The Lost Radio Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Ken Greenwald Page B

Watson, off with them!”
    “Whatever for?”
I said feebly, still dazed by the blow I’d received.
    “Dear me, that
blow on your head must have been severe. I’m trying to make a kind of rope,
Watson, a rope to get us out of here!”
    “What’s the good
of a rope unless there’s someone on the ledge above us to pull us out?”
    Without
answering me, Holmes began whistling as loudly as he could.
    “What are you
whistling for, at a time like this?”
    “I’m whistling
for help!” he said impatiently.
    “Then why not
shout?”
    “A whistle
carries farther.”
    I sat down to
gather my strength and continued to rub my head in an attempt to increase
circulation and dull the pain I was feeling. Holmes must have continued his
whistling for some ten or twenty minutes before it finally grated on my nerves.
    “Who could
possibly hear that, Holmes?”
    “Daft Timmy, I
hope. Remember he was having a bonfire on the cliff tops tonight. My whistle is
that of a nightingale, a song unheard in Sussex at this time of the year. If he
does hear it, I’m sure it will bring him down here.”
    “I hope you’re
right. Seems to me that Whitnell and the police will never find us here. We
shall mummify just as the filthy murderer intended us to!”
    “Courage,
Watson, I—”
    Holmes and I
heard whistling from a short distance above us. It grew louder until a figure
stood at the edge of the pit.
    “It’s worked,
Watson! It’s Timmy, carrying a burning log!”
    “Nightingale,” said
Timmy peering down into the pit, “pretty birdie, what are you doing down there?”
    “Timmy!” yelled
Holmes, “I’ve tied these clothes together to make a rope. I’m going to throw
them up. You ready? Catch!”
    Holmes bundled
the clothes together and threw them with all his might. Timmy caught the
clothes and stood looking down, puzzlement on his face.
    “Now, Timmy,
lower it to us!”
    “Oh, I shouldn’t
do this. They’ll whip me.”
    “No, no one will
whip you, Timmy. And we both want to give you a shilling to come up and see
your bonfire.”
    “That’s
different,” Timmy said in excitement, “two shiny shillings. I’ll lower the rope.”
    In a moment I
was at the top of the pit, lowering the rope to Holmes, who then climbed out to
join us. Exhausted, we rested for a moment. Timmy, poor boy, had to be told
there was no nightingale. His disappointment soon vanished when we gave him two
shillings to take us to his bonfire. Cold and weak, we stood before the fire,
our hands outstretched, gathering in the warmth of the flames.
    “Did you ever
see a finer bonfire?” said young Timmy, the flames dancing in front of his
happy face.
    “Never, Timmy.
It’s lovely.”
    “It’s the most
comfortable sight I’ve seen for the last couple of hours,” I said, as the damp
and cold slowly ebbed from our bodies.
    “Just one thing’s
bad, though. Somebody tried to burn a book in my lovely fire. It must have been
when I was off getting more wood. I found it when I came back, and I pulled it
out of the fire, and stamped on it I did. See, here it is.”
    Timmy showed us
the book. There was no mistaking it.
    “It’s the diary
that we found on the body in the limepits.”
    “Precisely,
Watson. Now I begin to see daylight.”
    “People shouldn’t
burn books,” Timmy said angrily, “books are nice, like birds and bonfires. They
are nice to be near. Oh, you must still be cold. I’ll get more twigs to burn, I
will.”
    Timmy quickly
ran to fetch more wood, leaving Holmes and I to contemplate the day’s events.
    “Now, that we’re
alone, Holmes, I can see why we were attacked tonight. The murderer knew that
we were going to the caves and was afraid that his devilish plot wouldn’t stand
up under your scrutiny, so he watched us. When we discovered the body and sent
Whitnell off to fetch the police, he knew he had to get rid of us.”
    “And who do you
think that somebody is, old fellow?”
    “That’s easy.
There’s only one person strong