the show had been put up to dramatize the situation and have him giving a full confession.
- But why?
- Because I had no evidences, Watson! I was sure he was the culprit, but no judge on earth would have condemned him on my evidences.
- But the print of his hand... You could have made a cast of it!
- I'm glad you believed it too. I wouldn't have made a bad actor, after all...Yes, it was all a big lie; there was no print in that wall. I took advantage of the darkness, of the place, of the manager's sense of guilt: and my bluff was a success.
- Quite a risk, though. And what if he wasn't fooled?
- He had no choice: he had to fall in my trap. I had provoked him far too much. In reality I had not quite lied: I was really looking for a definitive piece of evidence, but HE had to give it to me...
- But how did you understand the truth, Holmes?
- It wasn't difficult. Actually, in Baker Street I had it clear that none of the two versions given to us by Pordees and the press were good: in both there was a most important fact that couldn't be explained: what was an expert miner doing in an abandoned gallery, known to be dangerous and out of order, and without a mask? He evidently had not entered it of his will. When I examined the bodies I noticed they were clean; they had no traces of coal but under the old miner's nails, and they were not wearing their working robes. I was told the corpses had not been touched, so the tragic excursion into the gallery had not been foreseen but decided upon at the very last moment. Anyway, I was sure that the two had been taken into the gallery, and had not entered it alone, shortly after, when we descended into it ourselves. Do you remember the footprints in the mud?
- Of course. They belonged to two people going towards the end of the tunnel. But none came back, Holmes!
- None that the mud could show us, Watson: but if someone had walked on the rock abutment, as we did, he would have left no footprints at all. If you recall it, at one time I walked in the mud too: my weight is quite like that of the victims, but my footprints were much less deep.
- Then those were the footprints of the murderers, burdened down with the poor victims they were carrying after having stunned them... That's why they once stopped to catch their breath! But which is the reason behind all this?
- I discovered it only this morning, searching among poor Weighton's papers, and so it was that I understood who the murderers were, or better, who was the other one beside the guardian. He must have been in it: he had lied to strengthen the official hypothesis. On the basis of an indication I found in the victim's papers I have been able to get to an old map hidden in a book on English mines; it was rough and approximate, but I quickly realized it was a sketch of the Addleton mine, dating some few years back. The murderer had searched long between the deceased's personal belongings, but had evidently failed to find it.
- I don't understand: the map of the mine is in the executive offices, for all to see...
- Yes, but I doubt it corresponds entirely to the truth! You see, it seems that almost a year ago a new wing of the mine was opened. Weighton, then one of the chief-miners, suspected danger, and that the manager knew it. So he pretended coming to an agreement with Dreeson, but only to be able to enter his offices undisturbed and thus verify his hypothesis. Rodbee must have been on his side, and I really think the first to foresee the danger in opening that wing was, in fact, the old and experienced miner. But however it was, nobody was to know and the secret had to be kept at any cost.
- What do you mean, mister Holmes; will you make yourself clear?
- I was just getting to the point, mister Pordees. After many months spent in investigating Weighton found the old map, totally different from the official one on the place they wanted to open the new wing in: I am not an expert, but it seems evident to me that the new pits are very close to a water-bearing stratum. Weighton consulted Rodbee and then told the manager he knew everything; Dreeson must have pretended he didn't know anything about it and asked to go and check the exactness of the map together; then, as they entered the gallery, with the help of the guardian, he has hit and subsequently killed both him and Rodbee.
- Oh, how Weighton must have suffered; he was acting for our own sake and we treated him as a traitor! - Whispered Pordees.
- But why did nobody see them? - I asked.
- The manager chose the right moment, when all the miners were at work in the active pits; nobody could have been at the cages, except for the guardian, of course. And the entrance to the abandoned gallrey is very close to them.
- Weighton should have called the Police instead of threatening the manager...
- I don't know, Watson. He was a corageous man: he tried. After all, an inquest could have been blocked. It was a difficult decision.
We walked in silence up to the executive offices, entered them following Pordees and covered the corridors with long paces up to a great oak door, in front of which stood two smartly dressed clerks. - Please, sirs, please: the board of directors has just begun, and it just isn't possible... - Said the first. With a snarl and a few words I won't repeat, Pordees litterally threw him against the wall; careless of the terrorized looks of the pair, he then gave a tremendous kick to the door, which burst open. Holmes looked at me, and with a sign invited me to follow him inside; he seemed almost amused, and I must confess that the pale faces of the two clerks would have deserved a worthy painter.
And so it was that half an hour later having been almost buried by the landslide, dirty and ragged as we were, we found ourselves interrupting the board of directors of the Mining Society.
