At this, I raised my eyebrows. Holmes paused for a moment and, as I watched, a look of concern troubled his face. “This is a rare, yet not unknown occurrence, Watson. Why might this have happened? A simple case of Mycroft becoming distracted? Unlikely, or is there something-”
Holmes fell silent, deep in thought. Filling his pipe, he then proposed, “Perhaps, on this occasion, it may simply be a subconscious nod to his own paranoia, brought upon him by that labyrinth of Whitehall secrecy within which he moves.” Lighting his pipe, Holmes drew upon it before continuing, “Let us see if the importance of the contents will enlighten us as to the need for such security.”
Taking up his fine Italian stiletto, an elegant memento from the Cagliari affair, Holmes carefully slit the envelope. Sitting once more, he removed from it a single sheet of paper and began to read. As I watched, his increasing interest began to animate his features. Sitting back, Holmes was silent for a few moments before leaping from his chair. His angular figure now raced towards his bedroom whilst over his shoulder he cried out, “Pack a weekend Gladstone, Watson, for we have an appointment with a singularly important corpse in Surrey.”
I stood and blinked for a moment before quickly gathering up my purchases of tobacco and stuffing them into my jacket pocket. Seeing Holmes’s haste, I too hurried to my bedroom to fling the necessary items into my bag.
Barely two minutes had elapsed before I was then being chastened by Holmes as a laggard and hurried down the stairs and out into Baker Street. Once at the kerb, Holmes held up his cane and furiously flagged down an approaching hansom. With a cry of, “Waterloo Station, as quick as you like, cabbie!” and a florin tossed up to the driver, we clambered inside and were soon off at a fearsome pace.
As we travelled towards Waterloo, Holmes, I saw, was once more his old self. His countenance had lost its pallor and his eyes were bright, like some wary, garden bird, ever watchful and alert. Seeing his eagerness, I took the opportunity to ask him of the contents of the letter from Mycroft. “Tell me, Holmes. Whose corpse are we to examine in Surrey?”
Holmes turned towards me, saying, “We are to travel to Guildford and, for both privacy and, I believe, some element of secrecy, we are to examine the body of Sir Charles Cavendish Short, at the Watts Cemetery Chapel.” Holmes paused for a moment, his brow now furrowed and his lips pressed firmly together. “Her Majesty’s Government, it seems, requires us to confirm that his death was due to natural causes and that his life was not prematurely curtailed.”
I considered this for a moment before replying, “Would not a local pathologist be able to determine this, or... or if not, surely they would be able to transfer the body to London for examination?”
Holmes nodded. “Normally so, but it is the supreme importance to the government of this late gentleman, and the rather disturbing international aspect to this matter, that precludes them from acting openly.”
I was, I admit, a little mystified by this remark and sat back in the cab for a moment to consider it. The name of the deceased was not unknown to me, but it took me half-a-minute or so to recollect where I had heard it. I sat and muttered to myself, “Short... Short... Ah! I have him! I have seen his name mentioned in The Times as... as an advisor to the government upon... upon affairs in Africa!”
Holmes smiled and nodded before tapping me sharply on the knee with his cane, saying, “Bravo, Watson... but there is more!” At that, the cab lurched to a stop and Holmes leapt from it. With his Gladstone grasped tightly in one hand and cane held aloft as though wielding a sabre, he half turned and cried, “This way, Watson! I believe there is an express passing through Guildford that leaves shortly.”
Gathering my own bag, I stepped down gingerly from the cab and hurried after the rapidly retreating figure. Cursing my old war wound and the excesses of my somewhat sedentary life, I was only able to catch up with Holmes as he turned away from the ticket office window. With an impish grin, he pushed two first class tickets into my jacket breast pocket. With a cry of “Platform Four!” he raced away, leaving me to follow, panting, in his wake.
After some fifty yards or so, Holmes paused for a moment and looked up briefly to consult some station signage. With a cry of triumph, he continued onward, only stopping on reaching a first class carriage of the London and South Western Railway. Reaching out, he grasped the exterior brass handle of the compartment door before turning on his heel and beckoning me, rather too energetically, to approach with a little more haste.
