Holmes smiled sadly and reached over to close the lid of my inkwell. “Ambition has brought me to the level my modest efforts allow me to occupy. Ambition has brought your tales to readers that enjoy them. But ambition did no favors for Clarissa Woods and all who knew her. Let bad judgment, bitterness and misplaced hostility alone. Such things should never be perpetuated.”
“I say let them be exposed, so that others may learn from the experience.”
My friend gave me a penetrating look. “It is too soon, Watson. In her fashion, Clarisse Woods was quite a fascinating woman. One might even say bewitching. You proved susceptible to her charms. When the spell was broken the shock stripped away your faith in womankind.”
“Holmes!”
“No, do not protest, the symptoms are clear. In a man such as you, the loss proved as crippling as another man’s loss of a limb. The counter spell is time, Watson, to heal your own soul. Only then can you calmly judge if such a story is worthy of publication. Indeed, only then can you decide if you wish to write it at all.”
My friend turned away and took up his violin. As melancholy strains of music filled the room, I closed my notebook and put it away. Perhaps Holmes was right. Perhaps it was too soon for me to put down the details of this case. But I did not forget just where in my desk I filed the notes.
The Case of the Mystified Major
“I have a puzzle for you, Mr. Holmes,” said Major Thimbleton as he refreshed our glasses. “I will even wager that you fail. No one has devised a logical explanation for the contents of the Worcester Box in a hundred years.”
Sherlock Holmes leaned back in the armchair he occupied before the fireplace in the Major’s library. The lamps had been lit, the curtains drawn, and conversation between Holmes, Thimbleton and I had continued here from the dining room where we just enjoyed a fine meal.
Major Arthur Thimbleton, a widower and retired Army officer, was a former client of Holmes’s. He lived a bachelor’s existence, his daughter married and his two sons gone into the Army. He heard that we were in Worcester assisting the local police in solving a particularly unpleasant murder and invited us to stay with him in his ancient family seat after the case was solved. As a result, we had spent the previous two days under his roof. The Major proved to be an affable gentleman, knowledgeable about foreign lands and curious about the methods Sherlock Holmes used to solve his cases.
From the practiced way the Major spoke, it seemed that the Worcester Box was a regular conundrum that generations of Thimbletons had put before their guests. The Major smiled as he rummaged in a cabinet and brought forth a plain wooden box which he set on the low table before my friend. I leaned forward and examined it as Holmes lit his pipe.
About nine inches long on each side and six inches deep, the box had a fitted lid decorated with a marquetry design. Its sides were smooth and polished. There was no lock. From the way the Major handled it, the box was not heavy.
“I accept your challenge, sir. Tell me about the Box,” said Holmes.
“My ancestor, General Marcus Thimbleton, decided upon some alterations in the house in 1789. The Box was found when a wall was torn down to enlarge the dining hall. It was covered in dust and obviously had been hidden there a long time. Curiously enough, the section of wall in which it was discovered concealed a hidden cavity, a priest’s hole, which led from the room next to the dining hall to an exit near the stables. Both ends had been sealed and all family knowledge of this passageway had been lost. Nothing else was found with the Box. Since then, each generation of Thimbletons has puzzled over the contents. Mr. Holmes, if you can put forth a credible explanation for the collection held in this box, you will have justified your reputation a thousand times over.”
I reached out and ran my hand over the lid. “Open it, Watson,” murmured Holmes from behind a veil of tobacco smoke. I gently lifted the top and set it aside. Several linen-wrapped bundles lay inside. Carefully I picked up each one and laid it out on the table’s surface. When the box was empty I sat back and transferred my attention to Sherlock Holmes.
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his fingers steepled before his chin. A thin wisp of smoke rose lazily from the bowl of his pipe. Keen grey eyes lingered on each bundle in turn, and then shifted to include the box. Several moments passed before Holmes removed his pipe and laid it aside. He picked up a bundle, fingered the cloth, brought it to his nose, and then removed the wrapping. A crudely-shaped nail lay in the palm of his hand.
The second bundle was opened to reveal a flat leather wallet of antique design. An irregularly-shape splotch stained one corner where there was a long slit in the leather. Holmes unfolded it and carefully extracted a jagged, stiff fragment of rust-colored paper. He laid them both on the table.
The third bundle disclosed a trio of tarnished coat buttons and the last one contained a battered horseshoe. Holmes spread all those items out on the table, and then picked up the box. With his magnifying glass he minutely examined the box’s interior and exterior. Then he did the same with the lid and each of the things on the table, including the wrappings.
When he leaned back and picked up his pipe again, I quietly left my chair and wandered over to the bookshelves. Major Thimbleton watched Holmes smoke for several minutes and then joined me.
“What happens now?” he inquired.
I shrugged. “He thinks. We wait. I have never been able to explain how his mind works. He could spend the entire night here, smoking, or he may jump up and decide to go somewhere else to collect more information. Or he could give us his answer in the next five minutes. With Sherlock Holmes one never knows.”
