The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [96]
“They searched the plantation, and even the neighbouring country, but found nothing and no one. They questioned the under-managers and local workers, who reported nothing suspicious or noteworthy. From that day, 1 February 1887, to the day Trevor penned the letter, the brothers Atkinson had neither been seen nor heard. It was as if they left the house that morning and vanished from the face of the earth.”
“Of course, Trevor’s account was selective and inconclusive – there was much that I wished to know of the affairs of the brothers before I might begin to give an opinion on the case. By the time the Eastern Empress docked at the port of Jaffna I was eager to set about my investigations.”
“Victor Trevor met me on the quay, and we drove south in his trap to Trincomalee. The passage of time had done little to take the shine off the youth of my university friend, and for the duration of the journey we exchanged information concerning our exploits during the intervening years. I was to stay at the Atkinson’s plantation itself, which Trevor was overseeing in the absence of the brothers. It was late by the time we arrived, and I had little time to question my friend as to the details of the case before he suggested that we turn in and discuss the reason for my presence in the morning.”
“The miracle of dawn in those climes, Watson! I was up early the following morning to witness the rapid transformation from night to day from my verandah. One minute the land was clothed in darkness, the next a golden sunlight exposed the deep shadows of the valleys and the bright green expanse of the tea bushes. My friend was already risen, and we partook breakfast – excellent kippers and poached eggs – around the vast oak table of the dining room.”
“I see the brothers Atkinson were fond of a game of cards,” I observed, gesturing to the table-top. “Bridge, if I am not mistaken.”
“Your powers of deduction are as sharp as ever,” Trevor remarked. “Recall how you amazed my father upon that first meeting? Now, an explanation, if you please.”
“Simplicity itself: observe the marks of wear upon the polish of the table-top. Note the scuff mark where a hand would be picked up, and the two smaller indentations at either side of where the pack resides at the centre of the table, made when the pack would be lifted at the end of a hand.”
“Remarkable.”
“Further, three of the four players are right-handed, the fourth not so. This much is obvious from the slight groves in the patina of the polish, worn either to the right or left of the player. You are left-handed, Victor, and I deduce therefore that you were a frequent guest on bridge nights.”
“Twice a week for the past two years, Holmes,” said he shaking his head.
“I can tell, also, that penny bets were placed upon the outcome of the games. The scratches here and here attest to that.”
“At this my friend coloured. ‘Why,’ he blustered, ‘you’re right, Holmes. A little wager added interest to the contests.’ ”
“I am not a gambling man myself,” I said. “I find that the scientific analysis of the pursuit results in the fact that one can never win, only break even, except when luck intervenes. And I have never been one to trust in the happy felicity of luck.”
“We finished our breakfast, and I asked then to be shown around the house, and expressed the desire to questions the Atkinsons’ head house-boy and house-keeper.”
“Victor showed me into the lounge, a spacious room affording a magnificent panorama across the sun-soaked terraces of the estate. Hanging above the fireplace was an oil painting of the brothers, tall, flaxen-haired men in