Showing posts with label 2a. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 2a. Show all posts

Chapter 16: The North Wales Coast Railway

Previous: Getting Closer

Chester Railway Station
We reached Chester shortly, changed trains and headed west, leaving the ancient walled city and crossing over the River Dee. A few minutes later we were in Wales.

"We're on the North Wales Coast Railway," said Holmes, "one of the most beautiful rides you will ever enjoy -- if you can enjoy it! Are you up to it, Watson?"

"I think so, Holmes," I replied, still a bit shaky from the conversation of the previous few hours, not to mention the events of the previous few days.

The River Dee widens and flattens at Oakenholt.
"We can't do much until we get to Holyhead," Holmes said, "and I wouldn't want to arrive there too soon. So I suggest we try to relax and enjoy this glorious weather -- and the beautiful Welsh landscape we are about to traverse."

"No complaints from me, my friend," I said. And I meant it. But thoughts of a horrible nature still spun through my head.

My companion, on the other hand, had the marvelous facility of switching off the 'working' part of his brain, a trick which allowed him to enjoy the finer things in his life -- violin concerts and so on -- even while he was immersed in the most gruesome of cases.

The Dee meets the Irish Sea
at Talacre, near Gwespyr.
"We're running along the river now," he said, "but there's not much of it left. Soon it will become an estuary, and shortly thereafter, we will catch our first glimpse of the Irish Sea."

We followed the left bank of the Dee along the estuary, through Oakenholt, Flint, Bagilit, Whelston, Greenfield, Rhewl, Ffynnongroyw and on through Gwespyr, near where the river meets the sea.

The line curved to the west, and following the coastline, and we passed through the seaside towns of Prestatyn and Rhyl.

The beach at Rhyl when Holmes was a lad
"Could I interest you in a wee bit of architecture, Watson?" Holmes asked. There's a place just a few minutes down the line that I think you might want to see."

"Since we are no longer in a hurry, Holmes," I said, "I suppose we should take the opportunity, if you think it's worthwhile."

"I don't think you'd want to miss it," he replied.

"What is it?" I asked.

"I couldn't possibly describe it," the detective answered. "You'll have to see it for yourself."

Chapter 17: Gwrych Castle


The approach to Gwrych Castle.
Photo by Laurie Oliver.
We left the train at Abergele and Pensarn.

"Would you enjoy a short walk?" Holmes asked, and I nodded readily.

"We've been sitting for so long. Why not?" I replied. "Where do you want to go?"

"I want you to see one of the most amazing pieces of architecture in Britain, Watson," he answered, "and reputedly one of the most haunted places in all of Wales."

"Do you think it's safe?" I asked.

The lady at the window
"I don't see why not!" Holmes answered. "She wasn't mad at you, was she?"

"Who, Holmes?"

"The lady at the window!"

"What window?"

"The window of the haunted castle, Watson! You haven't been reading the tabloids, have you?"

"Guilty as charged, I fear." I said. "But I don't follow you."

"You're following me just fine, Watson," Holmes replied. "And if you'll follow me just a few steps more, you'll see where we're going."

We crossed a footbridge over the tracks, and another over the highway. "It's incredible, Holmes!" I gasped. "What is it?

Gwrych Castle.
Photo by Laurie Oliver.
"Gwrych Castle," he replied. "Have you never heard of it?"

"I can't say I have," I answered. "and I am sure if I had seen a picture of this place, I would have remembered it."

"We should buy some postcards before we leave, Watson," he said. "They would make a wonderful addition to your book."

"What book?" I asked, surprised again -- even after all these years -- at yet another sudden shift of topic from the friend I thought I knew so well.

"You're planning to write about the Gareth Williams case, are you not?" he asked.

Gwrych Castle turret.
Photo by Laurie Oliver.
"It had crossed my mind," I replied, "but I thought I might wait and see whether you can solve the mystery."

