by Tim Symonds
Holmes sprang up from the marble bench and paced about in uncontrollable agitation, a flush appearing upon his sallow cheeks. ‘To have forever on my mind I could have grasped their deception... Look what other clues I had to hand. I noted Sir Julius had worn a hat too small. The hat marks on his forehead were there for all to see. Were it not for the rain that day he might well have cast it in the Rother or the Dudwell. No well-dressed man resident less than half a mile from Lincoln & Bennett’s would bring a hat to Sussex half a size too small. Further, Watson, I saw at once it was German, probably purchased from the hatter Möckel, though brought into wider fashion by the old Prince of Wales. The moment I read the Standard I should have deduced far faster the hat Sir Julius brought back to Crick’s End had previously perched atop the corpse’s head while his was the one cast with such guile a-top the pile of clothes.’
With reluctant admiration he continued, ‘These Sungazers are not creatures of thin air. They have taught me a lesson I shall not relinquish, Watson. To think I mocked them on our journey to Crick’s End. I called them Late Victorians, relics of a bygone age, purblind Empire Crusaders.’
Holmes looked at me almost accusingly.
‘Just as Moriarty used so many petty criminals to do his dirty work, I am now inclined to believe the young blighter selling papers was in the Sungazers’ pay, a tiny storm petrel of crime. Dudeney could have given him his instructions. I am equally certain Sir Julius and Siviter arranged the Anatolian dish not simply for your delectation but with a purpose, to effect an hour’s delay. How otherwise can you - a greater gourmet than I - explain precisely why our stomachs were invited to digest both medlar jelly and Imam Bayildi? Quite contrary to my first assumption, they wanted us to be met by the late edition of the paper into which their corpse had pushed its way. By then it had become an open challenge - they dared to bat against me at my own game.’
A pause followed.
‘Damnation, Watson, the horror, the utter horror of it all. Those...unspeakable...those...wretched boulevard assassins. They are the skins cast off by vipers. May they be buried at cross-roads with a stake in their heart ... ‘
Then, morosely, ‘It is lucky I have my bees for consolation.’
A further pause. ‘Hanging is too good for them!’ And, ‘Nevertheless, it is worth analysis. Men of their ilk will not go away.’ And, enigmatically, ‘We must bow before the oligarchic laws of Nature.’
He continued in a sombre voice. ‘I have carried with me one memory from our encounter with the Kipling League which may stalk me for ever, like a doppelgänger sprung at me from the very depths of Hell.’
‘Which is?’ I enquired keenly.
‘The dark glasses,’ my comrade responded.
‘The dark glasses?’ I repeated with some incredulity.
Holmes nodded. ‘Even now a shudder runs through my veins.’
’Not your veins, Holmes, surely,’ I demurred. ‘A shudder is more likely to be a muscular reaction.’
He looked at me sternly. ‘I realise your wit must on most occasions have passed me by. Shall we say a shudder runs through my musculature even now when I recall the moment I came to the dark glasses in the newspaper account.’
‘I’m sorry, Holmes,’ I returned, starting a scornful laugh. ‘If I recall the words they were ‘A pair of shiny dark glasses was discovered between finger and thumb’. Hardly anything to shudder at, surely? What of Moriarty’s ruthless lieutenant Colonel Sebastian Moran? Consider how near we were to a dreadful fate at his hands. Now that is something to shudder at. A pair of dark glasses must rest a long way down the list of horrors we have encountered in our long journey together?’
‘It was the cold inhumanity with which they staged the corpse, an arm left jutting above the water so they could pinch the dead thumb and finger around his trade-mark dark glasses, like a Harrods’ window-dresser with a mannequin. Your friend Beerbohm Tree could not have staged it better at the Theatre Royal. They turned the Boche into a speechless, sightless, lifeless signpost. It is the grotesque image which stays with me, not the manner of his death itself. I doubt if von Hofmeyer did the St. Vitus Dance ten minutes before the current killed him, a current lethal but less than would burn the skin.’
Silence fell between us. After a while Holmes added, ‘Sir Julius chose that hatband well. When threatened, the majestic spiny lizard wedges between the rocks and puffs itself up. It becomes impossible to remove.’
