by Tim Symonds
‘Wait here, Watson,’ Holmes instructed.
Over the years Holmes had leapt many a gate. Even at a middling age Holmes maintained his india-rubber ability un-sapped. In some awe of this, Inspector Lestrade of the Yard with momentary wit said Holmes would vault a six-bar gate even when it was open wide. By contrast, cumulative injuries since my days playing rugby, and especially the hardships and wounds of Afghanistan, had left me less athletic.
Holmes turned to the gate like a good horse given cry and rein, and cleared it in a twinkling. A magnificent dog-fox, startled by the human arrival, made a dash for the long grass cover of the Wild Garden. A warm breeze blew from the westward. I stood alone, waiting, heart in mouth, as I had waited in the midst of many a case.
Above the nearby Park Wood the clouds had passed on. The young white moon was visible in a darkling sky. The Sussex Weald at night is other-worldly, full of mystery and sounds. Under the veiled moon, on this late-spring evening, it was possible to conjure in the mind wolves standing eyes a-glowing, howling amid bluebells and wood anemones. Among them, men wearing tunics with a belt, like a Norfolk jacket, over which was thrown a plaid fastened with a brooch, dwelt in the woods, as charcoal-makers or herding swine and small-horned cattle, or tending crops of wheat and barley. The pale moonlight cast deep shadows, turning everyday shapes into menacing creatures from a nether world. The very ground felt treacherous underfoot. My nerves were a-tingle by the time Holmes returned, presaged by his high-pitched whistle in imitation of a woodcock performing its roding ceremony.
‘Watson, the moon makes this route too visible. There are two doors ajar, including Dudeney’s, and several windows with lights behind them. We shall take the lane and enter unseen from the Mill-pond side.’
In case of need we agreed a civil greeting and a plausible excuse, based on a missed train, a love of moonlight walks and a keen interest in the countryside by night, but unremarked we soon stepped over the turbine with its 14-inch pipe and came once more to the entrance to the mill. Inside the unbolted door Holmes pushed aside his dust-coat to reach into a pocket. He withdrew the stump of a red wax candle, passing it to me with the murmured words ‘Please light it only when we reach the attic.’
We clambered in darkness up the narrow stairs, the familiar smell of old wood and rotted oats arriving at our nostrils. Within seconds we regained our former places in the attic. The speed and angle of our ascent left me puffing and blowing like a spavined horse, my old leg wound aching. Tense with excitement, Holmes ordered, ‘Watson, first the canvas on the easel. Light the candle and bring it to the painting of the wagon pond.’
I did as Holmes bid, stepping forward cautiously on the uneven boards. My foot knocked against a discarded bottle, spilling its last contents upon the dust layering the floor. The smell of linseed oil rose in the damp air. Holmes joined me at the easel. In the candle’s light his forefinger darted at the flamboyant stranger by the wagon pond. ‘Look, Watson, see the figure’s shadow, painted in so clearly? Note its direction. It indicates the sun was just west of south. And gauge its length - there can be no doubt it confirms the stranger was standing there at three o’ clock, sworn so by Pevensey and Fusey if required.’
‘Holmes,’ I began, in a hoarse whisper, ‘of itself, this does not...’
‘Offer proof of a conspiracy to murder, I agree! That you shall now have, Watson, did I not give you my word? Come with the candle to the canvas on the floor - my doubting Thomas, you and Scotland Yard are about to have your proof!’
I feel Holmes’ triumphant anticipation even now. Even now I hear the ringing timbre of his voice.
I trod with caution across the uncertain floor and took hold of the canvas, lifting it to the level of our eyes.
‘This is truly to be my coup de maître, Watson,’ my comrade exulted, bending his head towards the canvas. ‘Note well, Ruth to my Naomi! Now we can lay an account of the case before Inspector Gregson in its due order. Have your pencil at the ready! You shall have...‘
His words came to a disbelieving stop. A cry at once furious and anguished burst from him. Finally he managed a half-gasp: ‘Look! Watson, they have done us in!’
I swivelled the canvas towards me. Stare as I might, I could see nothing in the canvas to trigger so dramatic a reaction.
