Sherlock Holmes and the Dead Boer at Scotney Castle

by Tim Symonds

  ‘Watson, listen to this. ‘LATE EXTRA. From our local Correspondent by wire’.’

  The report commenced with the curiously garbled sub-heading ‘Well-Dressed Unclad Body Discovered At Lamberhurst’ and continued, ‘To-day, at around 4pm near the village of Lamberhurst, on the Kent and Sussex border in the Valley of the River Bewl, in the undertaking of his rounds, James Webster, woodman on the Scotney Castle Estate, came across the unclad body of a man lying mostly submerged in the wagon pond, off the old Carriage Drive at Kilndown Wood, believed drowned. Age is estimated around 50. Gentlemen’s clothes of a good quality and condition lay at a short departure from the verge, neatly piled, and topped by a crimson hat like a bowler out of a Mexican sombrero, bearing a hatband made from the skin of a yellow and brown spiny snake. Death is estimated to have taken place within the previous hour as the arms and legs were still supple. It was noticeable the dead man’s chest was unusually seared by the sun in a triangle to a point some five inches above the navel, with similar ruddiness of arms right to the armpit, and the legs from above the calf to just below the knee. Exact details are few but no traces of struggle or nearby disturbance have been reported. A man in this garb was seen standing at the edge of the wagon pond in the middle of the afternoon, around three o’ clock, by Lord Edward Fusey, owner of the Estate, whose house overlooks the valley from the top of a nearby hill. While suicide is a possibility, the empty pockets of the clothing and weathered condition of the skin incline the Lamberhurst constable to agree with Lord Fusey’s suggestion the body is most likely that of a passing tramp, who, having stolen a gentleman’s clothing, felt obliged to bathe in the wagon pond and consequently drowned.’’

  Turning to me with an air of excitement, Holmes demanded, ‘Well, Watson, what do you make of it?’

  ‘What do you make of it, Holmes?’ I parried, staring at him. He was on a hot scent but as yet I could not in the least imagine in what direction his inferences were leading him. Without responding to my own query, he returned to the Standard and continued, ‘‘A pair of shiny dark glasses was discovered between finger and thumb, but identifying papers or other memoranda are lacking. The old smugglers’ track is a favoured route of indigents and vagabonds overnighting in the castle ruins on their way to London. No further action is expected’.’

  Holmes lowered the newspaper.

  ‘‘The body is most likely that of a passing tramp?’’ he repeated. ‘How could this be?’

  He raised the paper again and continued reading out loud. ‘The probability remains that the deceased has been the victim of an unfortunate accident which should at the very least have the effect of calling the attention of the Estate owner to the parlous condition of the wagon pond verges’.

  Once more Holmes lowered the newspaper, frowning. ‘Again, Watson, I ask, what do you make of it?’

  ‘Apart from the sensationalistic prose, Holmes, what should I make of it?’ I replied evasively. ‘Any self-inflicted death or accident is a sad event.’

  He cocked his head. ‘’Self-inflicted death or accident’ you have already decided?’ he demanded. ‘Is it not obvious to you this matter strikes rather deeper than you think?’

  He looked back at the report, his brow still furrowed. He muttered, ‘It makes no sense.’

  Even now I find it hard to divine what confluence of suspicions in Holmes’ keen and penetrating mind drew him so quickly to conclude something sinister lay behind the unfortunate victim’s death. It was as though lead had turned to mercury. His eyes positively gleamed with excitement against the startlingly white skin of his face.

  ‘Watson, my instinct tells me there is something here afoot. Surely you agree there are points about the case which promise to make it unique?’

  ‘I am sure I do agree, Holmes,’ I responded. ‘But we have a train to catch.’

  ‘What was it Siviter told us about the pond at Scotney Castle?’

  ‘That it replicates the wagon pond in Constable’s painting?’

  ‘That is its provenance - but what of its condition?’

  ‘As it was dug only the other day to anticipate Pevensey’s arrival, I would deduce...’

  ‘Yes, Watson, well done - the Standard reports a dangerous condition of the verge. This clearly cannot be. In conversation with this special correspondent why has Lord Fusey failed to exculpate himself by bringing this fact to the man’s attention - why so?’