Chapter 2: Game Pie and Spotted Dick
Once ensconced in the compartment and with my Gladstone carefully stowed away, I found it necessary to rest for a moment to catch my breath. Holmes, however, seemed quite unaffected by his exertions and was, indeed, most eager for the train to depart. He looked out, impatiently, onto the platform, glancing one way and then the other. At one point, he took it upon himself to slide down the compartment window to see if, by leaning out, he might catch sight of the guard and his green flag.
After suffering this in silence for some minutes and as he began to rise once more, I caught hold of the corner of Holmes’s jacket and gave it a sharp tug. In exasperation, I cried out, “For pity’s sake, Holmes! Calm yourself! The man we are to see is already dead and, therefore most unlikely to run away!”
Holmes looked down sharply at me and, for a moment, I thought he was going to rebuke me. However, his features softened and he smiled before retaking his seat. Nodding, he replied, “Of course, you are quite correct, Watson.”
Barely two minutes passed before there was the sound of the guard’s whistle close by our carriage, followed by the shrill response from the engine. Moments later, we were jolted in our seats as the carriages were pulled raggedly away from Waterloo. With Holmes now at ease, I took this opportunity to ask him for further details of Mycroft’s request for our assistance. “Does Mycroft explain what has happened to this fellow, Short?”
Holmes took from his pocket the buff-coloured envelope and briefly scanned its contents before replying, “Little enough. He says that Sir Charles had taken a few days’ leave and had secured a room at The Bull’s Head, an inn in Guildford. This, apparently, was so that he could pursue his hobby of watercolour painting. Whilst there, he fell gravely ill one evening with severe abdominal pains. These were followed, within a few hours, by coma and death.” Holmes turned over the letter, adding, “Mycroft advises that he has reserved rooms for us at The Bull’s Head, and that a Doctor Weaver will meet us at Watts Cemetery Chapel at ten o’clock in the morning.”
Holmes paused for a moment and reached for his pipe before continuing. “It would appear that a discreet post mortem was carried out yesterday at Guildford mortuary, the results of which will be waiting for us tomorrow at the chapel.” Holmes filled and lit his pipe and drew strongly upon it before taking it from between his lips and then wagging the stem towards me. “However, what intrigues me is that Mycroft states that a Dutch fellow, who was staying at the same inn, has been questioned regarding the death. The Dutch government have been informed and are taking a very dim view of the affair. Unfortunately, and which I find most vexing, Mycroft does not supply any further details in this matter.”
I sat back and considered what Holmes had said and then suddenly jolted upright as a thought struck me, blurting out, “A Dutchman... a Boer!”
Holmes looked across at me and was nodding slowly. Tilting back his head, he blew out a ribbon of blue smoke towards the carriage ceiling, before saying, “Yes, that thought had crossed my mind, Watson. Mycroft mentions, briefly, that Sir Charles had been a close confidant of the Prime Minister for some time, and was the draftsman of much of Britain’s future plans for Southern Africa. This included, specifically, our relations with the Boers, upon which Sir Charles took a particularly hard line.”
On hearing this, my mind was now racing, and I began to speak my thoughts aloud: “Then this so called Dutchman could well be
a Boer assassin, sent to...”
I looked towards Holmes whose face looked most stern. He held up his hand with its palm facing me... cautioning me. “Facts, Watson! Facts! You know my methods. We will have to wait until the morning and our examination of Sir Charles before we can move forward.”
At this, Holmes closed his eyes and would say no more. He simply continued to draw steadily upon his pipe and seemed to withdraw into his own private temple of contemplation. For my part, I sat back and watched as the last remnants of the houses that made up the ever expanding city of London fell away to reveal the leafy countryside of Surrey.
The train sped onwards and seemed eager to consume the thirty-odd miles to Guildford, thanks partly to the new railway line that served Leatherhead and the Epsom Downs. Before long, Guildford Station came into view and, upon leaving the station, a cab from the rank on Station View was engaged to convey us to The Bull’s Head.
