The Belgian and The Beekeeper

by Peter Guttridge

  Sherlock Holmes threw up his hands.

  “Poiret – you expect me to remember?”

  “Then perhaps you can remember the name of this wife? Non? Very well. By September 1887, Mrs Watson is back at her mother’s house and Watson is back in Baker Street. Have he and Mrs Watson divorced? Because if not how can he state, a month later, that he will be marrying in a few weeks? Is he a bigamist? If so, who is this new fiancée? Does he think better of this next marriage? Probably, because before Christmas has arrived he’s living with you in Baker Street again, with no reference to a wife, existing or cast aside. I am confused.”

  Dr Watson glowered at the Frenchman. Sherlock Holmes watched his friend.

  “The case of A Scandal in Bohemia starts on 20 March 1888. Watson makes it clear that he is married at the time. But to whom? Miss Mary Morstan? Impossible - he has not met her yet. He meets her only in September 1888 when she comes to you with the mystery of the Sign of the Four.”

  Dr Watson had risen from his seat.

  “Would you care to stand, Monsewer Whoever You Are?”

  “No. I am quite confortable, thank you.”

  “Your comfort was not the reason I asked.”

  “I know.”

  “I wanted to give you an opportunity to defend yourself.”

  “I know.”

  “Because I am about to punch you on the nose.”

  “If not worse,” Poiret said, apparently unperturbed by the figure hulking over him. “But the reason you would do that makes you suspect. It would be much easier if you just told us about your marriages – or liaisons if you prefer that term.”

  “I prefer no term.”

  “That is as well.” Poiret pointed at Dr Watson. “But still you must tell us.”

  Dr Watson appealed to Sherlock Holmes.

  “Holmes, it is true that my love life has been somewhat tangled but what has that to do with this wealth I am supposed to possess?”

  “Yes, Poiret, perhaps we can stick to that point.”

  “The two are inextricably linked,” Poiret said. “But very well. Monsieur Holmes, what do you recall of the case of The Sign of the Four?”

  “Without access to my notes? Very little. Miss Morstan came to us because she had been asked to a mysterious meeting. A story unfolded involving a great treasure stolen during the Indian Mutiny by an ex-indigo planter called Jonathan Small and three Sikhs.” Holmes paused and glanced out of the window at the members of the Indian army milling below. “Ah. I see a glimmer of light.”

  “It will burn more brightly in just a moment. Please, continue.”

  “These four murdered a merchant for the treasure in the old fort at Agra. They were convicted of the crime and sent to the Andaman Islands penal colony. Small offered two warders – Major Sholto and Captain Morstan – a share of the treasure in return for his freedom. Sholto took the treasure for himself. Morstan followed him back to England. He disappeared without trace. Eventually Small escaped with the help of a pygmy. This odd couple came to England in pursuit of the treasure. Sholto was dead by now but the pygmy killed one of his sons – and Watson and I shot the pygmy in a chase on the river after they’d stolen the treasure.”

  “What happened to Small?”

  Watson interrupted.

  “What is the point of this? Small was imprisoned then transferred to Bedlam where he lived out the rest of his miserable existence among other insane wretches.”

  “He went to Bedlam?” Sherlock Holmes said. “I didn’t know that.”

  “How is it that you know, Dr Watson?”

  Watson sighed.

  “Because the authorities notified Holmes but, as usual, he ignored their correspondence. I read and filed it. Now, if that is all –“

  “What happened to the treasure, Monsieur Holmes?”

  There was a shift of atmosphere in the room. Holmes and Watson exchanged glances.

  “I-I don’t know,” Sherlock Holmes said after a moment. “It was lost, wasn’t it?”

  Poiret touched his mustachios.

  “According to Watson’s account, during a chase down the river Thames – the one in which the pygmy fired a lethal dart that, thankfully, missed both of you – Jonathan Small threw it all into the water, though he retained the chest. You only discovered what he had done when the chest was opened. The fact it was empty made it possible for Watson to declare his feelings for Miss Morstan. The treasure was rightly hers via her father and he would have felt unable to propose marriage to an heiress as his motives might have been questioned.”

