by Andrew Lane
‘Which bit is the front?’ Sherlock asked. ‘Is that where the lens is?’
‘Indeed.’
Sherlock moved to where Dodgson had indicated. On the way he passed close by the camera and saw that it also had a bellows-type arrangement of corrugated black material that allowed the distance between the lens and its back to be varied. The back was constructed so that a glass plate could be slipped into it. The variable distance must have something to do with the focal length of the lens, Sherlock assumed. A black cloth could be thrown over the whole device, presumably to keep any stray trace of light out of it.
Sherlock was going to have his photograph taken. He wasn’t sure whether to be happy or apprehensive.
Dodgson bent over and threw the black cloth over himself and the camera. Sherlock could see his elbows moving as he fiddled with something. ‘Strike a dramatic pose!’ he called, his voice muffled by the cloth.
Sherlock tried various poses – hands on hips, hands behind his back, one hand in his pocket and the other slipped inside his jacket. Nothing felt natural. Eventually, and with some embarrassment, he folded his arms over his chest and scowled off into the distance, looking downriver.
‘Raise your right hand and hold your chin!’ Dodgson shouted. Sherlock complied, aware that people walking along the nearby path were staring at the two of them.
‘Look thoughtful! At the moment you look like you are expecting a telegram telling you that your favourite dog has been eaten by a t-t-tiger!’
Sherlock tried his best to look thoughtful, even though he wasn’t sure how. He tried to remember times in the recent past when he had been thoughtful, but that didn’t help. In the end he recalled the sequence of numbers that Dodgson had tested him with a few days before – the sequence he hadn’t been able to solve. He ran them through his mind now, trying to see if anything leaped out at him.
‘Excellent!’ Dodgson pulled his head out from underneath the cloth, moved to the front of the camera and glanced over at Sherlock. ‘Yes, excellent.’ Although Sherlock was staring away from the camera, he saw in the corner of his eye Dodgson reach out and take a cap off the lens. ‘Now, don’t move for another five m-m-minutes.’
‘What?’ he said through clenched teeth. He had to maintain this ridiculous pose for another five minutes?
‘It’s all to do with the amount of light that has to fall on the sensitized glass plate before an image will form. The Good Lord has blessed even the lowliest animal in his domain with eyes that can detect an image so q-q-quickly that it seems no time at all has passed, even in the darkest of conditions. C-c-chemistry, however, has a long way to come before it can match what God has made. Just be grateful that science has advanced at all. For the first known photograph that was taken, back in 1826, the exposure lasted for well over eight hours.’ He paused. ‘It wasn’t a portrait, you will be pleased to hear,’ he added. ‘It was a l-l-landscape.’
Sherlock stood there for another five minutes, while people passed by. He could hear them talking, wondering what he and the tall, thin lecturer were doing. One or two of them had already heard of photography and made more informed comments. All of them ended up asking their companions who Sherlock was, and why he was so important that he was having his photograph taken. He asked himself the same question several times during those five minutes.
Dodgson eventually replaced the cap on the lens, stopping the light from falling on to the hidden glass plate. ‘That’s it!’ he called. ‘You can relax now.’
Sherlock walked over to join him, joints complaining at the sudden movement after the enforced stillness. Dodgson had dived beneath the black cloth again and was removing something from the camera. He emerged holding a thin wooden box.
‘The plate is in here,’ he announced, ‘shielded from any more light that might fall upon it. The plate itself is coated with a mixture of collodion and silver nitrate. I now need to take it into the tent where I will “develop” the image with ferrous sulphate and then “fix” it using a solution of sodium th-th-thiosulphate so that light will not affect it any more. Both processes have to be done quickly otherwise the image will degrade. Please, stay here for a few minutes. We will talk later.’
He vanished into the tent. It was smaller than he was, and Sherlock imagined him kneeling inside, head bowed, pouring chemicals from glass bottles into a tray, opening the wooden box, taking the glass plate delicately from inside and then laying the plate in the tray so that the chemicals could wash across it. Even as he was picturing the scene he thought he could smell something pungent wafting from inside the tent. He didn’t know how Dodgson could stand it, being so close to the chemicals.
