Sherlock Holmes and the Dead Boer at Scotney Castle

Holmes Gives Clues To His Deductive Methods

Holmes composed himself for a few seconds, with his lids drooping and fingertips together. Then he began. ‘Gentlemen, high praise indeed when my friend Watson refers to Charles Darwin and your servant Sherlock Holmes in a single breath. The Century which so recently went its way was dominated by the theory of Natural Selection. I can justly claim one notable similarity between Darwin’s work and mine. There is divination in both. In common with Darwin I suffered schooling to every conceivable intent both purposeless - except to tyrants - and worthless for any known profession. The fetters of prejudices from my early education lingered with me for many years. My scholastic career was never filled with promise. Often I was hit over the shins with a wicket. Unlike your literary Master, I was never filled with the joy of literature. Macaulay was not my hero though I was impressed by Edgar Allan Poe. Lack of Greek and Latin or fluency in French and German closed off access to the greater part of Western literature yet a great-uncle decided I should become a poet or author.’ He paused. ‘Though surely it would be a foolish or a less impecunious man who starts a working life by choosing ‘author’ for his profession. I learnt far more of substance and value in my short months in rooms on Montague Street, hard by the British Museum, studying all those branches of science which might make me more efficient than in many years at school or two years at Cambridge and Oxford studying music of the Middle Ages and the derivation of the Celtic language. Darwin and I are confederate in one passion - for the facts. I use facts solely to serve my deductions, while Darwin stewed them to produce his magnificent general laws. He would have had nothing but contempt for the effete conventions and hypocrisies of our Edwardian England compared to the vitalising effect of the ruthless but straightforward life-and-death struggles of Nature.’

Holmes paused. He looked towards Siviter.

‘But to authors close to home. Who has not enjoyed the verses, sketches, skits and stories of our present host, so full of allusion and quotation, as well as those of your League’s namesake, his gift for phrase, the comic intervention, the delight in parody and imitation? Who has not read among Kipling’s works The City Of Evil Countenances, Abaft The Funnel, The Jungle Books - and Kim? Kim o’ the Rishti who went to the River of Healing, a master work of imperialism, the India of the imagination. Who could forget your literary Master’s evocation of Bombay -

Your President’s patriotism is beyond dispute - think of the tales and poems of the British soldier in India. Who has not visited the Mogul Saloon in Drury Lane to hear The Great MacDermott’s rousing rendition of the war song sold to him by Kipling for a guinea? I found his description of Lamaism invaluable. You can never know too much about magic, mysticism and demon worship. I have often addressed a Pathan with ‘May you never be tired’, a courtesy I learnt from a reading of Rudyard Kipling’s works. And might I say, your President and my good friend Watson and I hold to a principle in common - our concern to defend civilisation against brute Nature and the barbarian. One day, when his volcanic voice is stilled, they should name a crater Kipling on the planet Mercury.’

I nodded slowly with pleasure at these words. It was clever of Holmes to pay homage to the source from which he had learned the Pathan greeting.

Holmes’ disquisition was interrupted by the sound of voices on the stairs. A modest tattoo was followed by the door opening. The first and tumultuous entry was at floor-board level, a bubbling cauldron of excited, noisy Aberdeen terriers wriggling and rotating like giant brindle caterpillars. They were followed by two aristocratic men around five-and-fifty years of age. Sir Julius Wernher and Alfred Weit had arrived. Both men had been born in Leipzig but chose Queen over Kaiser and settled in England. Both stood about the middle height, dark, with foreign features, attired in the livery of their class, at once recognisable from the window of the Pathé Frères shop near Regent Circus filled with photographs of the celebrities of the day. They were termed, in the popular press, ‘Gold Bugs’. Together they held the greatest financial power in the world, their immense fortunes from determined activity in the Kimberley diamond market. They maintained their position through unsleeping vigilance for the affairs of the Rand. The two were mentioned frequently in the society pages of the Clarion and the weekly illustrated papers whose reporters so assiduously cull the pages of Debrett, following the lives of the rich, the aristocratic and the Royal, covering the grander dinner-parties in Delamere Terrace or Audley Square. In short, covering the territory in which our income was significantly to be found.

