by Tim Symonds
I glanced around. With the imminent approach of the London train, the long narrow platform bustled with day-trippers carrying baskets filled with the produce and medicines of the fields.
‘Holmes,’ I scolded, with a coldness born of angst, ‘a charge of assassination is furiously indiscreet so openly proclaimed in a public place not a league from Crick’s End.’
Holmes swung round abruptly, noting for the first time the growing assembly behind us. Beckoning me to follow in his wake, he strode along the platform towards the far, deserted end. I followed ill at ease. At the very least we must return the handsome stipend if we stood before them on their portico with so extraordinary a charge. Walking at Holmes’ back I had time to recall a not-to-be-forgotten moment shortly after we took up quarters on Baker Street. It was at the start of a case which culminated most unexpectedly on Powys Mountain in distant Wales. At first I put my reservations to him quietly, then, as now, in incremental steps more forcibly as he refused to accommodate my argument and concern. Later, I realised I should have recognised in the threatening, deep-lined brow one of Nature’s plainest danger-signals. Finally, unwisely, I angrily spoke of his ‘overheated intuition’. Holmes’ lanky body stiffened. A terrible change came over his face as he heard my words. His features turned perfectly livid. A small spot of crimson flared up on his cheek. It was some seconds before he could get out a single word and when he spoke it emitted in a high unnatural tone. With a coruscating eye, he shouted, ‘Watson, keep to the forefront of your mind, I am not Captain of a rusty seven-knot tramp-steamer with thirteen crew, so do not treat me so! I am Nimrod, Son of Cush, a mighty hunter before the Lord!’
I preferred to avoid any repeat of this experience on a railway platform in Sussex crowded with leave-takers and travellers.
As we moved along the platform a searing memory from the earliest days of our association brought an embarrassed flush to my cheeks. A hansom had deposited me at The Guards in time for lunch. Over my meal I read a report in The Speaker which stirred me to a frenzy. Authorities had arrested a titled lady in the East End of London and marched her off to gaol, accusing her of being the leader of a gang shipping Welsh women into sexual slavery, drugging them with an exotic chemical and placing them aboard the S.S. Caledonia heading for a port in Palestine. From there they would be transported overland by camel to Al-Hillah, a town in Mesopotamia near ancient Babylon, thence onward to a jobbing life as daughters of Eve along the incense routes of Arabia Felix, forced nightly to dance from the vagina.
Incensed by this account and certain of the titled lady’s innocence I left The Guards and sped to our Baker Street rooms where I read the account aloud to Holmes seated at the fire-place, decanter at his side. He listened with growing agitation at my recital. At the conclusion he half-rose swiftly to his feet, declaring with flashing eyes, ‘Watson, this case grows on me. We have a good week’s work before us. It quite certainly contains points of national interest! I say there are dark complications here and important State secrets at serious risk. The police may be complicit in a deadly plot. Not one word further! Retrieve your six-shooter from Mrs. Hudson, load it and slip it in your Norfolk jacket. We must at once repair to the Mile End Road and save this woman from a dreadful fate. I fear the worst. She is a pearl of rare variety. Why else do you suppose she would be dressed (Holmes pointed at The Speaker) ‘in fine, thick silk material interwoven with gold threads’ known as samite? That is the evening wear of the English aristocrat, yet in her bag she hides a yard of shantung and a Muslim shift of coquelicot-coloured silk with white diamond spots like India handkerchiefs, whose true purpose we can only guess at. While you retrieve your revolver and a dozen cartridges - and your stoutest oak cudgel - I must work out which route to take. No, I am already clear on this - we shall take the Euston Road to Pentonville, and then to the Angel, City Road, Eastern Street, Commercial Street to the Aldgate. Watson, I say fly as the very wind, we must leave at once!’
With so urgent an injunction ringing in my ears I rushed into a Norfolk jacket, yanking on my outdoor coat and hat even as I ran into Mrs. Hudson’s rooms. I thrust a handful of cartridges into a pocket while I unrolled my Army revolver from its oil-cloth. The same revolver remained my weapon of choice even though on my departure from Afghanistan the Amir took me to his armoury and begged me to select a weapon from a cornucopia - gold-mounted Remington repeating rifles, breech-loading pistols, silver mounted revolvers, Brown-besses, military sniders, even rook rifles and a stick gun.