  He paused, still maintaining a perplexed expression. Then, ‘It seems to have been a very deliberate affair... yet if this is foul play... murdered men are seldom stripped of clothing.’

  I was thunderstruck at so sudden a reference to murder. ‘Holmes,’ I protested, ‘you have just read out the constable’s conclusion - an indigent may have wanted to bathe...’

  Holmes turned to me sharply. ‘You look a little bewildered, Watson. I tell you, there is the dark shadow of an unusual crime behind this occurrence which a singular chance has placed in our hands.’

  ‘Holmes!’ I returned, unable to hide my incredulity. ‘I am inclined to think...’

  ‘I should do so,’ my companion retorted, quickly vexed when challenged in an assumption. ‘Do you deny the report has given us a set of very suggestive facts?’

  I fell back into an unsettled silence. I had had no time to give any thought at all to such facts as we were offered. Were we so quickly deep in some weighty quest, I wondered?

  Again Holmes plunged back into the Standard.

  ‘Watson, you do not need a double lens or a measuring-tape to examine such simple facts. They are not laid down in faded pencil-writing in this report. There are several most instructive points about it, not less than seven, whose value we can only test by further inquiry. Even four such points should have you reaching for your service revolver.’

  I was keen to reach our lodgings as soon as possible. ‘Holmes, may I humbly ask for even one of these instructive points which indicates anything other than the suicide or accidental death of an itinerant wanderer, other than a mistaken description of the verges?’ I requested, allowing a hint of sarcasm to creep into my tone.

  ‘Answer this, my dear friend, are knee-breeches the summer uniform of England’s tramps?’

  ‘Why, no, Holmes,’ I responded. ‘I would hardly think...’

  ‘Why else would it say his legs were ‘unusually seared by the sun... from above the calf to just below the knee’? Surely vagrants are more accustomed to corduroy trousers tied beneath the knee with string!’

  There had been more than one occasion where Holmes just as swiftly concluded we were in the starter’s blocks of a desperate crime, only to withdraw his claim on a further moment’s cogitation. I felt the lack of the service revolver Holmes had mentioned. Our considerable speaker’s fee in large bank-notes was tucked in my coat. I would not breathe freely until I climbed our stairs and locked the money in the bureau of my dressing-room.

  I glanced up at the station clock. Perhaps upon a moment’s consideration Holmes would discover an irredeemable flaw, one which would put the kibosh on his quick conclusion. I hoped we would soon be aboard the evening train whirling back to Charing Cross and thence by brougham to Baker Street and home.

  My companion’s face stayed buried in the Standard.

  ‘’A pair of shiny dark glasses was discovered between finger and thumb, but identifying papers or other memoranda are lacking what do you make of that?’ He looked up sharply. ‘This further point cannot have escaped your Machiavellian intellect? Watson, there is a thread here which we have not yet grasped, and which might lead us through the tangle.’

  I replied brusquely, resentful at the gibe. ‘I cannot answer about identifying papers, but perhaps the dark glasses were in a pocket when the clothing was stolen?’

  I turned from him, attempting his trick of feigning lack of interest, to no effect.

 
‘If a tramp came across a pair of dark glasses in stolen clothing why would he retain them?’ Holmes demanded. ‘How likely are they to have been his own purchase or a gift? If it were theft, rightful ownership could speedily be established by the confluence of costly clothing in good condition and these dark glasses. The authorities would lay an unanswerable charge at his door and throw him in prison.’

  ‘Holmes,’ I broke in anxiously, ‘the train will be here at any moment.’

  Ignoring my intervention, Holmes shot a further pensive look at the article. ‘What then of the pockets, Watson? The fact they are completely empty?’

  ‘Holmes,’ I said impatiently. ‘Should they contain a milliner’s account for thirty-seven pounds fifteen made out by Madame Lesurier of Bond Street? Or the stolen plans of a revolutionary submarine? What of the pockets, Holmes, beyond the fact they are empty?’

  ‘It is their very emptiness which should engage you. Even vagabonds would transfer two inches of tallow candle and wax-vestas when they shed their former skin.’