Minutes came and went in unbroken silence. The mystery of the dead Boer had reached its conclusion.
Tremulously I took my chance. ‘Holmes, there is one last matter of great concern to me....’
Holmes threw me a disquieted look. ‘My dear friend, please go on.’
‘Is it possible my... my craven fear of the Kipling League, my unwillingness to offer my knowledge of rigor mortis until you put the matter to me directly...’
‘...your reluctance to follow my argument so swiftly assembled at Etchingham railway station?’
‘Yes, Holmes. Exactly that. By that did I...?’
‘...by your obstructive behaviour did you impede a timely resolution of the affair?’
‘That is what I fear greatly, Holmes, yes.’
‘And because of that we face a fearful war against the Hun more surely and much earlier than expected?’
‘Yes, Holmes.’
‘Which may bring about the end of the British Empire?’ Holmes pursued.
‘Holmes,’ I cried despairingly, ‘I fear it may be all my fault!’
‘Watson, be at rest, my old and faithful friend,’ my old comrade chided me. ‘They beat us. Like lizards feasting on a wax worm they swallowed me whole. It was I who provided them with the instructions they needed to defeat me. It was I who taught them how to look for dogs which failed to bark. You have nothing whatsoever to answer to the Court of History, though indeed I do’
I waited a while. Then I said, ‘Thank you, Holmes, but I am not yet done. There is something further I should tell you.’
‘Concerning?’
‘The wagon pond painting.’
‘Do go on, Watson. You have my ear, I can assure you,’ Holmes responded companionably.
‘At the time, as you will certainly remember, I was unwilling to add fuel to your assumptions. I was certain you were determined on the path to professional extinction. I was desperate to save you from yourself. I shall regret one deliberate omission of mine for the rest of my days.’
‘Which omission precisely, may I enquire, Watson?’ Holmes asked, a twinkle in his eye.
‘Perhaps the final clue you needed to make a charge of murder stick,’ I responded.
Holmes raised his eyebrows. He gave me his full attention. ‘Please go on, Watson, this is of especial interest! Do you claim you were privy to a clue which entirely escaped me - and furthermore you kept it hidden? Is this history in the making?’ Mischievously he added, ‘I said at the time you had joined their camp!’
Ignoring these friendly barbs, I continued. ‘You recall the moment Pevensey made his exit from the mill-attic?’
‘Indeed I do.’
‘And how we both approached the canvas on the easel...’
‘I do, most certainly. Go on!’
‘And that I asked Siviter why a human figure had been painted standing by the wagon pond instead of the dog in the Constable?’
‘I remember as if it were this morning. Do continue.’
‘So you will recall his explanation?’
‘Watson, well done! You have picked up at last on my method of interrogation. Why, let me think, I must surely remember... let me see. Ah, yes! Siviter said ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t feel he is at his best painting animals’.’
‘Those were his exact words, Holmes,’ I responded in admiration.
‘What of it, Wat
son? Why do you wear such an unhappy look? Many painters make cats look like bull-terriers.’
‘There is a painting at the Tate which from the day the Gallery opened I and all those interested in medicine repeatedly visit and revere.’
‘Which is?’
‘It is known by the title ‘A Visit to Vediovis’. Venus is consulting the Roman god of healing about a thorn lodged in her foot.’
‘And?’ Holmes queried, looking puzzled.
‘The artist has painted a bowl of luscious fruit at the side of Vediovis...’
‘What of it?’
‘And by this bowl, painted in minute detail with the finest red sable brush, a wondrously life-like dog lies on the floor.’
‘And the painter of this masterly work?’
‘Pevensey.’
‘Damnation!’ Holmes exclaimed, his face darkening. ‘Why did you not confront Siviter with this at the time?’
‘As you said, Holmes,’ I responded, smiling broadly. ‘We were still his guests - nor had we been commissioned to investigate the murder of a Hun.’
‘Touché, Watson, well done!’ Holmes chuckled with excellent grace. The cooler evening air blew from the South-West as we left the courtyard and went inside where Holmes knocked a blaze out of the logs in the grate.