Eventually Dodgson backed out of the tent and stood up. He was stiff from having been folded up for so long. He crossed over to where Sherlock was waiting.
‘Please accept my apologies,’ he said. He seemed embarrassed. ‘My gloves grew wet in the sodium th-th-thiosulphate solution, and I need to change them otherwise the chemical will make my skin peel. I have another pair.’ Delicately he fished inside a jacket pocket and removed a folded pair of white gloves which he handed to Sherlock. ‘Perhaps you could hold these for me for a moment.’
Sherlock took the gloves and watched as Dodgson peeled the wet gloves from his hands and dropped them on the grass.
His hands were mottled black and blue, as if badly bruised.
He saw the direction Sherlock was looking, and winced. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Yes. Exciting though this new science of photography is, there is a d-d-downside. The light-sensitive silver nitrate solution that is used to coat the glass p-p-plates before they are put into the camera do tend to discolour the skin. It is a price we pay for experimentation, and for art.’
‘I’ve seen something similar before,’ Sherlock said quietly. ‘I knew a man named Arrhenius who drank silver solution as a way to ward off disease. His skin was discoloured as well, but from the inside out, not the outside in.’
‘And was he protected from d-d-disease?’ Dodgson asked with interest, taking the pristine white gloves from Sherlock and slipping them on.
‘He thought so.’
‘Then let us hope that the silver nitrate has the same effect on me.’ He smiled. ‘I must say, I don’t recall having had a c-c-cold since taking up with photography.’
Sherlock glanced towards the tent. ‘When will the plate be ready?’ he asked.
‘We need to let it dry. While it does, let us continue our t-t-tutorials in logic – ah, you thought I had forgotten! Come, walk this way.’
Dodgson led Sherlock away from the tent and the camera, over to a stone wall that projected from the wall of the college itself. ‘This is the garden of the Master of Christ Church College. It is walled all around. If I told you that there was a p-p-pond inside, with fish swimming inside, could you t-t-tell me how large is the p-p-pond?’
Sherlock thought for a moment. ‘Smaller than the area of the garden, obviously. Other than that, I couldn’t say.’ He looked around. There was a door in the wall, a little way away. ‘If that door isn’t locked then I could go inside and look. Otherwise, I suppose I could climb over the wall.’ He checked the nearby buildings, looking for windows that overlooked the garden, but didn’t find any. ‘Apart from that, I’m not sure. Could I ask someone?’
‘No. What if I told you that there was a way of estimating the size of the pond inside without moving from this spot or uttering a word to anyone else?’
Sherlock considered. ‘I would believe you, but I wouldn’t know how to begin.’
Dodgson bent and picked a stone up from the ground. He handed it to Sherlock. ‘Here, throw this st-st-stone over the wall.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I am sure. Throw it.’
‘But it’s the Master’s garden!’
‘He won’t mind. I’m always throwing st-st-stones into it.’
Sherlock looked dubiously at Dodgson. ‘Well, if you’re sure.’
‘Trust me. Throw the stone.’
>
Not without some qualms, Sherlock threw the stone as hard as he could. It sailed over the wall and into the garden. Moments later he heard a clattering sound as it hit some paving, or a statue, or something else hard.
‘Very good. Now throw another one. Aim at a different place in the garden.’
Sherlock picked up another stone and threw it, this time aiming more for the centre of the garden. A half-second after the stone vanished, he heard a splash as it hit water.
‘Perfect! Now another.’
‘Are you absolutely sure this is all right?’
‘I am absolutely sure. Now, let us say that you throw one hundred st-st-stones, all aimed in slightly different directions but all landing inside the garden. Let us also say that thirty-three of the stones make a splashing sound when they l-l-land. The rest either hit stone, in which we hear an impact, or they hit earth or vegetation, in which case we hear n-n-nothing. What can we deduce from this information?’