  He threw me a determined look. ‘No! I declare the wit of the fox is here. This is the most finished piece of blackguardism since the days of the Borgias. All the indications seem to me to point in that direction. I repeat, there is the smack of a great crime in the air.’

  Dismayed by his hyperbole I stood forlorn at his side at a country railway station. Little did I imagine how Holmes’ deduction would eventually be realised, how strange and sinister this new development would be.

  ‘’Skin of a yellow and brown spiny snake...’?’ he continued, with an incredulous look. ‘Watson, how many spiny snakes have you encountered in your travels? Did you trample on them in the Himalayas or the Khyber Pass? Did these same snakes sneak inside your blanket by night and scratch you? I warrant not! Sea urchins, sand dollars, basket stars which make up the Echinodermata have such spines, not snakes, but such creatures are scarcely of utility for a hatband, though...’

  After a short reflective pause he added, ‘... not from Asia or South America but South Africa.’

  He swung round to face me. He spoke in a sharp tone. ‘Watson, we must waste no time. There are withers to be wrung! An unclad corpse and a pile of clothing topped by this hat is no accident. It is an object-letter as cunning and deadly as any we have had to decipher. I say that in the history of crime, even if we include the Brixton Mystery, there has seldom been a tragedy which presented stranger features.’

  Before I could remonstrate further, with a quick gesture he beckoned the newspaper boy, still close, to approach him. ‘Is there a jitney or post-chaise in the village?’ he asked.

  Keen to make a penny, the boy replied, pointing to the yard at a vehicle even smaller than a Governess cart, ‘Sir, I have a dog-cart for my papers.’

  ‘So you do,’ Holmes responded quite amiably. ‘No doubt you are a veritable jehu, but I do not wish for a mettlesome dog. We would rather a four-in-hand.’

  ‘There’s a sociable on hire driven by a pair of spanking greys. It stands in the village at the ready.’ The boy added, ‘though quite a departure from here.’

  ‘See this,’ said Holmes, holding up a sixpence. ‘Put quicksilver in your shoes and bring us the swift four-seater.’

  ‘And if he’s here within the quarter-hour?’ the boy responded.

  ‘Then ninepence,’ Holmes responded with a short laugh.

  The young vendor threw the last of his newspapers into the clap-trap conveyance and set off, the dog galloping like a small race-horse sensing the tape not far ahead. Standing at my comrade’s side, puzzled and unnerved, it seemed to me Holmes’ eyes had scarcely glanced over the paragraphs before we were to spring into a cab and rattle off.

  I persisted. ‘Look here, Holmes, this is all surmise. You confessed at the time we were engaged in solving the disappearance of Silver Blaze that the provisional theories you formed from the newspaper reports were entirely erroneous. You cannot cry murder at every turn. Why, the constable stated...’

  Holmes’ quelling expression caused me to falter and fall silent.

  ‘Watson, do you have a more favourable hypothesis? The constable, you say? Was it not a constable in ‘the Hound’ who sent the good doctor and all others down a blind by his interpretation? Was it not the same Peeler who concluded the deceased tip-toed in the dark rather than running for his very life? ‘The constable stated’! Is it not obvious we have a Peeler whose head is more for ornament than utility, a man more accustomed to using his muscles rather than his wits? He will state whatever is put into his brain by the Lord of the Manor, Fusey. I surmise, you say, but at least it covers all the facts. When new facts come to our knowledge which cannot be covered by my assumption, it will be time enough to reconsider. No, Watson, and again no! I say this is at the very least a suspicious death.’

  ‘A suspicious death?’ I responded more boldly, a hint of sarcasm returning to my voice. ‘And at the hand of anyone in particular, have you already decided?’

  Holmes flared at my dogged manner. His pale cheeks began to flush. ‘You must take this seriously, Doctor! I am not about to make a joke! There is much that is still obscure though I have quite made up my mind on the principal facts. I say there is a great driving-power at the back of this business.’

  For a further moment he stared at me angrily.

  ‘As you ask, Watson, I shall tell you. I believe this man’s death points unerringly at the very denizens we have just been instructing in our work.’

