The Train From Plymouth Read online

  The engineer stopped the train on a slight curve. We were in a trench dug about twenty feet into the undulating terrain. Mr. Browne said that the siding was just out of sight—about two hundred yards beyond our location. Lestrad split his men into two groups. One would proceed straight down the rails and engage any men found there. The other would climb the left side bank and search through the woods for the missing train.

  Holmes and I elected to follow the second group. We kept well behind the police as we struggled for solid footing in the rough, overgrown ground. Homes was well off to my left, helping Mr. Browne. I did my best to estimate our distance, but it was a fruitless task. The first I knew of any event was when I hear a volley of rifle fire from straight ahead. It was soon joined by more distant gunfire from the group approaching the siding.

  The rifle fire was intense and steady for a short while. All I could do was to duck down and wait. This maneuver worked well for me until suddenly a running figure appeared directly to my front. He did not see me and so ran full tilt into my crouching form. He did not have his firearm, but he had two very active fists. I recovered quickly and gave as good as I got for as long as it took Holmes to run over and render my assailant unconscious.

  As I was brushing debris from my jacket and pants, I realized that there were no more gunshots. Mr. Browne had joined us and we picked up our criminal and walked forward until we came to the edge of the ravine. There we found Lestrad and his men herding their captives toward the rear of the missing train. I counted sixteen alive and five lying dead. Later we learned that a crew of fourteen was taken while shoveling earth over the tracks at the siding, replacing the dead tree and the brush blocking the ravine.

  Lestrad approached, looking extremely satisfied. “Caught ‘em bashing away at the doors of the wagons. None of my men are injured and I see you have one more for me.”

  “Yes, Lestrad,” said Holmes, “he tried to escape, but the good doctor fought him to a standstill.”

  Lestrad looked at me with a grin. “Humph. Never doubted your pugilistic prowess, Doctor.”

  The ride back to London was imminently forgettable though I must admit that it took quite a while for my heart rate to slow to normal. Our little group gathered at one end of the car (near the bar) while the constables took turns guarding our prisoners at the other end. A small detachment was left with the treasure train to guard the corpses and await the arrival of its crew.

  It was very late when we at last arrived at Paddington Station. Holmes and I bid good evening to our traveling companions and made our way directly to Baker Street and the comfort of our beds. This was one instance where Holmes had cleared away the fog prior to the climax so I was more interested in sleep than in discussion.

  A few days later a commissionaire delivered a letter just as we had settled down for our afternoon tea.

  Holmes opened the envelope and said, “It's a note from our friend, Mr. Browne along with a cheque that should keep us in biscuits for the next decade. Let us see here... Thank you... Marvelous job... Absolutely miraculous... Another thank you. Well, at least we know he is satisfied.”

  Holmes then laid the note aside and turned his attention to the tea.

  Lestrad stopped by later that same day and over a whiskey told us that indeed there was no big fish among those he had netted.

  “To a man,” he said, “they claim not to know the identity of the man who had hired them—said he was in disguise—things of that sort. Paid 'em well he did, though much good it will do them packed away in jail.”

  When Lestrad departed, Holmes turned to me and said, “Watson, I do believe the inspector is mellowing. Not once did I hear him claim credit for our little adventure. By the way, old boy, it's such a fine evening and since we are among the newly rich, what say you to a fine meal at an expensive club—possibly the Palmerston?”

  I quickly agreed and moments later we were strolling up Baker Street in the fine evening air. Somewhere in the distance, a train rumbled through the dark—its engine whistling at the stars.

  THE END