"Don't worry about that, Watson," he surprised me again. "Write about it if you want to; otherwise don't!"

"Seriously, Holmes?"

"Of course, Watson. I wouldn't say that if I didn't mean it."

"Do you think you have a chance to solve the case, Holmes?" I asked.

"At present, I couldn't say one way or the other," he said. "And for the next couple of hours, it doesn't matter in the slightest.

"We're sightseers now, Watson, and strangers in a strange land, too. But if we stumble around and gawk, and carry on like stunned tourists, nobody will notice us at all."

We bought postcards on our way out.

Postcards from Gwrych Castle:
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Next: Llandudno

Chapter 18: Llandudno

Previous: Gwrych Castle

St. George's Hotel, Llandudno
"Life as a tourist suits you well," Holmes said as we departed Gwrych Castle. "I haven't seen you so relaxed in a long time."

"I am highly skilled at stumbling around and gawking," I replied, "and at my age, acting stunned isn't much of a stretch."

"It's odd that you should use the word 'stretch', Watson," Holmes continued. "I was about to ask whether you'd mind stretching our little sightseeing holiday into an overnight affair."

"Not at all, if you think it wise," I answered, "especially if there's a chance of a good meal somewhere along the way." I was suffering fleeting visions of camping overnight in the woods behind the castle, and hoping very much that Holmes wasn't inclined in that direction.

"Don't worry, old friend," he said. "We are very close to Llandudno, 'The Queen Of The Welsh Resorts', where -- not to be overly presumptuous -- I have already booked us rooms for the night."

"You know me too well," I admitted, and he went off to call a cab.

After a short and very pleasant ride, we found ourselves at the base of an imposing rock formation -- limestone, from the look of it -- and Holmes spoke for the first time in some minutes. "We'll walk from here, driver, though we'll pay your regular fare to the hotel," he said. And soon we were walking along a gradually ascending road.

The Little Orme
"How far is it to the hotel?" I asked.

"Just a bit of a hike," Holmes replied.

"Would you not rather ride?" I inquired.

"I think you'll enjoy the view from the top," he responded.

"This is a big rock!" I said, and Holmes grinned.

"Its mate is even bigger, if not more rugged," he said.

"Do we actually have to climb two of these, Holmes?" I asked, beginning to struggle for breath.

"One climb will be sufficient, from the look of you," he replied. "If you can make it," he added.

"I'll be all right," I said, stalling for a moment, and we resumed.

Llandudno as seen from the Little Orme
with the Great Orme in the background
Soon the slope became more gentle and evened out. We walked on for a few more minutes, and suddenly I could see over the crest of the rock we had just climbed, and on to the horizon. "It's gorgeous!" I exclaimed.

"You're standing on what they call the Little Orme, Watson," said Holmes. "There's the Great Orme in the distance. And near the far end of that lovely curved beach is our destination -- St. George's Hotel!"

We walked down the far side of the Little Orme and proceeded along the beach, a narrow strip of perfectly maintained sand separating the Irish Sea from an array of hotels, restaurants, and boutiques.

"Let's check in, sample the local cuisine, and do some more bumbling and gawking, Watson," Holmes suggested.

At that point, any suggestion including a hot meal would have been welcome. But I shouldn't have worried.

Llandudno as seen from the Great Orme
with the Little Orme in the background
The food was excellent and the evening walk was splendid.

The scenery was wonderful, and we were back in our rooms again before sundown.

"Tomorrow we'll catch the morning train for Holyhead, Watson," said Holmes as we prepared to retire. "There will be more beautiful sights along the way, which will serve as meagre compensation, to be sure. The heart of our mission is so dark!"

Once again I found myself unable to argue with my astute companion.

"Don't forget to pick up more postcards," said he.

"Thanks for the reminder," said I.