Major Thimbleton gestured to the bookshelves. “If he needs more information about my family, there are several biographies here. There are also account books dating back to when the house was built in the early 1500s. Old General Edmund Thimbleton was a favorite of Good Queen Bess in her later years and got the estate by Crown grant a few years before she died. It was quite a bit farther out from Worcester then. The Royalists with Lieutenant-General David Leslie were stationed at Pitchcroft meadow to the west of us just before the battle of Worcester in 1651.”
“That was the last battle of the Rebellion, wasn’t it? After the rout, Charles the Second fled to France.”
“That’s right. There were two young Thimbleton brothers at the battle. William was killed during a sortie from Charles’s position on the southeast edge of Worcester to Red Hill and Rodger actually helped the king escape and spent the next ten years of his life in France. He returned to England after the Restoration.”
“Quite a family history.” I turned to look at Holmes. He was stretched out in the armchair, his eyes closed and a slight smile on his face. He spoke without stirring.
“I shall remain here for some time, Watson. Major, I plan to work on this problem through the night. If I need anything, may I just help myself?”
Major Thimbleton smiled. “Of course, Mr. Holmes. My entire home is at your disposal. Perhaps, Dr. Watson, you would care for a game of billiards before we retire?”
“I would be delighted. Good night, Holmes.”
“Good night, Watson, and good night, Major. May I give you a word of warning, sir? Watch out for Watson. At billiards, the man is a shark.”
Major Thimbleton chuckled and we left the great detective alone in the library.
The Major greeted me rather ruefully at breakfast the next morning. “I should have listened to Holmes, Doctor. You wield an excellent cue.”
I smiled modestly. “It was luck, Major. You own an excellent table.”
As we sat down with our filled plates in the dining room, Sherlock Holmes appeared in the doorway. He was washed and brushed and gave no sign of having been up all night. He took up a plate and peered into the chafing dishes on the sideboard.
“Good morning, Mr. Holmes,” Major Thimbleton sai
d. “Have you had any luck with the family puzzle?”
“I am afraid I made a bit of a mess in the kitchen last night, Major. Good morning, Watson. I can see that you had as profitable an evening as I did.” Holmes joined us with his filled plate and began eating.
“It’s true that Watson beat me three games out of four at billiards, Mr. Holmes, but how could you know?” asked the Major in surprise.
“Watson always puts his winnings in his right waistcoat pocket and I perceive a bulge there that was not there last evening.”
Major Thimbleton laughed. “Well, it may cost me more money, but I hope you have been as successful. What is this about a mess in the kitchen? Have you solved the mystery of the Worcester Box?”
“I had to use some things in the kitchen to determine the composition of that stain on the leather wallet. It was dried blood.”
“Dried blood!”
“I’ll explain everything after breakfast, Major. My, this ham is delicious. Is it home-cured?”
Holmes kept the conversation on food for the rest of the meal, despite the Major’s efforts to question him about the Box. Only after we were all settled in the library again and Holmes had lit his pipe would he explain how he had occupied himself the night before. The Worcester Box and its contents were still spread out on the low table before his chair.
“I overheard those interesting highlights of your family’s history you told Watson, Major, and after you left I took full advantage of the books on your shelves. I had already determined from the appearance of the marquetry design on the lid of the box that it was Spanish and dated from the 1620s. I saw that the nail and the horseshoe were of mid-seventeenth century manufacture. The wallet was from the same period, although it showed signs of French origin. The scrap of parchment…”
“Parchment?”
“Yes. That was what was in the wallet. It was drenched in blood, turning it that rust color and showing that it was in the wallet at the time a sword sliced through the leather and wounded whoever was carrying it. Unfortunately the fragment left carried no writing. You remember the monograph I had written on dating documents, Watson. I dated this parchment by the method of preparation used on the sheepskin. It was of the same era as the horseshoe, wallet and nail, but all were later than the box.
“The linen wrappings were difficult to date, but from the creases, the color and the weaving I believe they too were from the mid-1600s.
“The three buttons were most interesting. I had to consult several volumes on your shelves, Major, before I found one that showed plates of the uniform buttons of the Royal Army of King Charles the Second. When Charles brought his army to Worcester a few days before the definitive battle, he contracted with a local firm to clothe and outfit the few recruits that joined from the neighboring area. The three buttons are from that royal order.”
Major Thimbleton sat up straight in excitement. “Amazing, Mr. Holmes! William and Rodger Thimbleton joined King Charles’s troops just a few days before the September third battle. Their old father, Judge John Thimbleton, had been crippled in the Battle of Powick Bridge on the old King’s side nine years before. Publicly he took no side with the son but within the family he was secretly sympathetic. He had deemed the boys too young to fight, but with the conflict so near, they had run away to Worcester and joined Charles’ forces without his knowledge.”
“Was there a Spanish connection to your family back then?” I asked.
“John Thimbleton had traveled in Spain as a young man. He brought back all sorts of Spanish things. That little table in the corner is one of them.”
Holmes and I got up and examined the table. The mellow old surface displayed a similar pattern of marquetry as that on the box. The Major sat in his chair, wonderment on his features. “All these years and no one had connected the Worcester Box design to that one on the table. Why not?”