‘They have done us in,’ Holmes repeated in a strangulated voice. ‘The cunning devils! I fear our train has escaped the rails and is now sliding across the landscape. Their alibi is complete. Dudeney did not take Pevensey to the railway station. Siviter kept him back. Now I know for certain they killed the Boer but we can never prove it.’
Violently Holmes turned towards me. ‘I have been a farcical blunderer! I have committed the most serious error of my career!’
His agonised gaze returned to the canvas. ‘My display of interest in Pevensey’s work... Watson, had we been on a case, I would have kept my cogitations to myself. Unintended, my amiable enquiries caused them to conduct an examination of the paintings. They discovered the very oversight I required intact to make a convincing case to Gregory and Lestrade.’
I stood in helpless silence, uncertain how to respond. After a moment, to my surprise, Holmes spoke in a vibrant voice rather than the former strangulated whisper.
‘It’s all right, Watson,’ he reassured me. ‘They will know we are here. I warrant there is no likelihood they will come to meet us.’
‘But Holmes,’ I began, bewildered, staring at the canvas. ‘What is there in this painting which...’
My companion pointed to a spot on the inner edge of the moat. His outstretched finger looked gnarled in the flickering light. ‘Look most carefully, Watson. Earlier, you swore thrice you had no recollection of a figure in this painting - surely now you see your error. Surely you see the figure of the Boer!’
Panic swept over me. Am I in a nightmare, I wondered, such a nightmare as I suffered after engaging the forces of Ayub Khan at the battle of Maiwand where I was badly wounded? Would I soon awaken at break of day in a fevered sweat? Would I soon be able to dash my face and head in cold water to dispel the magic-lantern illusions of the night?
‘I’m sorry, Holmes,’ I croaked. ‘Where you indicate is just a patch of grass beneath an open sky. I see no Boer.’
Holmes kept his insistent finger close to the moat. ‘Nevertheless,’ he continued, ‘you note the shadow on the bank as of a human standing there, its length and direction indicating early evening?’
I peered again, bringing the guttering candle ever closer to the canvas.
‘No, Holmes,’ I responded at last. ‘I see no human shadow, only that of the overhanging bushes.’
‘Then what of the Boer’s reflection in the water?’ Holmes pursued, increasing my agitation with each successive question. ‘Surely you discern his reflection! ’
Again I peered where his shaking finger pointed.
I said firmly, in a low but determined voice, ‘Holmes, once more, may I make myself entirely clear - there is no human shadow on the bank nor any such reflection on the surface of the moat.’
‘That’s the utter damnation of it!’ my companion cried out. ‘On this very canvas this afternoon there was both shadow on the ground and dappled reflection on the surface of the water as of a man standing there - but no figure. I recall still with what meticulous detail he painted the hat’s reflection. Clearly he had seen it at close hand. Even now I can visualise the daubs of dark purples, browns and viridescence. He must have painted in the shadow and reflection last evening, waiting to complete the oil today.’
At Holmes’ words, a work of art flooded into my mind. In the foreground, below fine trees, a reflection on the surface of a stream picked up the passers-by.
‘That’s why you shouted Daubigny just now!’ I burst out.
My companion nodded.
‘Then what...?’ I began.
‘Immediately on our departure, they returned Pevensey to this attic to examine both canvases for any possible blunder.’
He pulled the painting to him and held it close to his face, sniffing at its surface.
‘Poppyseed oil - there you have it!’ he cried hoarsely, pushing the canvas back at me. ‘Poppyseed oil is not the best medium to over-paint a reflection, let alone a shadow, but it was to hand. It is much too light, yet it has served its purpose.’
Tentatively I dabbed a finger at the spot Holmes indicated. A thin line on the moat’s edge, perhaps half as long again as the shadow of the stranger by the wagon pond was tacky to my touch. In the gloom I looked back at my companion’s contorted face.