Postcards from Llandudno:
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Next: Making Sure

Chapter 19: Making Sure

Previous: Llandudno

Conwy Castle and suspension bridge
The next morning, we enjoyed a quick breakfast, then a quicker cab ride from St. George's to the Llandudno Junction railway station, where we would catch the train for Holyhead.

Holmes was carrying a small package he had brought from the hotel, and while we waited for the train, he handed it to me, saying, "I've had an opportunity to visit St. George's newsstand, Watson. Go ahead. Open it."

Inside the package, I found a stack of morning papers -- "for both of us," Holmes informed me -- and a smaller packet tied with string.

I untied the string to reveal a thick stack of postcards. "What's this, Holmes?" I asked.

"Just a little something for your book, my friend," said Holmes. "I think it may turn out to be a good one, and it would be a shame if you failed to offer your readers a glimpse of northern Wales. But we must move along quickly now, and we won't be able to stop and enjoy many of these splendid sights ourselves.

"Some wonderful vistas will present themselves momentarily, though, and we would be fools to miss them," my friend continued. "We are about to cross the river at Conwy, where the bridges are built into an ancient castle."

"Amazing!" I said.

"We'll be riding through it in just a few minutes," replied Holmes. "We'll also be cutting across the northern edge of Snowdonia National Park, a land of wide, U-shaped valleys separated by steep, jagged mountains. I would love to go touring there sometime, but we can't do it on this trip, Watson."

"I don't mean to complain, Holmes," I said, "and surely you know what you're about. But we were in a hurry to get out of London yesterday, and we seem to be in a hurry again now, yet yesterday afternoon and evening when we were sightseeing, we could have been moving. Enjoyable as it was, I can't help wondering why you felt compelled to stop -- let alone overnight."

The train arrived and we boarded it before Holmes could answer my question. "Bucky threw me off my plan, Watson," he said once we were settled in our seats. "I was planning to stay a few more days in London, but having sent his followers to Edinburgh, I thought it best to get ourselves out of Baker Street before they could return to London. They'll find the nest empty. And their bird, if he's wise, will have flown far away."

"But Mrs. Hudson?" I exclaimed.

"They won't bother the sweet old woman," Holmes replied. "And they will have no idea of the role she played against them."

"You know the type better than I do," I admitted.

"I've been dealing with their ilk for a long time, Watson," he said, and I nodded. Our landlady would be in no danger.

"But once we were in Wales," he continued, "I began to calculate. If we had proceeded at our former pace, we would have arrived in Holyhead late yesterday afternoon, and I wanted to avoid any possible collision there."

"What sort of collision, Holmes?" I asked.

"As I was reviewing the case," my companion explained, "I recalled William Hughes having said, 'the funeral is tomorrow'. Strange as it may seem with all that has happened since, that was only two days ago, Watson! The funeral was yesterday. And -- especially with Bucky having been followed -- I wanted to make sure that the people who were in town to watch over the funeral didn't catch sight of any consulting detectives. But they will be back in London by now, and we won't have to worry too much about being seen there today."

"Seriously, Holmes, do you really think they had people watching the funeral?"

"Definitely," he replied, "and I wouldn't be surprised if they were watching the town as well."

"Really?"

"Oh yes. I take it as given that they've been watching the family ever since the news came out," he said. "And they may know that Hughes has attempted to enlist our aid. That's something we can probably deal with. But a 'chance encounter' in a hotel lobby, in a little town at the end of the earth, would have been just too much, Watson."

I recalled our earliest days together, when Holmes was unknown among police as well as criminals, and his freedom of movement was almost unlimited. Then I began to reflect on what a difference his success had made. Soon I became engrossed in the view out the window, and I was only vaguely aware of Holmes rustling through the newspapers he had brought until he spoke again.

Sir John Sawers at the funeral
of Gareth Williams

"Hullo!" he said. "They were out in force yesterday. The 'Secret' Service was very public indeed. Sir John Sawers was there -- the chief of MI6. This is very serious business, Watson.

