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During the long, intimate retirement that Sherlock Holmes and I shared, things were not always peaceful. Holmes and I were indeed both retired, technically, and very happy to build a home together. He had his bees, and I my writing, and of course we had one another’s love and care.
Living with Holmes for so long, however, had taught me that the wonderful man was an absolute magnet for cases, a magnet of the most powerful kind. No matter how content we were to simply keep to ourselves and enjoy our retirement, sooner or later, another mystery turned up.
In this instance, it had turned up just after we finished breakfast, my fingers still sticky with the honey that Holmes had cheerfully spread somewhat extravagantly on my toast. I had been considering a second helping, for Holmes’ bees produced the most marvelous honey, and our housekeeper supplied us with excellent bread.
For now, however, I regretfully put my desire for a second helping aside, wiped my fingers clean, and watched as Holmes leaned back in his chair and assumed his old, familiar posture. Fingertips steepled together, he regarded our visitor with interest.
“It’s ghosts, I tell you,” Mr. Talbott said once again, thumping his hand on the table for emphasis. He was one of our neighbors, an elderly farmer who along with his wife supplied much of the nearby village of Fulworth with delicious fruit and vegetables. “There’s no other explanation for such mysterious lights in the cove at night.”
“Dear me! Dear me! Do you hear that, Watson?” Holmes flashed me an amused smile. “Perhaps this shall be something new for you to find some way to overly romanticize once you set pen to paper, a little diversion from pickpockets and murderers.”
“It’s no laughing matter, Mr. Holmes.” Mr. Talbott gave him a baleful look. “And not only me who’s seen them. My Violet saw them last night when she went out to bring in the chickens.”
“My apologies, Mr. Talbott.” Although Holmes still looked amused, his eyes were bright with curiosity. “Pray continue.”
Mr. Talbott glanced at me, then back to Holmes, as if checking to be certain that we really were taking him seriously. “Well, sir, she saw the lights too, glowing down along the waterfront.”
“I presume Mrs. Talbott ushered the chickens in near dusk. Is that the ordinary time for the lights to appear?”
“Sometimes, but often later. And it’s not just at the water’s edge.” A little shudder went through Mr. Talbott, and he leaned forward. “It’s right along the base of the cliffs.”
“On the beach?” Holmes asked, and I knew that he was thinking it was very likely people out for a late night walk, or perhaps a fisherman carrying his catch back home.
Mr. Talbott shook his head. “Not for long. Mostly, it comes from inside the caves down there, along the base of the cliffs. And sometimes there’s strange, haunting music, too.”
At the mention of music, Holmes tapped his fingers on the table, and I suppressed a smile. It did not take very much to get him thinking of his beloved violin, and I had little doubt that I would soon enjoy a morning serenade. “What sort of music?”
“Music!” Mr. Talbott threw up his hands in the air. “What more do you need to know? No living man would wander to that haunted place just to play music. Like as not, it’s the ghosts of the smugglers who once stowed their cargo, protecting their treasure.”
“Well, well. Ghost smugglers with musical inclinations.” Holmes gave one of his silent chuckles, rubbing his hands together with delight. “I don’t suppose you have observed whether it is one instrument or many?”
“Some flute, I think. Mostly.” Frowning, Mr. Talbott scratched his grey beard. “Fiddle, too? Can’t really tell the two apart, myself. I’m better with crops, and machinery.”
Holmes nodded, and admirably restrained himself from slipping into a didactic mode in order to explain the differences between the sound of fiddle and flute. “As you know, Dr. Watson and I are retired, but I think we old hounds could be convinced to give it a sniff or two. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Mr. Talbott, and we shall certainly let you know if we uncover any ghosts.”
I ushered Mr. Talbott out and returned to find Holmes washing his hands clean of any lingering honey. He smiled warmly at me, but did not yet raise the question of the case. Instead, he moved to the sitting room of our old farmhouse, and took up his violin.
While he played slow, haunting tunes, I sat and wrote for a little. I did not mind the delay in hearing his thoughts, for he would tell me when he was ready, and I wished to devote some time towards my next story.
Holmes and I had solved so many cases together that I had seemingly endless writing material, and indeed the greatest challenge was choosing what case to set before the public. Some matters were still too delicate to expose, and other mysteries lacked a clear demonstration of my partner’s brilliant mind, but even with those caveats I had no shortage of possibilities for my next publication.
“Well, well, this may not be any trouble at all, but I think it best that we look into it,” Holmes said once he had finished playing. Putting his violin down, he came to my side and draped his hand on my shoulder. “You will not be averse to taking a little outing to investigate?”
“By no means.” I set my pen aside and brought my hand up to twine with his. “I presume we shall simply be asking questions of various local parties, since it is far too early in the day for lights to be seen.”