I had visited Guildford before and, as we rode along the High Street, I again marvelled at the fine array of shops that were present, many with black and white Tudor facades. The cab slowed as we passed beneath a huge, ornate, double-sided clock which protruded outwards over the High Street on an iron beam. Looking about me, I was indeed pleased when the cab came to rest beside an inn with a rather fine, mock-Tudor facade. This grand building, with its overhanging upper storey, proudly proclaimed itself to be The Bull’s Head. From its signage, it offered both accommodation and a profusion of ales, beers, and spirits.
Holmes, on tossing the cabbie a shilling, stepped down with some enthusiasm, eager to venture inside. As I struggled to alight a little more cautiously, Holmes smiled cheerily, taunting me with the remark, “Come along, Watson. I would imagine that you to be in considerable need of sustenance after your exertions!” In return, I forced the best smile that I could muster before following him, wearily, inside.
Stepping into the porch of the inn, I peered manfully through the stained glass of the door in the direction of the bar. Here could be seen the familiar figure of my friend, already in deep conversation with the landlord. As I entered, I dropped my Gladstone, whereupon he patted me soundly on the shoulder, exclaiming, “Ah, Watson! Come along old fellow. We are still in time for dinner!”
With the thought of nourishment, all tiredness seemed to fall from me. Looking behind the bar, I noticed a large blackboard lodged between the shelves of spirits. This I regarded most closely as upon it was chalked the menu of the day. Some popular items already had a line drawn through them to show that they were no longer on offer. However, my eye now fell upon the game pie. A rare treat, so early in the grouse season!
Seeing my considerable interest in this dish, Holmes decided to join me in opting for it. Once ordered, we found a table and were soon enjoying a pint of Carter and Stone’s best bitter, whilst waiting for our meal.
As we sat, sipping our beer, I asked Holmes if he had any further thoughts regarding the Dutchman. Holmes was now sitting back with a somewhat distant look in his eyes, as he answered, “I am at something of a loss to comprehend the situation, Watson. We are told that a man has been questioned, presumably, for some suspected involvement in the death of Sir Charles. However, as Sir Charles was seriously ill for some hours prior to his death, why would a guilty man remain at the scene? To allay suspicion? A possibility... but unlikely.” Holmes paused for a moment and briefly shook his head. “I find it unbelievable that the Boers would leave their agent in-situ after an assassination. No, Watson. It simply won’t do.”
As I pursed my lips and considered this, the landlord appeared with a tray containing our dinner. The two steaming plates were placed before us and, on seeing the fare, I rubbed my hands together gleefully in anticipation. Without delay, we tucked in with relish. I have to admit, the game pie served with wonderful, rich gravy was a delight! We sat back, replete, for a few minutes and it was as the landlord returned, to ask us what we would like to follow, that Holmes engaged him further in conversation.
“Tell me, landlord. I understand there was an unexpected death at the inn a little earlier in the week?” asked Holmes, quite innocently.
The landlord was about to gather together our well cleaned plates but stopped and looked a little taken aback. “Why, yes sir! I’m surprised you heard of that in London. It was a gentleman that was staying here. He had been out, painting, I believe, and then fell ill and died within hours. Out of the blue, it was. He was fine one day and then gone the next!”
The landlord then lowered his voice before continuing, “They questioned a Dutchman who had been with him and then, bless me, they let him go!” On saying this, the landlord turned slightly and pointed a stubby finger towards a middle-aged gentleman sitting some small distance away, in the corner of the room.
Holmes nodded slowly before looking over his shoulder to consider, once more, the blackboard bearing the day’s menu. “Knowing my colleague’s sweet tooth, I think we both might have a little of the ‘Spotted Dick’ and custard, if you please.” I smiled in agreement at my friend’s choice, for Holmes was well aware of my penchant for steamed puddings.
As Holmes reached for his beer, I took the opportunity to look past him and regard the gentleman that the landlord had pointed out. The fellow appeared to be well dressed, although in clothes of an unfamiliar cut. He was of medium build, having a round face topped by unfashionably long, grey, hair swept back from his temples. He sat, drawing upon a clay pipe, with a solitary drink in front of him. He seemed to me to be a figure that was far removed from my vision of a Boer assassin.