Sir Julius Wernher was the first to approach, radiating suavity, with a silver beard and full moustache. He lifted golden pince-nez to his eyes as he came to the centre of the room like a vieux marcheur, bringing with him a faint whiff of Roger and Gallet cologne. His clothing displayed a delicate touch of individuality, harking back to an older fashion except for the contrasting choice of strikingly fashionable lightweight hat. Made of green felt, the brim rolled slightly inwards on the side, a single crease running down the centre of the crown and pinches at the front.

Sir Julius owned a 3000-ton yacht, The Miloca, always at the ready in Cattaro. Weit’s and Sir Julius’ great ‘palaces’ in London were decorated, by all accounts, with imperial grandeur, in the sumptuous taste of Edwardian new wealth, heavily influenced by the Art and fashions of Continental Europe. Sir Julius’ Mayfair house was entered by a long flight of marble steps from the drive to the front door, a footman stationed on every third step in knee-breeches and with powdered hair which straggled when it poured with rain. Terracotta statues traced to the tomb of Qin Shi Huang Di, first emperor of China stood inside the entrance. It was reported the bedrooms were as palatial as the downstairs salons, in accord with the opulence and vulgarity of our plutocracy, each with Louis X1V suites picked out with an occasional pink electric light. He had assembled a fine Art collection, including one very large oil-colour by Pevensey. So quickly had he amassed the works they were almost certain to include both masterpiece and fake, like the Tsar’s famed collection in St Petersburg. The great names of our time wandered into his palatial homes: Prince Francis of Teck, Sir Thomas Lipton, Lady Sarah Wilson. The latter’s courage during the siege of Ladysmith had made her a heroine. The men wore rings on plump fingers and smoked cigars; not a few were owners of Derby winners. A photograph in Collier’s Magazine by Catherine Cooke showed great beribboned baskets of flowers, like oblations to a goddess, being delivered daily to Sir Julius’ home by horse-drawn vans, coachmen and attendants in livery. Orchids from three continents, malmaisons, and lilies for display in tall, cut-glass vases were scattered throughout the vast construction.

For his visit to Crick’s End, Alfred Weit had chosen a somewhat rusty suit of black-and-white herring-bone tweed, a tie composed of thin pale blue stripes on a black background, and heavily-brogued shoes and cloth spats. In his left hand he held a pair of yellow chamois gloves. My friend Marsh had mentioned seeing Weit with Van Beers, Sir Julius and Siviter at a private club on Whitehall Gardens at the height of the Anglo-Boer hostilities.

Separating from Sir Julius, Weit crossed the room towards a fine, thick piece of bulbous-headed wood known as a Penang lawyer. For his country residence he maintained Salisbury Hall, a little manor-house near St Albans, with a fine garden surrounded by a moat, once Nell Gwynn’s petite maison. He had the face of a Disraeli, lividly pale, with finely-arched eyebrows, though the eyes were beryl rather than intensely black. The eyes spoke of repeated contact with Tropical diseases. Ancient fires flickered in his sallow cheeks.

At their entry Siviter rose to his feet quicker even than I, rushing across to greet them, pursued like a hind by the terriers at his legs.

‘Ah, and in excellent time,’ Siviter cried. ‘Mr Holmes, Dr. Watson. Dr. Watson, I see already you recognise our guests. I might say they have helped me greatly with my investments - more than ten thousand pounds in Kaffirs - or I would never have kept my driving habit alive. As Polonius said, ‘Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel’.’

He gestured from the two men to us.