  “You are on thin ice, sir,” Dr Watson said.

  “You recall, Monsieur Holmes, the passion with which Small declared that if he could not have the treasure for which he had suffered so much then nobody would?”

  “My memory is not what it was,” Sherlock Holmes said, “but I believe I do remember that.”

  Poiret addressed Dr Watson.

  “I assume you did marry Miss Morstan. In your account of The Sign of the Four you state that you were engaged. And briefly after there is mention of your wife – although Mary’s name does not cross anyone’s lips ever again in all of your writings about Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Darling Mary,” Dr Watson said, then fiercely: “I don’t care what country you are from - tell me plainly, if you can, what it is you want from me or get out.”

  “I think it is more a matter of what I can give you,” Poiret replied equably. “Your life is threatened because you stole the wealth you have. You must make recompense.”

  “I stole nothing!” Dr Watson was vehement.

  Sherlock Holmes stood.

  “I think I see your hypothesis, Poirot –“

  “Poiret –“

  “Of course. You are suggesting that your Mr Adlam and those baleful Sepoys believe that Watson somehow has the Agra treasure. They feel they have a claim on it. I can hypothesise why the Indians might but as yet I can see no link with Mr Adlam.”

  “I stole nothing,” Dr Watson repeated.

  “Mr Holmes, you were not present when the iron box was opened.”

  “I have no clear recollection.”

  “Let me refer you to Dr Watson’s own account in The Sign of the Four. It is most suggestive. In it he notes that you gave chase to Small down the Thames in a police launch that could scarcely keep up with his boat, the Aurora, the fastest on the river. During that chase none of you noticed Small throwing valuables overboard.”

  “That is not suggestive,” Sherlock Holmes said. “We were being bounced around on choppy waters and he was some way ahead of us.”

  “I understand. You were in the company of several police officers led by Athelney Jones – who you refer to as an imbecile but also as tenacious as a lobster.”

  “The two are not mutually exclusive,” Sherlock Holmes said.

  “Indeed. Having captured Small – his lethal companion, Tonga, was shot by you both and went overboard – Athelney Jones landed you, Watson, at Vauxhall Bridge with the iron treasure-box. He had agreed you might take it to show to its rightful owner, Mary Morstan, in Lower Camberwell before taking it to Baker Street.”

  “In the company of a police inspector. A bluff, genial fellow.”

  “Yes, Jones was conscious of your valuable charge – conscious too that what he was doing was irregular but that he had agreed to it and must keep his word.”

  “Go on, Poiret,” Holmes murmured, standing in the French windows but watching his friend.

  “You drove to Mrs Cecil Forrester’s house – Miss Morstan lived with her - in fifteen minutes. Mrs Forrester was out but you were shown in to Miss Morstan in the drawing room. You had the box with you. You told her the treasure within should be divided between her and Thaddeus Sholto. A couple of hundred thousand each. The annuity of ten thousand pounds that would provide would make her, you told her, one of the richest young ladies in England.”

  “I recall that evening clearly,” Watson said, gazing calmly at the French detective. “The
only treasure I gained was my wife.”

  “As you have written most sentimentally. The box, you will recall, was Benares metal-work. There was in the front a thick and broad hasp, wrought in the image of a Buddha – though why a Buddha when the box had belonged to a Sikh rajah I am unclear. Small had tossed the key in the Thames.”

  “I used a poker to open it,” Dr Watson said.

  “And it was empty.”

  “It was.”

  “Vraiment. Yet everyone had commented on the weight of the box. “

  “I’m sure I covered that in my narrative.”

  “Most comprehensively. You said the iron work was two thirds of an inch thick all round. You said of the box that it was massive. You said it was well-made. You said it was solid.”

  “It was all those things.”

