The Baker Street Jurors (18 page)

“Let's hurry and catch up with them before they get completely out of sight,” Mrs. Peabody was saying.

“No!” said Nigel, now staring ahead at the bridge. “Stop!”

Lucy slammed on the brakes.

Ahead of them—as the taillights from the van climbed up the road and out of sight on the opposite side—the bridge was collapsing. The storm-saturated foundations were giving way in the soft earth.

Their car fishtailed, slamming its occupants against one side and then the other. Finally it came to a stop.

They rolled down their windows and looked out—as the bridge surface in front of them collapsed and fell into the ravine with a wet, muddy roar.

“Well,” said Nigel, after a short moment, “we can't go forward.”

“No shit, Sherlock!” said Lucy, her breathing rapid and adrenaline-fueled.

Armstrong, positively cramped in the backseat, tried to stretch a kink out of his neck; for a short moment no one said anything. Then—

“Sorry,” said Lucy to Nigel. “What now?”

Siger leaned forward between them and pointed at a narrow strip of ground that worked its way in switchbacks up the hill.

“We must take that side road,” he said. “It's our only choice. If we just turn around, the road we were on just dead-ends. It doesn't go all the way around the island.”

“More information that you Googled?” said Nigel.

“Well … yes,” said Siger. “But anyway, the side road goes to the old Boy Scout camp. We can take shelter there.”

“Are we allowed to do that?” said Mrs. Peabody. “McSweeney bought the camp, didn't he—to build his new estate? If we go to McSweeney's property, isn't that like investigating on our own and seeing evidence the other jurors won't see—and won't that cause a mistrial?”

“I'm not sure that I care,” said Armstrong.

“I know I don't,” said Bankstone.

“In any case,” said Nigel. “the Scout camp is not the crime scene. And if the court is concerned about it, they can bring all the rest of the jurors out tomorrow to see it, too, when they come to rescue us.”

Lucy put the car into gear, and they started up the hill. “We're going there regardless,” she said. “If you haven't noticed—the windows on this bloody thing are leaking. I don't mind being inconvenienced to preserve our juristic integrity—but I'm not going to drown for it.”

 

18

It was dusk, and nearly pitch-black from the storm. The car continued on the unlit road, passing the monastery ruins. Nigel looked through the window, and through the rain and darkness he glimpsed fragments of low walls and head-high stacks of rocks. Siger seemed to be paying attention to them, too.

The pools of water on the floorboards were now an inch deep and seeping into jurors' socks and between toes.

With each bump the car hit, more water sloshed. But the headlights shined a brief, hopeful glimpse on a structure at the far end of the road. Finally, a hundred yards up a steep dirt driveway that was in the process of washing away, they reached their destination. It was a two-story structure of dark, rough wood. There were no exterior lights. The jurors heard water pouring down somewhere from a roof gutter. It was still raining heavily, and they did not immediately jump out of the car.

“Perhaps it will look better in the daylight,” said Mrs. Peabody.

“Do you suppose the door is unlocked?” said Lucy.

“It will be a simple task to pick it,” said Siger.

He got out of the car and dashed through the rain onto the front porch. With the car's headlamps putting dim light on the door—and growing dimmer every moment—he took something out of his pocket and tinkered with the lock. He had it done within seconds. He shouted back at the car, “Got it!”

“Brilliant!” shouted Lucy.

“Elementary!” yelled Siger.

They entered the house—or at least started to—and then they all stopped short in the doorway.

“Let's hope someone left the electricity on,” said Nigel. “If it was ever here at all.”

He stepped just inside, groped along the rough, dusty wall for a light switch—and found one. Dim yellow lights came on. They were in the main hall of the Scouts' lodge. The light was from a decades-old sconce above the doorway, and an ancient cast-iron chandelier with 15-watt, flame-shaped bulbs that hung from the ceiling at the center of the room. Beneath that chandelier was a long, rectangular table of rough oak, with benches on either side.