Once the pudding had been enjoyably dispatched, I suggested to Holmes that, from my observations, the Dutch gentleman appeared to be quite harmless. Holmes took his pipe from his lips. “As you are well aware, Watson, looks can sometimes be deceptive. I am sure that I need not remind you of Julia Moriarty! However, on this occasion, I believe that you are correct.” With that, Holmes rose, adding, quietly, “Let us introduce ourselves.”
Chapter 3: A Dutchman and a Challenge
As Holmes reached the Dutchman’s table, I saw him draw from his waistcoat pocket one of his cards. This he then proffered to the gentleman, saying, “Excuse the intrusion, sir. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my good friend, Dr. John Watson. May we join you, briefly?”
The Dutchman looked up, rather shocked, and then took Holmes’s card. He looked at it for a moment and then, in excellent English and with a fine accent, replied, “Why, yes, Mr. Holmes.” The man offered his hand, saying, “I am Jacob De Witt... from Rotterdam.”
Sitting down, Holmes continued by asking, “Tell me, Mr. De Witt, what do you know of Sir Charles Short, the gentleman who died earlier this week?”
Jacob De Witt puffed out his cheeks before saying, “Well, Mr. Holmes, I must say, very little. I had met him twice on the banks of the River Wey. I had taken my paints and easel and, on meeting a fellow artist, we had sat together as we painted. I paint in oils, whilst Sir Charles painted in watercolours.” Holmes nodded and waited for De Witt to say more. “He painted the most exquisite flowers and, to do this, he used the finest of brushes.” De Witt paused as though recalling his meeting. “Yes, to obtain the intricate detail, he had the most curious habit of drawing out the hairs of his brush with his lips.”
At this, Holmes raised an eyebrow. De Witt continued, “As we spoke together, I discovered that we were, indeed, staying at the same inn and, on the day of his death, we had taken tea together.” De Witt paused for a moment. “Perhaps that is why I came under suspicion. The police have retained my passport and I have been told not to leave Guildford. I believe that it is only after the intervention of the Dutch Embassy that I was released from questioning.”
I shot Holmes a glance, with my eyebrows raised. Holmes pulled his chair a little closer to the table, asking, “Are you here on business, Mr. De Witt?”
De Witt nodded. “Why, yes. I am a representative
of the Amersfoort Tobacco Company, one the oldest in Holland. I have been coming to England for many years now, selling cigars and pipe tobacco.”
Upon hearing this, Holmes’s eyes lit up, crying, “Ah, splendid! You may, then, be of some assistance, Mr. De Witt. My friend here, Dr. Watson, purchased three types of tobacco this morning and, unfortunately, omitted to label what he bought. Do you have them with you, Watson?”
I was confused for a moment and then delved into my jacket pocket and retrieved the three small parcels. These I carefully placed on the table in front of De Witt. I watched eagerly as he unwrapped a parcel, examining the contents before holding it to his nose and then rubbing the tobacco between his fingers. He then proceeded to the next parcel.
Sitting back, he beamed at us, saying, “You have made some interesting choices, Dr. Watson. The first is Latakia, a fire-cured tobacco used in Balkan blends. It has a smoky aroma and is probably from the island of Cyprus. The second is an American blend of Perique, originally from Louisiana. I think you will find that it is often combined with a more delicate, lighter leaf from Virginia.”
Holmes was seen to nod in appreciation and he held out his hand in an invitation to proceed to the third parcel. De Witt ran a little of the tobacco through his fingers before he raised it again to his nose and sniffed, saying, “This is another interesting tobacco, Doctor. I believe this to be a North American Burley, air dried and quite mild... but there is an addition... a little Kentucky, I think, to add some spice.”
Holmes clapped his hands, saying, “Bravo, Mr. De Witt... although I might argue that the first one may, perhaps, come from a little further east, although still within the Ottoman Empire.” De Witt smiled, in appreciation of Holmes’s knowledge, and nodded in return.
It was as I began to gather the packages together that Holmes stood up, saying, “There you are, Watson. I think that they will all be a good smoke... Stem jy saam?”
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part X Page 22