‘Dr. Watson has steered us safely through to three o’ clock, though you must be sorry you have missed his gripping talk on coats and hats. As you may be aware, Dr. Watson is Holmes’ panegyrist, Ruth to his Naomi, obliging us by inspiring awe of his colleague’s deductive powers to steer a determined course between Scylla and Charybdis. He alone has dissuaded us from transmogrifying the Kipling League into a syndicate of crime, I can tell you.’

At Siviter’s words of introduction Holmes stepped forward from the fireside towards the new arrivals.

‘We are greatly honoured,’ Sir Julius Wernher stated, looking intently at Holmes.

‘Most certainly,’ affirmed Weit. ‘We are well acquainted with your reputation and that of your estimable colleague Dr. Watson.’ He gave a courteous bow which I, though not Holmes, mirrored to the inch in Japanese style.

Weit’s complexion, while darkened by the sun, displayed a disturbing pallor as though a splash of milk had been mixed in. He would not be the first to have his constitution shattered by living a life abroad. Sensing my eye upon him, he turned to engage me directly. ‘And Dr. Watson, as a medical man, can you see from my complexion my health is not the best from too long in Tropical climes?’

I answered his query with a sympathetic nod.

He continued, ‘Therefore, as my own doctor is at his best compounding for French horses, may I ask you a question, deeply personal to me, though not to you?.’

I begged him to consider my medical knowledge entirely at his service.

‘How much longer would you give me to live?’

I reeled from this unexpected question but answered openly. ‘You have suffered a brain attack and have recovered. This may give you a tendency to depression. To avoid a recurrence of the stroke, you must restrict your habitation to altitudes no higher than Chamonix. May I recommend regular visits to Töplitz. As for a tonic, I have particular confidence in the unfailing powers of quassia, obtained from the wood and bark of the Surinam Tree, bitter, it is true, but a fine medicinal drug.’

Again Weit pressed. ‘And as to length...?’

‘At least the span, if you follow my advice.’

Weit looked pleased. ‘I shall do so assiduously, Dr. Watson.’

I turned to find myself under Sir Julius’ scrutiny. Upon this cue I responded, ‘And you, Sir Julius, like several in this room, have suffered from Blackwater Fever. Its fevers and vomiting put great stress on the human body. I perceive a cataract in your right eye. You must temper the glare of the Tropical sun. Whenever you are outdoors in Africa I advise you to wear a broader-brimmed hat than the one you hold in your hand.’

At this, Holmes broke in.

‘Sir Julius, in the matter of headwear, I see you follow our King in your choice of hats.’

Sir Julius appeared startled at Holmes’ observation. He looked down at the green felt object in his hand. Before he could reply, Holmes continued, ‘though I see you have worn it for the first time today.’

Sir Julius had been taking advantage of the change of speakers to take snuff from a tortoise-shell box, brushing away the wandering grains from his coat front with a large, red silk handkerchief. At Holmes’ words his head swung round. There was an indefinable, faint expression on his lips. He began, ‘Why, Holmes, how in the name of good-fortune...’

‘I assure you it is nothing especially clever,’ Holmes responded with an airy wave.

‘Perhaps so, but do explain,’ Sir Julius requested, his eyes fixated on my companion’s face.

‘Have you not just returned from the outside, where you spent an hour or two?’

‘Why, yes.’

‘And in the open air, not confined within a carriage,’ Holmes continued, gesturing at a mix of clay and chalk on both arrivals’ shoes.

‘Quite so,’ came the reply.

‘In rather inclement weather?’

‘Indeed.’

‘In which you would be expected to wear a hat?’

‘As you say.’

‘When you entered this room, you had a faint imprint on your forehead from wearing a hat a half-size too small - the mark already fades. Had there not been rain you might not have worn it at all for it must have pressed upon the temple. Certainly you would not continue to wear it by choice. Closer to your home you would have exchanged it at once. I therefore assume you have worn it for the first time to-day.’

Before Sir Julius could respond, Siviter clapped his hands. ‘Bravo, Holmes! Now gentlemen, gentlemen, we must proceed!’