Holmes’ words spilled out. ‘The presence of a human shadow and reflection awaiting a figure made me the more surprised when Pevensey told us he completed this canvas yesterday. I took it he was in a rush to finish his commissions. He would not trouble himself to paint a figure in or, otherwise, to paint out the shadow and reflection. Now I realise it was an oversight brought on by panic. That omission was what the Sungazers discovered even as we were returning here from Etchingham. The shadow and the reflection were painted out not half an hour ago. Like the sign-post to Wood’s Corner, once painted in, the figure would become the gnomon of a sundial, its shadow of a length and direction signalling six o’ clock, precisely the time Fusey would swear he saw our Boer standing by the moat had we boarded the three-ten train as commanded.’ He added despairingly, ‘To be ‘found by the woodman in the exercise of his rounds’ at seven.’
In the silence of the Sussex night I could hear Holmes’ gold watch ticking the seconds by. A grudging admiration was taking hold on him.
‘Watson, the mechanisms employed in this extraordinary crime are quite unique. This is the work of immensely skilful men. The wagon pond was a far less satisfactory choice than the moat and indeed makes little sense - adults seldom drown in waters a mere eighteen inches deep. The Sungazers had no option once it was known we were on our way aboard the earlier train - they needed warmer water to stew the corpse. They calculated - correctly - they could rely on the influence of Fusey’s powerful testimony on the local constable. In return, Fusey was happy to take a little disapprobation over the condition of the wagon pond verges.’
Holmes turned to me. ‘Watson, it took a mind capable of the most remarkable daring to accommodate such a last-minute change of plan.’
‘Siviter’s?’
‘I have no doubt.’
‘And it succeeded.’
‘It did. Did he not write ‘You must not blink when the wounded tiger comes running at you’?’
After a minute’s heavy silence, Holmes continued.
‘The cunning dogs have truly covered their tracks.’ He pointed to the moat. ‘That empty space awaiting a human figure... that was the dog that didn’t bark. Had they not been pushed by my innocent enquiries... had I not related The Adventure of Silver Blaze... they may not have uncovered Pevensey’s lazy blunder. The painting you hold would have led to the unravelling of murder.’
I was disturbed to hear Holmes’ voice taking on a quite sinister drawl, rather high-pitched as though, like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, he was transmogrifying into an alter ego. Seeing him in the gloomy attic with his head thrown back and eyes half-closed, a chill of fear came over me. I stood uncertain how to react, holding fast to the canvas and candle. I was about to speak some consolatory word, even congratulate him on taking such a violent setback so well, when - not for the only time on that extraordinary day - something took place which will forever stay in my memory. His face now utterly distorted, Holmes shrieked ‘Am I to stand here and chuckle at my own defeat? Put candle to canvas, Watson! Do it now!’
Realising even as he spoke I would refuse to perform this sensational act, Holmes closed with me like a Fury, seizing me with convulsive strength. The ink- and chemical-stained hands able to display an extraordinary delicacy of touch with his experiments now seemed to belong to a Madagascar python. My legs began to sag. Within an instant a hand able to bend a steel poker crushed my fingers, pressing the candle against the canvas. Tiny bluish flames sprang like genies from the surface, licking at my hand. The candle dropped. Spilt linseed oil on the thick dust and tinder-dry wood-shavings caught fire. Within seconds the roar of the burning floorboards sounded preternaturally loud.
We made our exit. Despite the stiffness in my leg from the Jezzail’s bullet, I scrambled at speed down the narrow stairs, staying on the very heels of my fleet companion. Once outside, at the small bridge leading to the Wild Garden, for an unconscionable time Holmes stopped to stare in silence at Crick’s End. I waited anxiously. Even though the wind had slackened and the night air was cooling fast, I worried that the Aberdeen terriers would catch our scent.
At Holmes’ whispered command we re-commenced a withdrawal, as despairing as Napoleon on the retreat from Moscow, passing a statue of Hephaestus, blacksmith of the gods, half-hidden by the Brazilian gunnera, the plant’s leaves huge and sinister in the half-moon’s light. At the side-gate to the pitted lane I paused to look back through high trees. The mill was a blaze of light. Flames had forced their way through the ancient roof, stabbing into the heavens, like pink feathers from a monstrous flamingo. Alerted by the acrid smell of smoke drifting across open windows and the loud crackle of burning timber, Siviter’s staff were running out into the open. Soon the garden would be alive with people. At any second I expected to hear the deep, booming voice of a scenthound on our trail, hunting us as such hounds hunt jackals in Afghanistan.