The jurors all stood and looked, their clothes dripping puddles in the entryway. They could see what was directly in front of them, but not much else.

“I know jury duty isn't supposed to be a holiday,” said Armstrong. “But I was looking forward to better accommodations than this.”

“There's no way I'm spending the night in this dump,” said Bankstone. “They need to get us the bloody hell out of here.”

“Any port in a storm, my late husband used to say,” said Mrs. Peabody. “Still, I think we should call someone and let them know where we are. Do you suppose there's a landline?”

“No,” said Siger. “There isn't. There are no connections for one. I noticed that on the way in.”

“And there's no cell signal on this island,” said Bankstone.

“But we're only a mile from the hotel, and it's even less than that across to the mainland,” said Mrs. Peabody. “Surely there is a way to communicate. Perhaps something more low-tech?”

“What, messenger pigeon?” said Bankstone. “Smoke signals? Or do you mean we should just try shouting?”

“You're already doing that,” said Nigel. “I don't think it works.”

There was an awkward silence.

“I'll wager there is no mini-bar,” said Lucy, finally, “but do you suppose there is a kitchen?”

“Or a fireplace?” said Armstrong.

“That would be nice,” said Mrs. Peabody. “Or, more urgently—a loo?”

“Yes, yes, and yes,” said Siger.

They all looked at him.

“And you know this—how?” said Nigel.

“You see, but you do not observe,” said Siger.

Nigel was familiar with this phrase. He was almost afraid to ask, but he did anyway. “Observe—what, exactly?”

“A stack of firewood to the side of the front porch. And a well with a pump connection and two sets of pipes leading into the house. What other purposes could they serve?”

“A fireplace?” said Mrs. Peabody, pointing. “Is that it there?”

It was in the shadows at the opposite wall. Siger went directly to it and found an old iron poker laying on the hearth. It took a moment—he knelt and looked closer, touching the remnants of someone's earlier attempt—and then he stood.

“Useless, I'm afraid. Rain has come in through the flue—it is all soaked.”

There was another awkward moment—just discouraged sighs and shaking of heads—and then Mrs. Peabody spoke.

“Well then—if we can't have a fire, we'd better come up with something else,” she said. “I think I'll go out and see if there's an emergency blanket or something in the boot of the car that could help us keep warm.”

Mrs. Peabody turned to Lucy for the car keys, and then, as she moved toward the door, she took a flashlight out of her purse.

“You have a torch!” cried Siger.

“Why … yes, of course. I always carry one.” She looked back at the other jurors. Both Nigel and Siger were staring at her. “Don't any of you?” she said.

“My dear woman,” said Siger. “You have in your hand the communication device you were wishing for earlier. We can flash a signal to the mainland!”

Now all the jurors crowded around.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh. You're quite right. I knew there had to be some simple way. We can flash an S.O.S. Or perhaps even something more detailed, if any of you know Morse code.”

“Of course,” said Siger. “One never forgets the basics. It's just like typing.”

“Thank god,” said Bankstone. “They can send a helicopter and take us back to the hotel for a decent meal and clean beds.”

“Hardly that,” said Siger. “Our point in communicating is just the opposite.”

“What do you mean?” said Bankstone.

“He means that it is much too dangerous to send a helicopter out in this storm,” said Nigel. “And there's no point in sending an SUV, either, with the bridge down and the road washed away. We are safe here until morning, if not entirely comfortable, and what we need to do is let the authorities know that—so that they don't put a rescue party at risk, thinking that we might have been washed down into the ravine.”

“Splendid,” said Bankstone.

“But this flashlight is very small,” said Nigel. “If we want any chance of it being seen, we'll have to take it out to the cliff.”

“Naturally,” said Siger. “Did I just hear you volunteer to go along?”

“Someone must,” said Mrs. Peabody. “As my late husband used to say, one should never hike alone.”

“Fair enough,” said Nigel to Siger. “We'll help the ladies get what's useful out of the car—and then you and I will take a hike.”