It was as if a light had come on inside Sherlock’s head, illuminating something that had been there all along but which he had never been aware of. ‘It would indicate that the pond is one third the size of the garden. All we then have to do is to measure the size of the garden from outside, and we will know the size of the pond!’
‘Precisely, and we don’t have to move from this spot to do it. That is an example of logical deduction from a set of evidence.’ He bent and picked up a third stone. ‘Now, again! Let’s complete the experiment.’
Sherlock chucked the stone, aiming this time for a point about two-thirds of the way along the garden’s length. This time he heard a clink as the stone hit some pottery, followed by a bellowing shout of ‘Dodgson – is that you again? Dash it all, man, I’ve warned you about this before!’
‘Ah,’ Dodgson said, ‘he’s in the garden. That’s unfortunate.’ He thought for a second. ‘The lesson is over. You run, and I’ll hide in the tent. Same time in t-t-two days?’
Without waiting for an answer, he dashed towards the tent and dived inside. His feet stuck out of the flap.
Sherlock heard someone throwing bolts inside the door that led to the garden. He ran as fast as he could, back towards the college, before the person coming out could see his face. He was laughing all the way.
Mycroft’s telegram, when it arrived, was rather less terse than Sherlock’s had been. Partly, Sherlock assumed, that was because Mycroft did not find it easy to be miserly with his words, and partly also because he was never miserly with his money. He would rather pay more to be completely understood than pay less and risk ambiguity.
Dear Sherlock. One of my agents waited at the address, which is a small house occupied by a former police constable, until the package arrived. My agent watched through a window as the ex-constable took the box inside and unwrapped it. Later he emerged, took a box – perhaps the same one – to a post office and sent it back to Oxford. Agent says that the wrapping looked quote different unquote, but cannot say how. The address is Gresham Lodge, Wolvercote, Oxon. ‘Coals to Newcastle’ is an appropriate phrase here. I would be fascinated to hear what is going on. Write soonest. Your loving brother, Mycroft.
Sherlock read the telegram in the dining room of Mrs McCrery’s house. He had a plate of toast in front of him, and a glass of fresh apple juice. He read it again, just to make sure that he hadn’t missed anything. The box had been sent back to Oxford? Why bother? Why did the thief not just take it to Gresham Lodge himself? It would save a lot of time, and the risk that the package might get lost in the post, as some of them did.
Mycroft’s mention of the old phrase ‘taking coals to Newcastle’ was entirely appropriate. Newcastle was a major centre for coal production in England. Taking coals there would be pointless; just as pointless as sending a package from Oxford to London and then back to Oxford again. What was the point?
Of course! He almost hit himself in the centre of his forehead, but stopped himself just in time. It was obvious! The thief had been hired by someone in Oxford who wanted to remain anonymous. They got the thief to send the body parts to an address in London. That way, the only information the thief had was the London connection. The ex-police constable in London then rewrapped the box and sent it to the person in Oxford who was central to everything, but all the ex-constable knew was the address in Oxford – not what was in the box. The two critical bits of information – the address of the person in Oxford who was running all this and the fact that they were interested in fresh body parts – never existed together. It was very simple, and very clever!
What to do now? It was obvious – Sherlock had to investigate the address in Wolvercote. If he did it quickly, he might even be able to see the package being redelivered.
He headed down to the canal to meet Matty, and quickly updated his friend on what had happened. Matty grasped the logic immediately. ‘This bloke is clever,’ he said. ‘’E’s very careful about coverin’ ’is tracks. He’s a real thinker, like you are.’
They set out after lunch. Wolvercote was a way away, and so they borrowed the same cart that Matty had used to help move Sherlock’s luggage a week or so ago. There was something about the journey that Sherlock found familiar, and he realized after a while that they were travelling parallel to the path of the canal out of Oxford. He recognized some of the villages they went through, and even stretches of forest.