“Excellent, Watson!” He kissed the top of my head. “Yes, yes, I fancy it is perhaps a little mischief from some of Stackhurst’s young men. We shall just pop over to the Gables to see if there are rumors of hidden treasure, and thus a treasure hunt, with a little music to entertain the searchers. It is one possibility, and the easiest to investigate.”
The Gables is a coaching establishment half a mile off from our home, the nearest habitation, full of young fellows receiving instruction in various professions. The man who runs it, Harold Stackhurst, is a quite friendly and interesting chap who we have been friends with since we first retired here.
It was a beautiful spring morning, clear of immediate clouds but with something of a chilly wind blowing. I shivered and drew my coat around myself, glad of both that and my scarf. Holmes was ordinarily quite sensitive to cold, but now that he had a case, he seemed not to even notice the chill.
We arrived at the Gables after a brisk walk, and although Stackhurst was quite busy, he welcomed us warmly and listened to Holmes’ questions about the lighted caves and hidden treasure with patient curiosity. He sat for a moment, frowning down at his desk as he thought.
“I’m afraid I haven’t heard any speculation about hidden treasure, Mr. Holmes,” he said at last, “and that isn’t the sort of thing that would stay quiet for long. I see no reason to think that any of these young men are sneaking out every night.”
“It would be noticed?” Holmes asked, keen eyes searching the office as if hoping to find a clue even in here.
“Yes, and anyone on my staff would inform me of such an event. No one has even spotted lanterns or torches on the cliffs.”
Once Holmes had asked a few more questions, he led me outside. We strolled near the edge of the chalk cliffs, not quite at the slippery trail that descended to the beach but nearby. For a moment, he gazed out over the area, studying the glittering beach, the village of Fulworth in the cove, and the storm clouds massing on the horizon.
“Well, well, I do not believe it is any of Stackhurst’s fellows,” he said at last, his grey eyes glinting as he glanced at me. “Do you know why I have presently ruled them out as the most likely suspects, Watson?”
I smiled, for Holmes still loved to test my observation skills. “No light has been observed along the clifftops, and even the first few feet of the path to the beach are far too treacherous to be braved in the dark. Unless there was adequate moonlight, which there wasn’t, no one who was familiar with this area would attempt such a climb.”
“Excellent, Watson! Full marks,” Holmes said with such warmth and affection that I flushed. He caught my hand and squeezed. “No, no, no one would likely try that, not even the most excitable young man. I think we may safely set that possibility aside for now. Are you game to take the path?”
I was, and said so. There were times when my old wound, from war fought so long ago, troubled me enough that the slippery cliffside path was too difficult for me to navigate. Today, I had only the expected ache corresponding to the distant storm, and the path need not be an obstacle.
We hiked down together, Holmes occasionally catching my arm on the more treacherous parts of the route. Strictly speaking, I didn’t need the support, but I always enjoyed his touch. It was all the more meaningful that he had a case, yet was still devoting such attention to me.
When we reached Fulworth, we interviewed various locals, particularly spending time at the docks speaking to the fishermen and other boaters. Holmes did not confide his theories to me yet, but as I took notes, I watched a furrow of vague confusion deepen between his brows.
At least here, people had seen the lights in the caves. A handful were rather awkward about being questioned by the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes, but even the most shy offered an opinion or two before scuttling away.
A few of them subscribed to the ghost theory, while others thought it was likely that new smugglers had incorporated the small caves into their route. None had investigated, for whether ghosts or smugglers, no one in this quiet village wished to venture out into the frigid night and promptly run into trouble.
“Hum!” Holmes said, gazing down the beach with a troubled look. “Perhaps it is a sign of age that I should have preferred that someone in the village had a simple explanation for the lights so that I need not put the work in myself, but the time for listening to other’s theories is past. Shall we go have a little look around, Watson?”
“Gladly,” I said, smiling. “And as for not wishing to put the work in, I think it is more likely that you would simply prefer to be observing your bees than to crawl around a damp cave.”
“Well, well, I admit I did have a little plan or two regarding my bees, which this case has delayed.” He took my arm as we strolled down the sand together. “I shall tell you a little about my theories while we walk.”
These were theories about bees, not the case, but by the time we reached the caves, Holmes seemed to have warmed to the mystery again. He had brought his new electric torch, and wasted no time in setting about on his investigation. I sat on a shelf of rock inside, my leg aching in a way that warned that the storm was getting closer, and watched as he scurried back and forth.
He gave a little cry of delight as he stopped to pick something up, and I watched as he examined it in the light of his torch. A piece of paper, apparently, and although the ink had clearly not help up well to the dampness in the caves, he smiled.
“Excellent.” Holmes joined me, cradling a small collection of items. The paper, a candle stub, a few used matches, and…
“Is that a cake of rosin?” I asked, quite baffled.
“Indeed,” he said quite cheerfully. “Well, well, Watson, I believe I have a little theory that only needs confirmation. I should be very glad if you would accompany me tonight to peek into the lighted caves, for I think you will find it a most satisfactory conclusion.”