 

19

A short jaunt to the cliffs might have been a pleasant experience, on a sunny day in late spring or early fall, especially if it were in the company of Lucy, as opposed to Siger. But under the current circumstances, it was a bit of a slog. The rain alternated between heavy drizzle and gale-like sheets. Everything that was not rock had turned to mud, and each step was an opportunity to sprain an ankle or twist a knee.

The path began at the woodpile at the side of the house, where Siger tripped almost immediately, and went down on one knee. The man took a moment getting up, and he disgustedly tossed aside the chunk of old firewood that had been embedded in the mud and given him trouble.

There was a bit of residual light from the lodge, but beyond that the path was hardly distinguishable from the low brush and occasional stacks of rock ruins on either side of it. Siger led the way, using the flashlight at intervals, just every few yards or so.

“We mustn't dawdle,” he said. “If the batteries wear out before we get there, we will have accomplished nothing.”

They made it to the top of the slope. They both stopped and looked east—or at least Nigel hoped it was east—toward the mainland. For a moment they could see nothing below them but fog. It was still rising from the ground, as fast as the rain could dissipate it.

They took a breath. Siger instinctively reached for his pipe, but quickly abandoned the idea.

“There's something I've been meaning to ask you,” said Nigel.

“Of course,” said Siger.

“Ever since the first day of jury selection—you've been uttering things that are straight out of the Sherlock Holmes stories.”

Siger nodded nonchalantly, as if Nigel's observation was both obvious and unimportant.

“Why?” said Nigel. “I mean, it's one thing to be a fan. It's something else to try to incorporate it into your daily life.” Then Nigel thought about that for a moment longer, and added, “I should know. I've tried a bit of it myself. More than once.”

Siger still had not answered the question. Instead, he peered into the distance and said, “This fog can't last. And I think it must already be clear a little farther down, at the cliff.”

“Let me ask this another way,” said Nigel. “How did you happen to become a juror?”

“I received a summons, of course.”

“Yes, you would have to,” said Nigel. “But precisely how did you receive it?”

Siger gave Nigel a long, suspicious look—and decided finally to answer. “It flew up against my feet,” said Siger. “Completely unbidden. It would never have occurred to me to go looking for something like this. But one day several weeks ago, there it was, in the morning commuter rush—getting kicked by one hurried shoe after another, right down the stairs to my spot in the underground.

“The amazing thing about it was that it wasn't simply a discarded sheet of paper. And it wasn't crumpled up into a ball, either. Someone had actually taken the time to fold it into a little airplane before discarding it—and so with each kick down the steps, it took flight, just for a little—until it finally glided down directly in front of me.”

Nigel winced slightly, and said, “So—you received your jury summons in the form of a paper airplane? At the Marylebone station?”

“Yes. It actually landed in my violin case—just like a tip.”

Nigel stared, making the connection.

“I've heard the violin at that station. Many times. You're a busker. I've seen you playing, but you had a beard then.”

“I've been many things. That was only the most recent of them. All on my way down, if you want to look at it that way, although it doesn't seem that way while you're doing it.”

He took out his pipe again, and clearly wanted to light it, but didn't.

“I was in the third year of my medical residency. It was going well enough, but I was exhausted, working twenty-four-hour shifts with less than six hours' sleep in between. I began to take amphetamines to stay awake and barbiturates to sleep in the few hours available. This was not sustainable, and the predictable happened: I crashed. In treating me after my breakdown, someone discovered that I'd been pilfering my meds from the hospital pharmacy.

“My residency was terminated. My dependency was not; it stayed with me as I failed at first one lesser job and another, until, eventually, I was as you saw and heard me at the Marylebone station.

“When I saw that summons, and who it was addressed to, it was more than just an official document from the Crown Court. It was a summons to a change.

“I thought that person could be me. Or at least what I could aspire to. Clean, and pure, and eminently, always, logical. But still human. Not an automaton, not a machine. But just dedicated to one thing, to understanding the order of things, without all the meanness of daily self-interest getting in the way.