At a clap of her Master’s hands, a maid-servant entered to remove the household dogs. Pained expressions brimmed in the terriers’ eyes as, even while the door was closing on them, they offered their master a last chance to let them stay. Sensing a malleable soul in the parlour, one of them looked across to me with a most comical cock to his head. His engaging behaviour was to no avail. Siviter pressed shut the door firmly behind them.

Holmes returned to the fireplace and took up a stance, feet apart, straddling two Dutch copper milk pails. He began again: ‘I shall try to offer by a few examples an explanation of sorts of the deductive skills by which Watson and I make our way in life. Wholly due to the literary skill of my amiable and long-suffering friend who sits before you, I have gained a reputation I sometimes feel approaches myth, but which myth-building I earnestly encourage.’

Polite laughter and ‘hear hear’ came from the audience.

‘I have watched him writing up his notes in a room full of people talking at the top of their voices, or in a train with the hum of conversation around him, or in a cricket pavilion during a match while waiting for the rain to stop. Before Watson’s heaven-sent arrival as my faithful friend and biographer I was alone, attempting to create... at least a decade before I had done sufficient work required for fame... the sort of reputation I felt could best be used to serve the purpose of fighting criminality. I was indeed a Dr. Johnson without a Boswell in sight.’

Again the audience responded with a laugh.

‘And,’ my comrade-in-arms continued, ‘his flattering introduction is but a small instance of the friendship for which I am grateful. If he predeceases me, I shall have Semper Fideles inscribed upon his tomb. He has a high and noble love of the right and hatred of the wrong. In all his brochures, epitomes, pamphlets, articles, burlesques or other writings, there is scarcely one word of jealousy or coldness to humanity to leave the smallest smudge upon the mind or soul of any reader.’

Rather than rebuking me for my panic-stricken and over-lengthy introduction, Holmes paid me this generous public compliment. It warmed and cheered my heart. Never before had I heard him speak of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. Leaving aside his many a hurtful and sardonic ‘Well done, Watson!’ or ‘Watson, you coruscate today!’, or ‘Watson, your reflection, though profound, had already crossed my mind - last week, I believe’, heretofore his sincerest praise had been ‘Watson, you handled it fairly well’. More often I was the recipient of his particular humour. ‘Watson, perhaps it is your eyes we should examine, not your mind? Shall we say a myopia of four dioptres?’ though he knew my eyesight to be the equal of the hawk’s, able to spot a puff of gun-smoke at half a mile, or I would have taken the long-arm Jezzail’s bullet head-on. I much prefer it when he turns his self-indulgence on the official police, as in The Sign of the Four - ‘When Tobias Gregson, or Lestrade, or Athelney Jones are out of their depths - which, by the way, is their normal state... ’

Few are privy to his greatest secret, his great reliance on cranioscopy. He was brought to this science from reading A Lady’s Life in the Rocky Mountains, by the redoubtable Isabella Bird, and Wunderbare Geschichte von Bogs, dem Uhrmacher, by Brentano and Görres (in the original). He swears this practice enabled him to deduce Moriarty stole the Gainsborough Duchess in ’76. Tucked behind his make-up table, amid a clutter of waxes, creams and pastes bought from a theatrical costumier, or sometimes hidden in his cupboard of disguises, he keeps a porcelain bust titled ‘Phrenology’, manufactured by L.N. Fowler, with an accompanying index headed ‘Names, Numbers, and Location Of The Organs’. In private, Holmes’ talk is redolent with phrenological asides such as ‘Ideality’ and ‘suavity’ which I keep from my epitomes for fear his secret would be laid bare or even that he might be open to ridicule. Or, worse, taken for a spiritualist.

Such mumbo-jumbo runs in concert with Holmes’ practical bent. Over the years he has obliged me to conduct several sections of cadavers’ faces (provided and watched closely by Inspector Gregson) designed to help in his personations. Once he asked whether it could be possible to transplant a cadaver’s cold grey face whole, as the criminal’s ultimate disguise, or confuse the official police by building in bits of latissimus dorsi.