I of course agreed. As it was still early in the day, we returned home, and I promptly took a nap. From time to time, I stirred at the sounds of the violin from our sitting room, and smiled. Holmes was playing quite cheerful tunes, and seemed very much to be enjoying his new case even if it had delayed his bee investigations.
After darkness fell, we took the path back to the beach. Clouds had rolled in, obscuring any trace of light from the stars, and I was glad of Holmes’ electric torch. My leg was more sore now than it had been earlier, and I gratefully accepted his help down.
We had been able to hear the music from the clifftops, quiet strains of violin and flute, and as we peered down light clearly shone from the caves. When I commented on it to Holmes, he merely gave his enigmatical smile, and did not explain his theory.
Low thunder rolled as we crunched across the wet sand of the beach, mingling rather disturbingly with the music, which had now subsided to only the violin. Holmes gave a little sigh. “Dear me, dear me. I had thought we would beat the storm by leaving when we did, but the wind has picked up. I fear we may need to take a briefer glance into the caves than I had planned, but it will suffice.”
He turned off his torch as we neared, and together we peered into the lighted caves.
Ghosts were certainly not responsible for the lights or music, nor a gang of smugglers. Instead, as we looked in, we saw two men sheltered by the cave, both fishermen that we had met at the docks earlier. One sat, his own instrument stilled as he gazed up at the other, who played violin with the same unmistakable tenderness that Holmes showed when playing for me.
I glanced at Holmes, and saw only satisfaction on his face rather than any trace of surprise. This was what he had expected, then. No intrigue, no crime at all, simply a gentle lovers’ meeting.
When the song at last ended, last notes still quavering in the acoustics of the cave, the men exchanged a slow, lingering kiss. Holmes took my arm, drawing me back, and we left the fishermen to their amorous rendezvous.
I wished to question him at once as to how he had formed his theory, but knew better than to do so when sound carried so easily. If we could hear the music on the wind, they could surely hear any conversation, and there was no reason to disturb them.
Holmes and I made it partway up the path to the clifftops before the storm broke, and halfway home across the downs before the light rain turned into a downpour. Thunder boomed overhead, and searing lightning split the sky. Holmes took me by the arm, steadying me, and together we ran for it.
“Dear me! Dear me!” he said with a laugh as we darted into the farmhouse and shed our soaked overcoats and hats. He was shivering now, his teeth chattering. “I think we should be the better for a cup of hot cocoa and a little cuddling, unless you insist on immediately retiring to bed.”
“I certainly do not.” I was quite chilled, but could not help a laugh of my own. “In my medical opinion, cocoa and cuddling is also what I would prescribe.”
Soon, we had our cocoa and had settled by the fire, bundled in blankets and snuggling close together to share in one another’s warmth. Holmes curled against me with a soft hum. “The possibility of a simple meeting occurred to me from the first, although I confess I had thought it was likely either simple musical practice for interesting acoustics, or else a meeting for a different purpose such as drinking or gambling that included music. It was clearly not smugglers, for if there had been a new operation of that sort, someone would have seen additional boats and the transfer of goods. Fulworth is a small town, yet an observant one.”
“There was certainly no indication of smugglers in the reports we received,” I said, for I had been baffled by the continued denials of any sign of unfamiliar boats. It was indeed a small town, and very much noted any newcomers. “But what led you to suspect a lovers’ meeting?”
“There were many traces of footmarks inside the cave, with a few prints fully preserved, but no indication of more than two recent visitors. The rosin at least gave support to the claim that someone was playing violin.” Holmes reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the sheet of paper he had found earlier. “It was this that formed the primary evidence of such an interlude. The ink has run in several places, for the caves are hardly dry, but it is clearly love poetry to a man, in a man’s hand.”
I took the sheet and examined it. Much of the writing was indeed intelligible, but enough remained to make the intent clear. “It seems that I cannot overly romanticize this case, my dear Holmes. It is quite romantic enough. But why did they return to the cave tonight, when they knew there was an investigation? They were among the fishermen we questioned.”
“Indeed, and I believe that is precisely why they returned tonight, to have something of a farewell to that charming rendezvous spot.” Holmes cuddled still closer to my warmth, a little shiver rippling through him. “Very likely they will find a better, more private place to meet, and the lighted caves will in time become simply another ghost story.”
“A ghost story will only draw more lovers to meet there,” I said with a laugh.
“Very likely, you are right, and the local romantics shall take it as a challenge to brave the ghosts for purposes of love. Ah, the resilience of youth,” Holmes said with a wry smile. “I am certain that for tonight at least, those chaps will very much enjoy their time alone despite the storm.”
“One need not be young for that,” I said, amused, and drew Holmes into a long and passionate kiss.
Holmes and I were indeed retired now, yet certainly had plenty of vigor, and to work a case again had been a great delight. Tomorrow, he would return to his bees, and I to my writing, but I had little doubt that the next time a mystery came our way, we would be just as eager to follow the scent.