Sherlock Holmes sat down and took up his pipe. “People see, but they do not observe. Since the Box had been found separately from the table and even in a different part of the house, no one thought to put them together. That does furnish the final clue to confirm my reconstruction of the history of the Worcester Box and its contents, however.”
“I have always said that I would pay one hundred pounds to anyone who could give a reasonable explanation of the Worcester Box. Do it, Mr. Holmes, and the money is yours.” The Major gazed at my friend with an eager face.
Holmes put down his pipe and steepled his fingers. He crossed his legs and settled back. The look in his eyes grew dreamy and his whole posture seemed to soften and melt into the armchair. His high voice carried easily as he began to speak as if he saw the action of the story playing out before his inner eye.
“Long ago in the mid-seventeenth century in England Charles the Second, son of a deposed and beheaded monarch, came down with troops and cavalry from Scotland in an effort to reach London and regain his crown. Others told him to stay in Scotland, which had welcomed him as its King, but he believed the countryside would rise up in support of his claim and help him defeat Oliver Cromwell and the Parliamentarians. But that did not happen. By the time Charles reached Worcester in late August of 1651 even his Lieutenant-General David Leslie did not believe he could succeed.
“Charles entered the city and began to fortify it for the promised battle. He placed General Leslie with his cavalry in Pitchcroft meadow on the west of Worcester and the Duke of Hamilton on the east. To the south went Keith and Montgomery. Charles ordered clothes for the few locals who joined his fight and laid plans against his enemies.
“Nearby were two gallant sons, thought by their father too young to fight, who yearned to assist their king. One night, though surrounded by neighbors who supported the Parliamentarians, they rode into Worcester and joined the Royalists.
“On the third of September Cromwell and his forces attacked. Charles led a charge to capture Red Hill outside the city and quickly realized that he needed more help. He decided to send a message to Leslie in the west to bring up his cavalry and engage the enemy.
“The King chose William Thimbleton, because he was a zealous local lad who knew the area and had a fast horse, to carry the mobilization orders. His brother Rodger stayed with the King and later gave his horse so Charles could escape. But this is William’s story.
“William was given a leather wallet to carry the message, written by Charles on a sheet of parchment. He mounted his horse and set out to cross the Duke of Hamilton’s lines on a path that would skirt Worcester to the north and reach General Leslie in the west. He wore his new Royalist uniform. He was young and very eager.
“Half-way to Pitchcroft meadow, his horse began to limp. William stopped and dismounted and found that one of the horse’s shoes had lost nails and was at the point of falling off. He caught the last nail and the shoe as they dropped and as to not leave any trace of his mission, put them in his pocket. He tried to urge his horse onward, but the animal faltered because of the missing shoe. Finally William abandoned his mount and continued on foot as fast as he could run.
“Most of Cromwell’s army was in the south and the east, crossing a pontoon bridge over the Severn and fighting the King’s men near Red Hill. But there were a few sympathizers between Worcester and the meadow and at least one of them found William. I am sure your ancestor gave his best, but the final result was that William was badly wounded and the message was destroyed. Young Thimbleton was left for dead.”
The Major stared at Holmes as if mesmerized.
“When William was found, too much time had been lost. The battle raged in the city. The sun was setting and the cause was lost. But William was found near his own home. He managed to tell his story and die in the arms of his father. The old man was proud of William but he knew that if his neighbors found out his sons had fought for the King, his own life and the lives of all those under his roof would be forfeited.
<
br /> “William was buried secretly on the grounds. John Thimbleton couldn’t bear to get rid of the evidence of his son’s heroism, however, so he packed up the nail, the horseshoe, the wallet and three buttons from William’s uniform in an old box he had brought from Spain years before. He hid it in the priest’s hole and had both entrances sealed. He then made the household swear never to speak of the secret passage again.
“Rodger didn’t return to Worcester for ten years. Everything had changed. All he knew about William was that he died during the battle. The box rested in its hiding place until 1789 when it was discovered behind a wall. For the next one hundred years it posed a riddle for every Thimbleton and for every one of their guests.”
“Until today,” said the Major. He stood up and vigorously shook Sherlock Holmes’s hand. His face glowed and a big smile was spread across his features. “I have never been happier to lose a wager. What a wonderful story, Mr. Holmes. Do you really think it is true?”
“There is no way to check it, besides uncovering William’s grave.” Holmes answered. “But I can say that all the facts fit together and history supports it. General David Leslie never did receive any orders to advance his cavalry. They stayed in reserve in Pitchcroft meadow until the battle was over. As a result of the Battle of Worcester, the Parliamentarians and Oliver Cromwell prevailed and changed the course of English history. Charles fled to France and wasn’t crowned King of England until 1661.”
Major Thimbleton and I sat silently as Sherlock Holmes carefully rewrapped each item and returned it to the Worcester Box. Finally the Major stirred.
“If William had only made it through with that message…”
“It might have been so different,” I mused. “But for want of that message the battle was lost and for want of that battle a kingdom was lost.”
“And all for the want of a horseshoe nail,” said Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock Holmes and The Folk Tale Mysteries Page 6