As it transpired, the woman was a Drury Lane actress, a lady titled only in Oscar Wilde’s play, the part requiring a ready change of costly clothes. For a small donation to the Policeman’s Pension Fund, the arrest and charge had been induced by a theatrical publicity agent. I was half-way down the stairs en route to Whitechapel before I realised my companion was far from treading on my heels, obliging on me an abject and humiliating return to the sitting-room to Holmes’ loudest guffaws.
The episode was a turning point in my relationship with Holmes. Through the cruelty of his laughter whatever confidence I may have had in my ability to become a Consulting Detective like Holmes evaporated like ice under an Indian sun.
On the railway platform at Etchingham I tried again. ‘Holmes, I believe I have made it clear I take this death at Scotney Park to be a sad occurrence but not of sinister significance,’ adding in an attempt to defuse his ire, ‘however, no further cautionary word will proceed from my lips if you will kindly offer me a fuller explanation.’
My companion nodded. ‘Watson, read out once more the facts of this discovery. I emphasise, the facts alone will be quite sufficient. From small facts can great inferences be made. The detail can be added when we have wrung them from the withers of Siviter and his gang.’
I winced. It was becoming clear to me I should humour him until despite the black fear now seeping through my veins like the ink of the octopus I could devise some strategy to bundle him aboard the train.
‘Well,’ I began, attentive to even the smallest discordant clue to counter his charge of murder, ‘what of the matter of the neat pile of clothing at the wagon pond’s edge?’
‘A pile of clothing in good order, yes...meaning what?’
‘Someone must have placed them there.’
‘Watson, you scintillate. Of course someone placed them there, but someone other than their owner, I suspect, thus giving what impression?’
Seeing my unwillingness to attempt an answer Holmes continued. ‘Why, as you imply, that entry into the water was under the wearer’s own command, what else? So, Watson, what further point do you elicit from this pile of clothing - what of the consequence for the corpse?’
‘It was unclad.’
‘Indeed. You have one more specimen of the grotesque and tragic to add to your collection. We must ask why. Why was the body stripped of clothing, but first, another vital matter. On which estate is this wagon pond located? Answer me, Watson, stay with me on this!’
‘As it says, Holmes. At Scotney Castle.’
‘Which has which other body of water, in addition to the wagon pond?’
‘As we have never visited Lord Fusey’s estate...’
‘Now, Watson, make an effort - throw your mind back! What of Pevensey’s second canvas? Do you recall the subject? A ruined castle and...?’
‘Ah, yes, a moat.’ I stared at him. ‘What of that?’
‘Good, Watson. A moat. Fed by a small stream as I recall. We have a body of water in each painting on the Fuseys’ estate. In the Constable a wagon pond and in the other a moat.’ He stopped to peer closely at me. ‘Do you not find that a matter of quite extraordinary interest?’
‘Of some small interest, Holmes, perhaps,’ I responded, frowning, ‘but hardly enough to spark a riot among an Old Bailey jury. If Siviter commissioned Pevensey to paint a wagon pond at the Fuseys’ estate in homage to a Constable, would it not
be natural to ...’
Holmes broke in, ‘To pair it with a moat? Indeed, but do not let that convenience detract from its significance. I do not believe it can be so readily explained. It begs a question for which as yet I myself have no answer - why did he commission the second oil? Surely an homage to Constable is an homage to Constable? Why not let it stand alone? Why gild the lily? And why so late - hardly a day or two ago? Now let us proceed to the oils themselves... I recall the lively brilliance of the palette knife but you have a subtler eye. Which colours did he employ for the surface of the wagon pond?’
‘Holmes,’ I protested,’ why on Earth does it matter which colours...’
Holmes’ impatience with my obstruction turned to dudgeon.
‘Watson,’ he returned, his voice rising sharply, ‘if you would indulge me the while!’
‘The higher and warmer notes,’ I hastened in response.
‘Please be precise. Which colours? There is a point to my enquiry.’