Some twenty minutes later, the sound of bicycle tyres on gravel came through the open window from the courtyard, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Soon afterwards we heard a creaking which could only come from the hinges of the front door. We listened while Tallulah first, then her mistress, welcomed the rider in their different ways.
As in our former days together, Holmes threw me a look of anticipation. ‘A telegram, Watson? What have we? Other than you, only the Foreign Office and the Eastern Department - or Siviter and the Kipling League - know I am here.’
Greatly curious, we rose and went out to the veranda to be met by an excited Mrs. Keppell. Reminiscent of our dear former landlady, she hurried towards Holmes and pushed the telegram at him with a polite bend of the knee. This time, rather than throwing it to me, Holmes pounced forward, taking it swiftly from Mrs. Keppell’s outstretched hand. He withdrew the slip of paper from its envelope and began reading it to himself.
He cast the first of a succession of serious looks in my direction. ‘Watson, it is a private telegram forwarded by our Foreign Office from a foreign potentate, the Sultan Mehmed V Reshad. You will of course know him as the son of Sultan Abdülmecid.’
‘Indeed. What then?’ I responded, looking back and forth from Mrs. Keppell to Holmes, trying to contain a smile at this conspiracy.
‘The Sword of Osman has been stolen!’
‘The Sword of Osman, Holmes?’ I responded, biting a lip.
‘Tut! What is that?’
‘The sword of state used during the coronation ceremony of every sultan,’ he replied, throwing me another serious glance. ‘The sword is named after Osman the First, founder of the Ottoman Dynasty many centuries ago.’
He read further. Another glance was thrown in my direction. ‘Watson, this theft could endanger the Sultanate itself. Clearly it is designed to bring about the collapse of their Empire. Sultan Mehmed V Reshad is the very person we need to woo the Ottomans away from Berlin.’
He looked back at the telegram but continued offering asides gained from his readings on the Ottomans. ‘The girding of the sword of Osman is a vital ceremony which must take place within two weeks of a Sultan’s accession to the throne. The practice started when Osman was girt with the sword of Islam by his mentor and father-in-law Sheik Edebali.’
I listened in growing admiration at my friend’s knowledge and ingenuity as he continued. ‘The fact the emblem by which a Sultan is enthroned consists of a sword is highly symbolic. It shows the office with which he is invested is first and foremost that of a warrior.’
‘My Heavens, Holmes,’ I retorted in insincere amazement. Was this the purest Oscar Wilde or the topsy-turvy world of Gilbert and Sullivan? ‘This is a very serious matter. When does the son of Sultan Abdülmecid wish us to start hunting for the dastardly criminals who have nabbed this sword?’
‘At once, Watson, at once. He invites us to catch the first ship to Constantinople.’
He paused briefly. ‘The Asturias should leave Southampton in one week’s time. She can take us to Smyrna via Civita Vecchia, Malta and Alexandria. From Smyrna we can take a line direct to Constantinople.’
I listened in wonderment at how far his imagination had stretched in putting together so bizarre a tale to console and entertain his guest. When would that stern and eager face break into confessional laughter?
‘And does the Sultan offer us a reward?’ I managed.
He looked back at the telegram. ‘He does. Should we succeed in regaining the Sword our reward will be a belt of diamonds and gold. After our arrival at Karaköy we are ordered to take the carriage to the Topkapi and go immediately to meet a bimbashi waiting for us at the Chamber of Petitions, known by the locals as the Arz Odası, behind the Gate of Felicity. Watson, are you with me on this venture?’
‘Holmes,’ I nodded vigorously, offering a fine smile. ‘I am at your shoulder. A belt of diamonds and gold, you say? I trust for such an occasion you will choose again the Poshteen Long Coat and wear your Order of Saint Stanislaus - and your gold watch? For my part, I shall bring my glossy topper with a new side-feather and collect my service revolver and fifty rounds from Mrs. Hudson’s. You can never be too heavily armed for Ottomans. I shall meet you aboard the Asturias in Southampton Water in six days’ time. Can Mrs. Keppell let the Sultan know we shall require First Class cabins?’