  ‘The Kipling League?’ I stammered in disbelief, horrified at this unexpected accusation.

  ’The very ones,’ Holmes affirmed. He smiled grimly at my dismay. ‘Watson, you must join me in a double-game against a most powerful criminal syndicate.’

  ‘Holmes,’ I gasped, ‘by habit I trust to your judgment though less often to your discretion. If murder this is - and it is still only a matter of the most extraordinary speculation - it is exceptionally outré and sensational. I have heard your reasons and while I am intrigued, I am quite unconvinced by your deductions. The most repellent man of our acquaintance, even a Professor Moriarty, should not be killed and left naked in a wagon pond. If murder it is, the most grotesque of human minds must lie behind it. Yet you lay the authorship of such a crime upon the Kipling League whose members are pre-eminent in the whole of London!’

  I stared at him with grave concern. ‘Holmes, have you become unbalanced? The members of the Kipling League are not wax figures of Voltaire at Madame Tussaud’s. Has too much Medlar jelly left you demented? Am I mistaken in believing you are the author of a famous saying taught to young detectives at Scotland Yard, that the temptation to form premature theories upon insufficient data is the bane of our profession?’

  Even as I uttered these heated words, I knew all argument was folly. The subtle eagerness, the suggestion of tension in the brightened eyes, the briskness of his manner, all showed me the game was in play. My companion’s face wore the grim and determined look of Nelson’s admirals at Trafalgar on sight of No. 16 battle signal.

  Holmes responded, ‘Good old Watson! Ever obsequious to the rich and powerful! As you say, it is grotesque, and, yes, they are indeed pre-eminent names, yet I say there is more to this League than a Lodge of the Ancient Order of Freemen. They play a deep game! The very second I adopted the hypothesis everything seems to fit - or at least nothing so far appears to traverse it - otherwise it is as random a death as ever was reported.’

  I answered with considerable understatement, ‘Holmes, they will be much surprised at our return.’

  ‘I had not realised the faculty of deduction to be so contagious, Watson,’ he returned bitingly. Heedless of my concern, he went on, ‘It is certain those who killed him have had the co-operation of Lord Fusey. His sighting of a tramp - in mid-afternoon, so he states - has already placed a certainty in the local bobby’s mind both to the calling of the so
ul which once inhabited this corpse and the hour of death - and will no doubt in the coroner’s too. At most he will record an open verdict.’

  He stared back at the Standard. ‘Yet,’ he went on in a lower voice, ‘why invent a tramp?’

  He held the newspaper towards me. ‘Watson, a further point for you to examine - this hat. What do you make of ‘a bowler out of a Mexican sombrero’?’

  ‘I make nothing of it, Holmes.’

  ‘What if we suggest ’bowler’ means a high crown, and the Standard’s use of ‘sombrero’ denotes the width of brim, what then?’

  ‘Why, it would be a hat crafted for the Tropics!’

  ‘Bravo, my friend. That is the deduction I would draw, which I am about to augment and solidify.’

  Dread seeped through my every vein. I was being swept along like a coracle on a choppy sea. I knew from bitter experience my courage to protest against so forceful a person as my comrade-in-arms would be found deeply wanting.

  Holmes pushed the newspaper to me, turning away to peer across the station yard for a sight of the sociable, the vehicle favoured by Edward as Prince of Wales.

  Returning his glance to me he continued, ‘Watson, we are spies in an enemy’s country. We must make great haste. You referred to my ability to track the Lanchester by its tyres. I am sure that noble carriage was used to convey the corpse from Crick’s End to Scotney Castle. By now Fusey’s men will have smoothed every inch of the Kilndown track with Pevensey’s Ratel brushes. They will have scumbled madly around the wagon pond. As to my reference to the clay and chalk-dust on our late arrivals’ shoes, those shoes will have had the boot boy’s fullest attention. Your reference to my small trick of divining the trade of the artisan - or hardships of the tramp - by the callosities of his knees or fore-finger and thumb may cause some consternation. There is no account in the Standard of any hard and repetitive work or callouses on the corpse from sleeping rough, despite the visibility of its every joint and palm.’