A further mention my name broke me from my reverie.

‘One secret I must reveal about my great friend Watson...’ Holmes went on. ‘He makes weekly treks to the Stoppard Lending Library and imports to our lodgings books on heraldry, falconry and armour. I am sure he will invest his characters with the chivalry of Sir Lancelot, the heroism and sagacity of King Arthur, the fidelity of Leander.’

Overwhelmed by this public display of friendship, I bowed my head to cover the tears rising to my eyes.

The pro forma applause stopped and I could turn my attention to our small audience. All four stared intently at the speaker as in the company of some strange animal recently imported. There was fascination and interest in their eye, and the touch of caution commensurate with the speed and strike of a predator’s claw.

Holmes now launched into his subject.

‘In The Book of Life, in an article I myself wrote,’ he commenced, ‘I avowed that from a twitch of a muscle or a glance of an eye, I could deduce the innermost thoughts of any man, though in reality the science of Deduction and Analysis is one which acquired only by long and patient study. An involved method is not indicative of a profound technique but a confused one. I merely follow La règle du jeu. I find the clues I need and assemble them in order. Never do I spring to a conclusion without possession of a sufficiency of necessary and credible facts. Such success as I have had will point to some small knowledge of the sciences. It is not impossible for a man to possess all knowledge likely to be useful to him in his work. Equally essential to my work is knowledge of the history of crime. Misdeeds bear a family resemblance. If you have the details of a thousand at your finger’s end, it is odd if you are unable to unravel the thousand and first. If every official detective shut himself up for three months and read twelve hours a day at the annals of crime, Watson and I would find ourselves redundant.’

Holmes paused, placing his long fingers together.

‘Since your invitation arrived this morning I have given thought how best, within the hour allotted...’ (Holmes waved the back of his hand across the room as though giving a Papal blessing or removing a fly from before his face) ... to select from a list of our cases which stretch from that glorious residence of the Pope to the moors of Devonshire. The accursed and terrible history of the Baskervilles is a case from which I can extract the very nub of my art. The key lies in gaining a sufficiency of facts. I confess the events which confronted us in Devon still have the ability to keep me awake at night. When we set off by train for Exeter I had speculated on some South African connection where voodoo reigns - as some among you know, Sir Charles restored the depleted Baskerville fortune by South African speculation, but upon my questioning his medical attendant Dr Mortimer, Sir Charles was described as a shrewd, practical and notably unimaginative man. Nevertheless, I have long understood people may hold contradictory thoughts side by side. It was the sworn word of this same old Doctor, regular companion to Sir Charles, that his patient took the legend of The Hound of the Baskervilles seriously. I have been much struck by the power of voodoo. I recommend you read Eckermann’s Voodooism And The Negroid Religions. To return to the fearful fate of Sir Charles Baskerville, what did we have, what facts were made available to us at the start? Every evening before retiring to bed, all seasons alike, Sir Charles went out from the Hall and walked down the famous yew alley, taking the opportunity to smoke a cigar. One night, at twelve o’ clock, on the last round of the day, the butler Barrymore found an outside door left ajar. By that hour all but he should have been a-bed. He lit a lantern and went in search of his master. Footmarks were clearly to be seen between the trees of yew alley. Half-way along the walk a gate led out on to the moor. From fresh cigar ash on the mud, it was clear the smoker had whiled away some time at this spot. Not far along the butler found the body of his employer. Now I can proceed apace. There were no marks on the body, no signs of violence. However, the face was so contorted his old friend the doctor at first completely failed to recognise the corpse. This was explained by the coroner for the benefit of the reporter from the Western Morning News as not unusual in the case of death from cardiac exhaustion and dyspnoea. The Coroner came to his finding with unusual celerity, much influenced by the post-mortem examination revealing the deceased suffered from long-standing organic disease.’