One of the larger villages near their goal had a small post office. Sherlock went inside and asked about how often the post was delivered around there. The postmistress was suspicious of him at first, but he got her talking and soon they were chatting like old friends. She told him that the area covered by her delivery boys was so large that there was only one delivery and collection a day, and that the boys hadn’t left for that day’s round yet because they were still waiting for the delivery to the post office to take place. That was exactly what Sherlock had wanted to hear.
As they neared their goal, Sherlock began to get the strangest feeling that he knew where they were going. As it turned out, he was right.
‘Gresham Lodge’ was a large house set in its own grounds. The wall around the grounds was too large to see over. Although the gates were padlocked, the house could be seen through its bars. Sherlock had seen it before. Once had been when he was on the barge, travelling towards Oxford with Matty. The second time had been when he was wandering around the local area, trying to get to grips with its geography. This was the house with the strange look to it, the house that gave the impression of being slightly twisted even though every line of its construction was straight and every angle square; the house that looked like it was being seen through the bottom of a glass bottle. Looking at it now gave Sherlock a slight headache.
‘We’ve seen this place before,’ Matty said. His voice was quiet. ‘We was on the barge.’
‘That’s right,’ Sherlock said. He didn’t mention the massive, oddly shaped figure on the roof that time. Matty hadn’t seen it, and Sherlock didn’t want to worry him any more than he already was. Neither did he mention having come this way a few days later and having seen a man with a scarred hand going inside in a carriage.
‘It still looks strange,’ Matty observed. ‘Even from this angle.’ He looked around, making a quick mental calculation. ‘The canal must be on the other side of it.’
‘It is,’ Sherlock confirmed.
‘An’ this is it? You sure?’
Sherlock reached up and pushed some ivy away from a pale stone set into the gatepost. Carved into the stone were the words ‘Gresham Lodge’. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘this is it.’
‘A boy can hope,’ Matty murmured. ‘Tell me we’re not goin’ inside.’
‘Not right away,’ Sherlock replied. ‘We need to set watch – see when the post turns up. If the parcel isn’t delivered this time around then we just come back tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, until it is.’
‘This investigatin’ lark – it’s not the most fun thing in the world, is it?’
&nb
sp; Sherlock smiled slightly. ‘Depends on how seriously you take it.’
A few feet from the gates Sherlock noticed a large iron box attached to brackets in the wall. It was a post box. It had a slot in it, presumably for letters, and a door with a lock that must be for parcels. The postman would, presumably, have a key so that he could unlock the box and then lock it again. A small metal sign was attached to the box by means of a hinged rod. It took Sherlock only a few seconds to work out that it was a signal to the postman that there were letters in the box for him to take away. If the flag was up then the postman could unlock the door, regardless of whether he had any parcels or not, and take the letters. If the flag was down then, if he just had letters, he could post them through the slot and move on. Quite an elegant system.
He looked around. The edge of the forest was just across the road. There was plenty of cover there that he and Matty could exploit.
Together they drove the cart down the road and off into a space between trees where it would be hidden from the view of the road and from who wasn’t specifically looking for it. They tied the horse to a tree within reach of sufficient grass and went back to the lodge. Finding a relatively comfortable position on the lowest branches of an old oak, they settled down to wait.
CHAPTER EIGHT
For Sherlock – and, he guessed, for Matty – it was a rerun of the watch they had made at the mortuary. It was just as dull, just as mentally numbing. Once another cart went down the road, and a boy went past on a bicycle, but that was it.
The sun wasn’t visible from where the two of them sat. They were both on the thickest lower branches of the old oak tree, with their backs against the trunk, but they could plot the sun’s progress by the way the shadows shifted on the road between the forest and the gates of the lodge. Minutes and then hours slowly marched past. Ants from a nearby nest investigated these newcomers to the forest. Sherlock felt them tickling his legs as they climbed on to him from the tree, and tracked their progress as the tickling sensation moved up his body. After a while the ants grew bored of him, presumably because he wasn’t an obvious source of sugar, and moved on. To Matty, probably, judging by the muffled ‘What the – get off me, you little vermin!’ that Sherlock heard.