At this we turned and re-entered the farmhouse living-room to partake of Mrs. Keppell’s tea. Through that early-Summer night Holmes and I sat together, once more in perfect amity, and doubly strengthened. He pulled at more than one of his favourite pipes. At one point, in a meditative tone, Holmes said, ‘You know I feel quite sorry for the Prussian in the coming war - there has never been a race of conquerors and killers more savage and resourceful than you English.’
He spoke as though in sympathy and tradition he held England at arm’s length, as if his Celtic origins trumped upbringing and country of birth.
He continued, ‘And you, Watson, in particular, when roused by the fiery speech of some Army colonel or at my behest or that of friends, you are the apotheosis of an Englishman, redolent of all his virtues, vices, inconsistencies and compassion. When I watch you gaze across this Weald I know you would give your life to defend it.’
I flushed up with pleasure at my companion’s words.
That midnight, after a lengthy walk with torches in his woods and fields, we returned to the house where I struck a match on my boot and put it to the fire laid earlier by Mrs. Keppell to ward off the country damp. We watched the ancient hearth blaze up as heartily as in our days in Baker Street, though from the abundant oak, the Weed of Sussex, rather than sea-coal. Together we put together these words as an Addendum to accompany at no extra cost each copy of what a publisher should still call Sherlock Holmes and The Dead Boer at Scotney Castle. In that quiet, low-beamed room in deepest Sussex, I jotted down copious notes which somewhat later, after smoothing and modelling and paring-away, would surely become a chronicle selling in the many hundreds of copies in dozens of countries.
Over time, Holmes would publish his learned bibliography titled The Polyphonic Motets of Lassus and a collection of bee-farming manuals, including two small blue volumes, the alliterative The Hibernation Habits of the Hive and the Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen and the best-seller, Bees Foraging on Distant Landscapes, illustrated in his own hand. In it he deduces how the genus Apis communicates sources of forage to each other, indicating by a prancing figure of eight the compass bearing and distance, an opus which has gained
widespread respect among bee-farmers in New Hebrides and China.
Our friendship restored and the addendum completed, on the next evening I sat with him in the little summer house he himself had built in an open space on his farm, partially shaded by the branches of a Symonds apple-tree sent to him nine years before by an admirer in New Zealand. We perched on two corn-chests with Tallulah stretched between us, while Mrs. Keppell, specially commissioned for the occasion, served us a repast, filling while not extravagant. She surprised me by laying before us two bowls, one containing very shiny black tea and the other scented green, bought from a newly-established shop in Lewes. It was a rare Holmes who drank tea, yet we each imbibed the contents of two cups of the black.
On the morrow, a quick hansom drawn by a dapple-grey cob took me to Lewes. The carriage rocked and swayed as I laughed uncontrollably at Holmes’ kindly effort to cheer me up - like Sindbad we would go on a wondrous voyage, to Constantinople to meet the bimbashi awaiting us at the Chamber of Petitions, tasked with the recovery of the stolen Sword of Osman indeed!
As it was, two weeks later, a powerful windstorm in the Bay of Biscay behind us, Holmes and I sat with the worried Sultan and his advisers in his palace by the wide and beautiful Bosphorus Strait, once more before a table laden with plates of Imam Bayildi followed by Ottoman sweets. A visit to Seraglio Point ensued. From its heights we had a most excellent view to the shores of Scutari, the Sea of Marmara and the Isles of Princes. From where we stood with shining eyes the minarets of the fabled city mingled with sea and shore, light and shade, the softness and the Eastern charm was unequalled anywhere else in the whole world.
We stood transfixed at this Oriental vista. Not far away lay Bulgaria where the knyaz Ferdinand had just declared himself Tsar. That too is a story I itch to publish. There never was nor ever will be a Royal Highness as complex and cunning as Ferdinand Maximilian Karl Leopold Maria of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha-Koháry.
Post-Script
A notice dated 14 June 1904 appeared on an inside page of the Kent & Sussex Courier headed ‘Open Verdict Coroner Rules’. It read, ‘The Kent Coroner has returned an open verdict following the death of a man late last month. A post-mortem was not conducted. The uncovered body whose identity remains unknown was found partly submerged in a wagon pond on the Scotney Castle Estate, near Lamberhurst.’