The wide room, adorned with enormous graphics and pictures of mines, had, in its centre, a long u-shaped table, behind which some ten very distinguished persons were evidently listening to the speech of that which had to be the president. Judging by the reactions of the audience to our dramatic entrče it wasn't hard for me to see that they believed they were facing a real miners' insurrection, and only after a most convincing speech by Sherlock Holmes did they realize both the situation and our real identities.
A dead silence followed my friend's assertions, by which he also repeated roughly what he had told me a few moments before. He talked concisely, and with such a carelessness as I had seldom seen in him in those crucial moments at the closing of a case; it was from this that I realized he had entered that phase of indifference, if not satisfaction, which enraptured him at the end of an affair he had put all his energies in: to him, the whole story was already over.
- Well, Pordees, - said the president, clearing his throat after the pitiful silence that had followed my friend's words, - I hope neither you nor your fellow miners will want to take advantage from this unpleasant episode in our controversies...
The miner smiled, looking at his nails. - Well, mister president, - he started, - of course we will, especially because I really doubt that this "unpleasant episode", as you call it, was a personal idea of Dreeson's: you knew the new wing wasn't to be opened!
- Don't you dare...
- Oh, come now! You are not in the position to talk to me like that. Let's forget about your responsabilities; let's forget that the manager couldn't have it his own way and open a new wing against safety rules; let's forget even what's going to happen when my mates know the whole story. Don't you think, sirs, that the savers will have some problems investing their money in shares belonging to a society whose whole board of directors is in the prospect of ending up in the gaols?
The quick exchanges of worried glances, the paleness suddenly appeared on the members of the council's faces, the faint whispers, made it clear that Pordees had hit the mark.
- Have you any idea in the matter? - Asked the president in a low voice.
- Yes, I do; we might support the double-accident version: the first to Weighton and Rodbee, the second to Cracksee and Dreeson, whose bodies cannot be recovered. In exchange for it you will close the new wing, raise the salaries, aknowledge the internal commission and accept those famous requests on safety we have been discussing for months. Also, you will sign an admission of responsability on the event, for future memory. Nothing else.
- Nothing else? - Exploded the president. - You are seizing us by the neck!
- A bad expression, as your neck could be in the noose... you choose.
- And... you, mister Holmes, what do YOU want to forget about everything?
My friend dumbfounded the president with a perentory look of scorn. - My reward, sir, usually is work itself. But in this case I shall make an exception: I think twenty thousand pounds are a sufficient punishment for your imprudence. My bank is the Capital&Counties Bank, branch of Oxford Street. And now a good day to you all, sirs.
( NOTE: a similar frase was pronounced seven years later by Holmes to the Duke of Holderness, who had behaved uncorteously with him. See " The Priory School " )
It was too late to go back to London that evening, so we again had to stay in Addleton for the night. But after the events of the day we didn't feel like being guests of the management and therefore gladly accepted Pordees' invitation to spend the night in his house. In the evening there was a party laid for us at the so-called local pub: more a dirty old room they all called pub than a proper one. After many beers and toasts to our very good health, the conversation dropped on local sporting habits.
- Hand to hand fight, but mainly boxe... - Said Pordees with a smile. - All things Londoners do not understand.
Sherlock Holmes started lightly. - Ten rounds are fine with you? - He asked politely.
The screams of joy of the miners surrounding us deafened me for a moment, while Pordees put down his pint of ale. - You're kidding, mister Holmes: this is no ladies' game. I am the local champion since I destroyed Tryson last year.
- Then fifteen would be better.
The crowd of miners around us suddenly widened and a quick ring was put up. I shall remember it for a long time: the suffocating air reddened by the smoke and the gleams of the fire, the sweating and excited crowd gathering all around the ring and the terrible noises that stunned me. I had the honour of being Sherlock Holmes' second and, with a bucket and a towel, assisted him round after round.
The big Pordees placed himself at the center of the ring, instigated by his mates, waving his fists as heavy as rocks. Holmes, on the contrary, frisked around him, teasing him by hitting him on the sides. The miner punched in a way that would have sent anyone to the rug, but rarely hit the mark. It went on like this for a few rounds, until Pordees, crossed, had the bad idea of letting his guard down: my friend immediately dealt a couple of blows in his face and a good one in his stomach. Finally, he was able to hit his opponent, now totally unopposed, with a terrible uppercut that almost raised him off the ground to leave him in the arms of his now silent supporters.
In the years to come Pordees, later to become a labourist rapresentative of his County at the House of Commons, would often turn up to pay us a visit in Baker Street, and in those occasions he never failed to mention some people's unexpected ability at boxing, still touching his jaw as he talked.
As for Holmes, he still keeps, among his dearest remembrances of past cases, a small medal of no intrinsic value whatsoever, which bears the inscription: " To the Addleton champion ".