Ahead of me by some yards, I could see the gleam of the side-lights of our waiting carriage. Holmes was already there. He gave a rapid order to our cabman. Driven by my and Holmes’ exhortation, quite as though he had no eye for the flames nor ear for the urgent voices of half a dozen Crick’s End staff, our loyal driver used his whip. The carriage surged forward.
We Journey Home To Baker Street
The greys clattered at a long trot through a lane so narrow it would have been reckless at a busier time of day. The carriage’s side-lights blazed, brushing against the hedges as the carriage swayed and jolted. I listened for the sound of a motorised barouche roaring behind us. We came to the small bridge over the Dudwell River. The horses pulled left and began the steep climb to the ridge on which Burrish’s ancient church stood. The atmosphere in the cab was dark beyond all measure. Twice I tried to question my companion but he remained silent, lost in unhappy reflection. The quiet air of command, the incisive voice pitched like the string of a high-strung violin, the subtle, sly, dry humour, all were for the moment vanquished.
‘Holmes,’ I asked, hoping to lighten his mood. ‘What do you say - a year in Pentonville for burning down a mill listed in the Domesday Book? Six months’ hard labour for each canvas painted by the President of the Royal Academy?’
Again he made no reply. He was sunk in profound thought, and hardly opened his mouth except to emit a succession of deep sighs. The horses, blowing hard, climbed the last of the steep slope to the village. Once upon the ridge they set off at a goodly clatter round the curve towards the Straight Mile, as eager as I to be home.
After several minutes I determined by insistent interrogation to make my companion break the oppressive silence.
‘Holmes,’ I both begged and invited, ‘I am at a loss on several parts of these most extraordinary events. I would be most grateful if you would answer my questions if, as I believe, we are safely away.’
At last Holmes lifted a hand. ‘I see from your determined expression you will brook no denial. Ask on,’ he replied gloomily.
Before he could sink back into the state of intense and silent thought from which he had emerged, I said, ‘As your Boswell, I implore you, my dear friend, to commence at the very beginning - from the moment you chose to purchase the Evening London Standard at the railway station, an act which i
n itself I found unusual.’
‘I shall do as you wish, Watson, although I shall require you to put your pencil down. I do not want it in writing that we have had to flee in such ignominy.’
This was followed with the despairing words, ‘Could the fates be turning their faces against me, Watson?’
Once he began to speak, to my intense relief my friend composed himself and commenced a most extraordinary speculation.
‘You assume I purchased the newspaper on a whim. Not so. It was one more link in a chain which lengthened throughout the day. From the moment of my return from the Poplar Dock this morning there was a disturbance in the air. A labourer fresh from the countryside with eyes that harked of Hades, standing on the paving within constant sight of our door, purporting to sell hares but refusing would-be clients. The reply-paid telegram from the President of the Kipling League with its imperious tone, delivered by special messenger like a lettre de cachet. The importance they placed on getting me aboard the three-ten train this same afternoon - the further inducement of a hamper and a bottle of fine wine ordered for delivery to a Pullman car. The light rain which we were told was keeping his guests indoors...’
At this Holmes laughed scornfully. ‘Would such top guns from many an elephant or tiger-hunting expedition in the Monsoon seasons be so shy of an English mist? The post-script on Pevensey, the reluctant way he was referred to... What was the precise wording, Watson, do you recall?’
I pulled the telegram from my pocket. ‘‘And Pevensey hopes to introduce himself’.’
I looked up at Holmes. ‘Why mention him at all if by then, as you insist, he had such a major part to play in the plot you ascribe to them?’
‘There was always a chance we might encounter him. Failing to mention a guest of his standing would have been questionable. It was not Pevensey but his paintings they needed. They were the first line of defence in their alibi. In any case, I believe his presence was sheer serendipity. Siviter may have commissioned the painting of a Constable some weeks ago, anticipating the coming of summer. I am certain he had no second oil in mind at the time.’