"Calling himself 'the only public face of the Secret Intelligence Service,' Sawers gave the press what must be considered the official MI6 position on the case, and a spectacular dodge it was, too.

"Listen to this, Watson:
asked if the investigation would ever get to the bottom of what happened to Mr Williams, Sir John said it was not for him to say. He insisted it was a police matter ...
"You see that? It happens all the time, Watson! The world's most powerful intelligence agencies turn investigations of the mysterious deaths of their employees over to bumbling city police every day! Every single day, Watson, perhaps every hour!"

It had been a long time since I had heard such heavy sarcasm from Holmes. He valued cool, clear thought above all else, and normally preferred to take a straightforward approach.

"Look at the face on this snake, Watson!" he exclaimed, pushing the Daily Mail in my direction.

As I beheld the pictures and read the article, I could feel my spinal chills beginning to return -- and this time they carried a deep and powerful resonance from the past.

I had experienced a similar feeling in 1963, while watching the funeral of President Kennedy on television. The Joint Chiefs of Staff were there, as well as the other most powerful military people in America, all ostensibly paying their respects. But something in their faces made me feel that showing respect for the dead President was the least of their concerns.

It seemed to me they were mostly interested in making sure he was dead.

Postcards from Conwy Castle:
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Next: Unthinkable

Chapter 20: Unthinkable

Previous: Making Sure

Sheep graze in the valleys of Snowdonia.
"There's another fine piece for your collection, Holmes," I said, tossing the morning's edition of The Daily Mail across the compartment to my companion.

"Fortunately for us, the coverage in the other dailies is somewhat different," he said. "Perhaps one or another detail may turn out to be of some value."

"Are you looking for anything in particular?" I asked.

"We shall have to wait and see what transpires," he replied. "At the moment, our grasp of the case is so thin that I cannot but welcome any detail about the life or death of Gareth Williams that does not come to us through the security services. Friends and relatives at the funeral may not offer much new information, but they are surely more reliable than the usual 'experts' quoted in the London press."

"Speaking of the security services," I asked, "do you think it possible that Gareth Williams was killed by somebody connected with British intelligence?"

"That's a very interesting question, Watson," he replied, "especially given what we know about the case. Every single line of thought that we have been able to explore seems to point us in the same direction, and yet you find it necessary to ask whether that direction is possible. Your mind doesn't want to entertain the idea that he may have been killed by his employers, does it?"

"No, I suppose it doesn't,"  I admitted.

"You're certainly not alone," he said. "It's a common enough reaction. But, given what we know, a better question might be: 'Is it possible that Gareth Williams was killed by somebody not connected with British intelligence?' To be quite honest, I haven't seen any indication that would support an affirmative response to such a question."

"It's just so unthinkable," I said.

"And that's the trouble!" Holmes replied. "You, Watson, are an intelligent man, you've seen one example of official duplicity after another, and yet your natural inclination is still to trust the government -- and the press!

"In this case, as in many others, the primary reason -- or, more accurately, the only reason -- to disbelieve the available evidence is an unwillingness to consider the direction in which that evidence points.

One of the wide, U-shaped valleys of Snowdonia
"Remember my maxim, 'When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.' Note that I don't say, 'when you eliminate the unpalatable,' or 'when you eliminate the unthinkable.' We can only eliminate those scenarios which are actually impossible.

"It seems impossible to plant false stories in the British press about an MI6 employee without being connected to British intelligence. But almost no one dares to think that thought -- and this common human failing may be the only shield the killers have.

"My archive of clippings about this case contains a remarkable series of articles published by The First Post, three of which illustrate my point very well. The first of them, published on August 26th and written by Jack Bremer, was headlined 'Dead MI6 man: ‘private life’ not national security.' The sub-head read: 'Escort agency numbers discovered on SIM card. Did a sex game go wrong?' and the text stated:
Police are investigating the private life of an MI6 officer whose body was found stuffed into a holdall and dumped in the bath of the flat where he had been living in London, just round the corner from the spy agency's headquarters.
...
a trusted Whitehall source has said that "national security" is unlikely to be the motive.
...
As well as Williams's decomposed body, they found his mobile phone and - laid out in "ritual" fashion - a number of SIM cards.