‘Light tones - yellows, oranges and reds.’
‘Which means?’
‘Very picturesque?’ I hazarded.
‘Indeed picturesque, Watson. Painterly even. But I mean the use of such a palette - it would indicate what? What of the water’s depth?’
‘Shallow, Holmes,’ I replied, bewildered. ‘Those are colours for shallow water,’ adding, with a tinge of sarcasm, ‘as befits a wagon pond.’
‘How shallow, Watson?’ Holmes pursued. ‘Come, you are a military man! You must have driven many a wagon into a pond to soak the wheels.’
‘Eighteen inches at most, less at the edges,’ I replied, still mystified, ‘though I remember in the Hindu Kush we nearly...’
‘And the second oil? What of the surface of the moat, what colours did Pevensey employ?’
‘Umber or burnt sienna and dark purple for the reflection of the castle brick...’ at which again my companion broke back impatiently. ‘Watson! Not the reflection of the ruin - the reflection of the sky!’
‘The darker blues, as I recall. Yes, mostly Stone Cobalt blue.’
‘Which indicates?’
‘Much deeper water.’
At this my companion’s voice lost its assured tone. ‘Much deeper,’ he repeated. He shook his head, muttering ‘It makes no sense...’ several times.
Then, ‘Watson, at which hour do you suppose death occurred?’
‘According to the Standard around three o’ clock - sometime between Lord Fusey’s sighting and the woodman’s discovery of the corpse at four.’
‘And you have no reason to dispute that?’
‘I have no evidence to assume otherwise, no.’
‘Nor to oppose outright the constable’s presumption?’
‘Neither. It seems a perfectly reasonable conclusion.’
‘As you say,’ Holmes agreed. ‘And where were we at that very hour?’
‘Holmes!’ I cried out in amazement. ‘You well know!’
‘I insist you tell me, Watson!’
‘Why, we were in the parlour at Crick’s End.’
‘Doing what, precisely?’
‘I was on my feet giving my introduction...’
‘Precision, Watson. It was I who was on my feet. And who was I addressing?
‘Our host Siviter and Viscount Van Beers.’
‘Again, Watson, it is time you developed an affection for detail. Were we not joined by Alfred Weit and Sir Julius at three o’clock precisely? If you recall, Siviter told us it was so.’
‘Holmes, entirely coincidental, surely?’
‘I consider their arrival at that exact hour a matter of great consequence, by no means mere coincidence.’
If the publisher of The Strand had not recently told me my readers’ taste was changing and I should take heed in the extravagance of my portrayals, I would have described Holmes’ eyes as ‘glittering like Egypt’s deadly Coastal cobra’.
Holmes gestured. ‘Please return to the newspaper report. What else does it offer a Consulting Detective?’
‘’The face, arms and legs, and upper torso burnt by the sun’.’ I looked up. ‘That is certainly odd, Holmes, I agree - ‘burnt’ must be an exaggeration.’
‘Bravo, Watson!’ Holmes responded. ‘As you say, even though a tramp is painfully exposed to the vagaries of England’s weather, this summer has hardly begun.’
He stared thoughtfully at the newspaper in my hand. ‘Since when do our tramps take time off to winter in the Tropics? What else could it mean, weathered legs from just above the calf to just below the knee?’
By now the build-up of passengers was encroaching upon us. Holmes ushered me further down the platform. ‘Watson, let us return to the pile of clothing. Besides being neatly piled what other detail are we offered?’
With whatever confidence I had gained from the day’s commission melting, I ventured, ‘The pile was topped by a crimson hat.’
‘Topped by a crimson hat, which indicates...?’
Haplessly I offered, ‘The owner has a taste for unusual head ware?’
‘You are on your very best form, Watson,’ Holmes responded tartly. ‘Certainly it is not a hat from the Ponting Brothers or Underwood and Sons of the Camberwell Road. I mean what of the placement of this object of attire? Let me offer you a hint, ‘topped by a crimson hat’.’
‘Placed where it would catch the eye?’
‘Yes, not cast upon the ground beside the pile of clothing but placed with deliberation. In addition to the crimson colour and width of brim, distinguished by the owner’s choice of...?’