  “You also said that the inspector – the bluff, genial one – was not with you when you opened the box. He had remained in the cab. “

  “I stated that quite openly.”

  “You did – you pointed out how patient he was since it was ‘a weary time’ before you rejoined him. He was disappointed at the empty box since it was worth a tenner to Sam Brown and him – the reward. You reassured him that the wealthy Thaddeus Sholto would provide that reward. And what of you, Monsieur Holmes, waiting at Baker Street?”

  “I recall very little,” Holmes said from the window. “Athelney Jones was disappointed but I believe he blamed Small.”

  “And because the Good Doctor was the Good Doctor nobody thought to question his story that, alone with Miss Morstan, he opened the box and it was empty. Clever man that he was, he moved attention away from that by announcing his engagement to Miss Morstan. Keeping the policeman waiting in the hansom would not be questioned because, after all, he was with the woman he had just proposed to – how indelicate it would have been to ask what had taken him so long.”

  Dr Watson got up from behind his desk. Sherlock Holmes stepped over and put his hand on his shoulder.

  “Watson –“

  Poiret looked up at both of them, unperturbed.

  “It is time for you to come clean, Dr Watson – is that the right expression? Come clean? – about what really happened between you, Miss Morstan and that most heavy iron-chest in Upper Camberwell on that long-ago night.”

  Chapter Ten

  The Vicar of Ormond Sacker

  The aged preacher hobbled into the White Horse at Ditchling later that day. He leaned his stick against the counter and gripped its lip with both hands.

  “A pint of your finest, if you please, landlord.”

  “That would be Harveys, your reverend. Lewes-brewed.”

  “I look forward to it,” the vicar said, plucking at his bushy side-whiskers.

  As the barman was pouring he could not conceal his curiosity at the sight of this unfamiliar clergyman.

  “You visiting the Reverend Patcham at the church?”

  The preacher glanced through the window at the Saxon church on the embankment across the narrow road. He shook his head.

  “I am not.”

  “You here to see the church itself? Some fine wall-paintings in there.”

  Another shake of the head.

  “I am not.”

  “You here to investigate them heathen doings on the Downs?” a voice asked from the nook by the fire, blazing despite the warmth of the day.

  The vicar turned to see the source of the question. A ruddy-faced man with enormous side-whiskers so close to meeting under his chin he might as well have worn a beard. He was wearing a long blue shepherd’s smock.

  “I am not. I am the Reverend Sherrinford and I am on leave from my living in the ancient East Anglian village of Ormond Sacker. Of what heathen doings do you speak?”

  “Heathenism in England’s green and pleasant land. Black savages bashing the brains of their own in then setting fire to him in full public view.”

  “You saw this with your own eyes?”

  “I did not but I trust those that did as they are my own daughters and never yet have told a lie. And now their innocent imaginations blighted by the horrible ritual they stumbled upon. Their lives in danger too, I wouldn’t doubt, for seeing what was obviously not intended for any other’s eyes.”

  “Ah,” the vicar said, laying down a few coins on the counter and taking a sip of his beer. He turned to the barman. “Excellent.”

  The barman nodded acknowledgement.

  “So are you?” the man by the fire said. “Are you here for that?”

  “Leave the vicar alone to enjoy his beer, Albert.”

  “Aye, it’s all right for you to say. You haven’t had to send your daughters away to your brother at Plumpton for safe-keeping. And just as they are most sorely needed.”

  “Have their lives been threatened?” the vicar said, turning to face the shepherd.

  “Not in so many words but if a man is so vicious and beastly he will bash in the head of a man already dead, what might he do to the living? Especially when they’re yet children.”

  The vicar raised his chin and gave a little smile.

  “Were some of these men in uniform?”

  “Aye. Most were. But we know from the Hun’s behaviour in Belgium a man can wear a uniform and still be a barbarian.”

  “I think you have no need to worry. These are soldiers from our Indian Army serving gallantly on the Western Front.”

