one of the glasses and handed it to me, then half-filled the other.
“A gift from Mr. Carroll,” he said, raising his glass in salute. “Up the Irish.” He drank.
“If you say so.” I sipped my whiskey.
“And so I do.” A thin smile crossed his lips. “Now, are you ready for the rest of the story?” Without waiting for my answer he reached into an inner pocket of his coat and withdrew his pipe and a pouch of tobacco. When he filled the pipe and stoked its flame with a few hearty puffs, he sat back and began to relate what can only be described as a very strange tale.
“About two months ago Mr. Carroll, while in London on business, was approached at his hotel by a rather tall man with a clipped military moustache named Cyrus Murdoch. Murdoch introduced himself as the president of the Lombard Street Associates, an investment firm based in Geneva, Switzerland, but with substantial interests in Great Britain. It seems that Murdoch’s firm wanted to insure the life of the late Mr. Wolkner, the head of their London branch. When Mr. O’Connor said that the premium on a £75,000 policy would be quite high, this man Murdoch did not even blanch.”
“And you found that suspicious?”
“Not at all, dear fellow. It appears the insured Wolkner was worth every farthing of the premium. From London, he directed much of the Lombard Street firm’s overseas investments, which are quite substantial. A grand cru vineyard in Bordeaux; trading in world currencies; gold and diamond mines in Rhodesia and South Africa, among others. He was making a lot of money for the firm.
“Moreover, Mr. Wolkner was the second son of the Earl of Putney, and as such mingled among the highest circles of the realm. Many high personages became clients of the Lombard Street Associates, which is why, as Murdoch explained to Mr. Carroll, the insurance policy on Wolkner had to be initiated very discreetly, and engaging a Galway-based firm was more appropriate to maintain secrecy.”
“Perhaps we should speak to this Murdoch fellow?”
“So we shall—when the time is ripe. For now, let us speak to the good country doctor and the grieving widow and view the scene of the tragedy.”
“The grieving widow?”
“Yes, dear fellow, the widow. Did I forget to mention her? I really must be getting on in years. A woman who is said to have considerable charm...or charms, as one might put it. At least in days past. The mistress of Ogham Manor.”
“Ogham Manor? That is a strange name for an estate.”
“I imagine it draws its name from the Ogham stones which can be found throughout Cornwall and Devon. Apparently they are also present in Dorset.”
“What on earth are Ogham stones?”
“Pillars, dear fellow. Pillars carved with an ancient Erse alphabet called Ogham. In the dawn of our British civilization warlike Irish tribes rampaged through Wales and then invaded southwest England. They marked the borders of their conquests with these pillars.”
As Holmes talked, I took out my pen and paper and wrote as if I was back in Cambridge, listening to my history tutor.
The story that Holmes related to me on the train made me forget the trip and before I knew it we had reached Dorchester, where my good friend had already reserved a hansom cab to take us the ten or so miles further into the hinterland.
“This is wild lonesome country for the south of England,” I said as the cab took us through a maze of narrow lanes that were bordered by high hedges that separated the properties of the small holders from each other. The bleak solitude placed me on edge after the hustle and bustle of London.
Holmes nodded.
“It is a place for deep meditation and contemplation.”
* * * *
The home of Dr. Sedgecombe was outside the village of Beaminster, set back from a lane even more narrow and twisted than the ones we had just driven over. A large farmhouse whose ancient stone and timber appeared to be badly in need of repair, it was surrounded by high hedges and an iron gate stood guard over the drive. We found the gate unlocked and open and Holmes told the driver to go directly to the house. There was a small open carriage on one side of the drive, its horse tethered to a stone hitching post. A man, apparently the driver, was lounging against a tree. Our driver eased our hansom cab next to the carriage and got out and opened the door for us.
Alighting from the cab, Holmes told the driver to wait and we then walked up to the front door. With a surprising vigor Holmes seized the iron knocker and slammed it against the frame several times. Even as the sound still echoed, the door opened and a woman, her head covered in a veil, rushed past us, bumping into me in the process. She entered the open carriage and waved the driver forward. Behind us in the doorway stood a slightly-stooped man. His face was ruddy as that of a country gentleman and adorned with a thick walrus moustache.
“A distressed patient. I apologize for her rudeness,” he said.
Holmes introduced himself, and explained that we had been retained by the Anglo-Hibernian Insurance Co. to investigate the death of Mr. Wolkner. “Merely routine,” my colleague added.
“Oh,” said Dr. Sedgecombe, surprise evident in his voice. “I shouldn’t have thought that Wolkner would be insured for a large enough sum to warrant an inquiry.”
“You consider him to be financially improvident, doctor?”
“No, it’s just that here in the Dorset countryside, I’ve found the people to be of plain state, regardless of their economic status, not given to valuing themselves in high monetary terms.”
“He was insured by his firm, Lombard Street Associates, who indeed did place his monetary value rather highly. By the way, doctor, have you heard of Lombard Street Associates?”
The latter shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I’ve relegated myself to a simple country practice in semi-retirement. I’ve not spent much time in those types of circles.”
“Really? I take it then that you are not from Dorset, that you have had a practice elsewhere?”
“Yes, I had a surgery in Leeds, but as I grew older, I decided to sell the practice and relocate to Dorset. I find the weather more hospitable than in the north and the countryside rather peaceful.”
Holmes nodded. “Were you the attending physician for Mr. Wolkner?”
“No, I only met the deceased, I’m afraid, after he was deceased. As the nearest physician to Ogham Manor, the Dorset constabulary asked me to examine the body and give the coroner my opinion.”
“Was there any possibility of suicide?”
Dr. Sedgecombe laughed. “By shotgun? There was no way he could have pointed the gun at his head and pulled the trigger, his arms were far too short.”
“What if he had used his feet?” I interjected.
“Of course, it could be possible, but he would have had to have had the most practiced toes I’ve ever seen. Moreover, his boots were on when he was found.”
Holmes took his pipe out of his coat and rubbed it in his hands. He placed the unfilled pipe in his mouth and looked the doctor
