“Sewall’s interest in the treasure is genuine—he needs the money. But I believe he formed the idea of working with Chercover when he visited Miss Hartley abroad. You remember, he mentioned she was with a bad crowd? I think he’s been in negotiations with Chercover to sell space on his reputable ships for whatever Chercover wishes to smuggle—men, gold, guns. In exploring Sewall’s claim, my man in Boston observed that he sent a large number of cables to Prague.”
“Yes. And it was by watching Chercover that your brother Mycroft learned about Sewall, the legacy, and Miss Hartley,” I said. “And our involvement.”
“Exactly! He warned me away from Miss Hartley, as he believes he can use her to find and arrest Chercover and his men.”
I frowned. “It seems so odd that both of them—relatives from opposite sides of the Atlantic—would be entangled with a monster like Chercover, but you’ve shown me quite material reasons for it.”
Holmes shrugged. “There is also the matter of atavism and hereditary aptitudes, Watson. We observe that Mistress Hoyt was clever, cautious, and canny; she survived a rough era to die peacefully of old age. And yet, she hid money to escape possible political reverses and avoid taxes; my man in Boston suggests a dark history behind her wealth. It is not difficult to imagine that her descendants might have also inherited her clever, perhaps criminal turn of mind, one looking for excitement abroad, the other risking large sums of cash.”
“But what about this piece of paper?”
“The location of the treasure. Do you know the Bible verse?”
“If memory serves, something about walls and a house?”
“‘Even unto them will I give in mine house and within my walls a place and a name better than of sons and of daughters.’ I believe if we find a wall or construction of late last century’s vintage, we will find the treasure. Or, at least, we’ll find Miss Hartley, who wants us to help her escape Chercover, who is no doubt closing in on her.”
I nodded. “She is the only one in this case not guilty of anything more than bad judgment, to have fallen in love with an anarchist. I’m happy to help her over Mr. Sewall.”
“A race to the treasure.” Holmes’s face was grim, but his eyes were alight with anticipation. “Watson, do not be mistaken: There will be a bloodbath in Sussex.”
It took an excruciatingly long time to reach the farmstead; we had good luck getting a taxi from Eastbourne, but after finding directions to the farm itself, were forced to walk the last mile to the long driveway leading to the front of the house.
The farmstead was quiet when we arrived in the early evening. I had to assume we were not the first ones here. There was little wind in this sheltered spot and I fancied I could almost hear the crash of waves on the nearby coast. The age of the little farmhouse suggested to us both that it long predated Anna Hoyt’s time. We agreed to circle around from opposite sides, I from the left, and Holmes from the right as we faced the house. With any luck, we would find a wall constructed within the past century or meet in the back.
Nearing the rear of the house, past a flanking hedge, I could make out several tea-chest-sized structures staggered inside a stone wall enclosing the yard behind the house. Only prudence born of long experience kept me from racing to it, and it was well I did not: as I approached the hedge, I was surprised by several men. Their shouts were in the same guttural language spoken by the brigands who attacked us in the alley. A flock of my bullets drove them away, but, returning fire, they forced me to take cover on the ground behind the hedge.
As the echo of shots died away, I realized that an angry droning noise had risen up all around me. A rich scent, redolent of alfalfa, burned molasses, and thyme, filled my nose. I saw ranks of beehives in the space between an ancient ruin of a moss-covered wall and a much newer construction. Thousands of dark little bodies flitted through the air, disturbed by our gunplay. There seemed to be no end of them. I’d never been stung by a bee, and never thought about it, but now the sheer number of them, the huge noise they made as they rose up to defend their homes, became a phantasm, a terror that robbed me of my will. I had no idea what to do. . . .
The darkening sky closed down around me and my vision narrowed. I felt as if I was being pressed into the earth. The noise was . . . everywhere. Inside my head, down to the hollow cores of my bones. There was no relief, no cessation. I could feel every vibration of the swarm in the dirt beneath me. The enraged hum screamed “danger,” thrilling my every nerve. If I moved, I’d be shot. If I stayed, I would surely die. My heart pounded fit to shatter my ribs.
Only half aware of my surroundings, through the stems of the hedge, I saw Holmes approach the rear of the house, toward the hives. Heard the arrival of other men.
Shouts, then. Followed by gunfire.
Holmes hit and fallen. No noise from him but a muffled groan. He never made noise when he fought. Almost never made a noise when he was hit.
Sewall had come from the right, following Holmes. Somewhere in the distance, more confusion; perhaps Sewall’s men engaging with Chercover’s.