  “We’re a long way from the Western Front, though the racket from the biggest guns might still frighten my sheep.”

  “But surely you’ve heard that the wounded of this army are billeted in make-shift hospitals throughout Brighton, most specifically at the Royal Pavilion?”

  “And how would I hear that?”

  “It’s been in all the newspapers. I understand their arrival last year caused quite a sensation.”

  “What use have I for newspapers? The Bible has the only words I’m interested in and I’m happy enough to hear them from the vicar’s pulpit each Sunday since I can neither read nor write.”

  “And you didn’t see the crowds gathered around the Pavilion most days to attempt conversation with Indian heroes?”

  “How would I see that? I have a farm to run. I’ve lived on that farm boy and man for nigh on fifty years and I’ve never once set foot in yon strumpet town.”

  “But Brighton is only an hour away from these Downs on foot, less by horse or carriage. You’ve never been?”

  “I’ve seen no need.”

  “But you can see the sea glittering in the sun from the top of the Downs – have you never wished to go down and plunge into it?”

  “And drown since I know not how to swim? I think not.”

  “No curiosity about it?”

  “What’s the value of curiosity? Is it going to put meat in my family’s mouths? A curious mind is a restless mind and a restless mind is vulnerable to Satan’s wiles. The Dark One loves a restless mind – I would have thought you’d know that.”

  “Yet the Lord loves nay-sayers and those who think for themselves.”

  The shepherd gave the preacher a suspicious look. The vicar hurried on:

  “But as to those Indian soldiers your children saw on the Downs and the ceremony they undertook, there is no need to be concerned. They were of the Sikh religion and that is the way they show their respect for their dead.”

  “By bashing their brains in and setting them alight?”

  “Public cremation is a way of honouring the dead person. Burning the body allows the freshly disembodied spirit to feel detached and help it pass to the other world. They do it with great reverence – and, indeed, sadness for the passing of a loved one.”

  “And bashing the brains in?”

  “Done with equal reverence. They believe the life of man constitutes ten elements, nine of which cease their functions at death. The tenth continues for three days after death, causing the body to swell if it remains unhurt. The seat of this, the tenth element, is in the skull. Smashing the skull sets
it free.”

  The preacher took another pull on his beer.

  “There are many other parts to the ritual. For instance, the hands are placed beneath the body so that it cannot be cruel in a future life.” He put his glass down. “I beg to assure you that your daughters are under no threat.”

  “You think so, do you?” The shepherd had a sly look on his face. “Then what were three of them devils doing lurking up on the Downs again the other day?”

  “How lurking?”

  “I was missing a couple of Southdowns. They’d wandered off. I found them in a little dip. They’d tumbled down and got stuck. I was down there sweet-talking them and I heard these heathens jabbering on the track above me. I hid and when they’d gone past I followed them from a distance, thinking they were in search of another victim. They weren’t in uniform, they were in their own kind of smocks and leggings.”

  “Where did they go?” the vicar asked casually.

  “You wouldn’t know him as you’re just visiting but there’s an odd chap lives in a cottage a couple of miles from my farm. Keeps to himself. An outsider. Been here no more than ten or twelve years and he disappeared for a couple of those. He’s a beekeeper, though I doubt he makes enough honey to cover more than a couple of slices of bread.”

  “Indeed,” the vicar said, putting his glass down on the counter. “And his house was their destination?”

  “That it was. And they were up to no good. As they neared the house they got to creeping.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, I feared they meant the man harm and I was wondering what to do when they spotted a soldier loitering in the garden. Well, not loitering exactly. He seemed to be practising his golf swing – not that he had a club in his hand.

  “And then we all could hear the sound of voices coming out of the house through the door and the open window. They waited some while but it seemed like the conversation wasn’t going to end any time soon –“

  “What was the subject of the conversation?” the vicar said, taking a large sup of his beer.

  “Oh I couldn’t hear that, sir. Just the undertone of voices, as you might say. Sounded cordial enough – weren’t no argument or anything.”