‘Snake-skin hatband?’
‘Certainly not a hatband from a common viper - and not a snake at all, but a...?’
‘Lizard?’ I hazarded.
‘Excellent! A hatband struck from the majestic spiny lizard, a reptile inhabiting the scrub forest and dry grassland south of the Crocodile River, West of Swaziland and Zululand and the Portuguese possessions, and East of the regions of the Bechwana and Bangwaketsi peoples...’ at which he paused to draw breath, looking at me triumphantly, ‘which is where precisely, Watson? No, don’t worry, you are an India hand, I shall answer for you. The Transvaal!’
Without further ado, my companion commenced to supply me with the most striking illustration of those powers for which he is justly famed, a fine example of the contingent value of the obscure.
‘The yellow-to-brown colouration, the distinct whorled scalation and spiny tail evident from the description tell us at once it is the mighty Sungazer lizard! You see, Watson,’ he rushed on. ‘Southern Africa is rich in reptiles, but like Darwin’s finches they are closely confined to their different regions. This hatband is from a giant girdled lizard, the largest of the cordylids, which lives nowhere else but in underground burrows in the boulder fields and rocky outcrops of the highveld of the northern Free-state and southern Transvaal - where the goldmines are.’
Holmes stopped abruptly, drawing breath. Then, ‘Watson, tell me, you still see no connection to Crick’s End?’
‘None whatsoever,’ I replied stubbornly, growing hot with anxiety. I dreaded the cab’s imminent arrival. ‘Except the tenuous connection you draw from a hatband - what does it matter if the band is made from a girdled lizard from the Transvaal or Gnathostomata out of time, trawled up from some deep ocean? Surely we have examined this enough! As to murder at the hands of the Kipling League, I fear - I hope - you are pulling my leg.’
‘Tut, man, do you not yet agree the man was a victim of murder?’
‘I do not, Holmes, but as you so manifestly do, do you have any identity in mind?’
‘I am certain it will prove to be the body of a Boer.’
With a choking laugh I exclaimed, ‘A Boer? Here in the depths of Sussex? Holmes, this goes too far! It is the most absurd.
.. if this corpse could sit up and scratch his head, he would say ‘I have never been in Africa in my life, so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Busybody Holmes!’!’
‘Watson,’ Holmes broke back angrily, ‘I keep begging you to quit the habit of a lifetime, you must try your best to think!’
He paused. In a milder tone he asked, ‘I have another question for you. Where have you seen that hat before - is the description not oddly similar to one we have only very recently seen?’
‘To the best of my recollection,’ I responded, ‘the only hats I have seen today except your travelling cap and my topper and Siviter’s wideawake and Sir Julius’ fedora is Dudeney’s leather cap, and that mostly from the rear...’
Even as I spoke these words an image flashed before my eyes, the flamboyant figure in Pevensey’s reprise of a Constable.
‘By the living Jingo! The figure by the wagon pond,’ I exclaimed.
‘Watson,’ Holmes responded in high delight. ‘An Age of Miracles is upon us - well done!’
‘But Holmes,’ I returned, with sudden exhilaration, sensing a flaw, ‘Pevensey was painting at the wagon pond until just after three this afternoon - that I remember Siviter telling us. The inclusion of a figure with such a hat must prove...’
By now my companion was paying me no attention. Yet again his gaze (‘eyes sparkling like a Golconda diamond’) darted across the railway yard for a first sight of the sociable. Ignoring my words, he pulled out a black clay pipe, filled it from a pouch of seal-skin, and set about firing up the last gasp of Abdulla’s Egyptian tobacco provided on an occasional basis from Salmon & Gluckstein of Oxford Street - ‘Largest and Cheapest Tobacconists in the World’.
Despite my deepening anxiety, it intrigued me how Holmes could undergo the most extraordinary metamorphosis from torpor to energy, from the pallid and introspective dreamer so often displayed before me at Baker Street where he will lie for hours or days with a vacant look, hardly speaking, to the alert and hyper-active man on the station platform before me. What combination of chemicals, normally dormant but at a ready manufacture in brain or gland, produced this startling result?