According to a Daily Mail police source, one of those cards contained phone numbers for escort agencies. Pornographic material was also found in the flat. One theory is that Williams was the victim of a risky sex game gone wrong.
"So there's the basic story, as it was intended to be disseminated, apparently. The next day, The First Post ran Bremer again, with a headline 'Bondage gear found at MI6 flat - but was it planted?' Under the sub-head '‘Male escort evidence’ and porn said to have been found at murdered spy’s flat,' Bremer wrote:
Police investigating the murder of the MI6 codebreaker Gareth Williams have discovered bondage equipment in his London flat, along with evidence linking him to a male escort, according to reports emerging overnight. The findings appear to support the theory that his private life rather than national security was the motive for his murder - unless the items were planted by his killer.
Snowdonia
"The implication here, of course, is that if the items were planted, then they were intended to divert attention away from the actual motive -- and to make murder look like accidental suicide. Who else could have planted such items except the killer? Why else could they have been planted? Who else, other than the killer, would have any reason -- or any opportunity -- to plant them?

"Clearly it would be an astounding stretch to claim that someone had killed Gareth Williams and then someone else, entirely unconnected to the murder, had littered his flat with gay porn and bondage gear.

"So, following the train of thought begun by Jack Bremer here, if these 'items' were planted then they would necessarily lead to the killer. Are you with me so far, Watson?"

"I think so, Holmes," I replied.

"Watch what happened next," he continued. "Three days later, on August 30th, The First Post ran another piece, this time by Nigel Horne, noting that
Police who found Williams's body at his Pimlico flat have now made it clear that reports about the discovery of bondage gear, gay contact magazines and male escorts' phone numbers at the scene are quite wrong. No such things were found.
What to do? What to do? Under the headline 'MI6 murder: Who planted the gay contacts stories?' and a sub-head that mentions William Hughes, Horne refers to Bremer's work in his opening paragraph:
The case of Gareth Williams, the murdered MI6 codebreaker, becomes curiouser and curiouser. The First Post was among the first to suggest that the 'evidence' pointing towards a homosexual and/or sadomasochistic murder might be a ruse, possibly planted by the killer to lead investigators astray.
"If the 'items' were not planted," Holmes continued, "but the 'stories' about them were, then we have a much different situation.

"Who could plant the 'items'? Whoever could obtain access to the flat -- and kill the occupant!

"But who could plant the 'stories'? Quite another level of access would be required. And yet, clearly, if the 'items' did not exist, then the 'stories' themselves were planted. What could that mean?

"Here Nigel Horne makes an astounding stretch:
Now it appears we were right to be suspicious - but that the misinformation might not be the work of the killer, as we suggested, but of the government, possibly MI6 itself.
"Do you see how that works, Watson? 'Not the killer, but the government, possibly MI6 itself'!! The astounding stretch protects the unthinkable thought!

Snowdonia: wide valleys
hemmed in by jagged walls
"Look out the window, my friend. Drink in this landscape. Misty mountains, ancient embattlements, magical castles, and wide, U-shaped valleys hemmed in by jagged walls. It's easy to lock yourself into the mock castles -- they are, after all, Victorian attempts at Disneyland. And it's comfortable to run along the usual channels, just as sheep graze in the wide, flat valleys. Why would they ever climb these imposing mountains?"

"Unthinkable thoughts lie beyond these peaks," I ventured.

"Indeed," Sherlock Holmes replied. "Young Gareth Williams was an extraordinary cyclist, Watson -- and a climber! We need to find out more about him."

Postcards from Snowdonia:
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Next: The Front Row Of An Ancient Empire