Holmes looked around the room. ‘So there we were. On the face of it, a case hardly opened, then slammed shut by the desire of the coroner to put an end to ugly whispers of voodoo and black magic in this location on a desolate Moor, as sparsely-inhabited as the Norfolk fens. There it could have rested until a further murder might have taken place ... as I am certain was on the cards... except I noticed a most curious remark in the butler’s statement. In seeking his master in the night-time mist, he placed the lantern low while following foot-marks along the damp ground of Yew Alley. For the first part, the footmarks were those of a man proceeding at a stroll, but from the moment Sir Charles left the gate, the observant Barrymore said his master seemed to be ‘walking upon his toes’. These are hardly blood-curdling words yet on reading this remark, I asked myself, ‘Why would a man walk upon his toes? There was no high fence or hedge to look beyond. And why the grotesque distortion of the corpse’s face? As so often happens, when evidence pointing unerringly in one direction is viewed from a slightly altered perspective, it may admit of a very different interpretation. The answer was plain. Sir Charles was not tip-toeing at all. This elderly and infirm man had, suddenly, like a rusty spring uncoiling, begun to run, to run desperately, to run for his life, to run until under this great stress his weakened heart burst and he fell dead upon his contorted face. The direction in which he ran was especially curious. It was away from the Hall, not toward it. What was it which terrified him enough to make him flee - so utterly he lost all his wits? From there we were able to contrive a trap which brought before our pistols the fearsome, diabolical hound given a hellish appearance by means of phosphorus which had frightened Sir Charles to death.’

Sir Julius looked at Holmes quizzically. ‘Holmes, if you will excuse my temerity, you were handed the principal clue on a plate - an account of boot-marks of a man which indicated he was running for his life.’

‘Gentlemen, then let me inflict upon you one more case, The Adventure of Silver Blaze. It concerned the disappearance of a horse owned by a Colonel Ross, recognisable by the white forehead and mottled off-foreleg. One night this valuable animal was led away in secret from its stable. A stranger named Fitzroy Simpson was known to be in the vicinity seeking betting information. He was arrested and accused. When this account was brought to me in Baker Street I cautioned Watson to keep an open mind on the grounds of my dictum the obvious culprit is most likely to be innocent. Nevertheless, we arrived at the training stables carrying with us the expectation the culprit must indeed have come from the outside, as logic and experience would dictate. Theft of important horses in not unknown in that semi-criminal world but why would an owner or member of the stable staff steal the very thing on which their income depended? However, two clues came to my attention, both considered too small to be of interest to the official police. First let

me tell you the lads taking the watch over Silver Blaze were brought their meals in the stable and what do you suppose they ate that night?’

No-one ventured a guess.

‘Curry,’ Holmes announced.

Siviter spoke up with a surprised look. ‘Holmes, I must admit I had no idea this dish has reached as far as Devon, but why would that gain your attention?’

‘Curry was the first link in my chain of reasoning. It was clear the stable lads heard nothing in the night, indicating they were in a deep and unnatural sleep. Powdered opium is by no means tasteless. The flavour is not disagreeable but it is perceptible. Were it mixed with any ordinary dish the eater would undoubtedly detect it and would probably eat no more. A mutton curry was exactly the medium which would disguise this taste. But by no possible supposition could the stranger Fitzroy Simpson have caused curry to be served in the trainer’s family that night. Once I discerned it required knowledge improbably available to a stranger, it immediately circumscribed the culprit to within the stables. One deduction often sparks another. I spotted the further clue which fully amplified my suspicion and enabled me to point to the individual who perpetrated this crime. And there we had it.’

‘My dear Holmes,’ Weit’s high laugh broke in. ‘Surely you are not to leave us twisting in the wind! What, pray, was the second clue?’

‘Simply the dog that didn’t bark loudly in the night.’

Holmes reached into a pocket for the small brier-root pipe. He looked down into the bowl tar-coated from habitual use of the strongest black tobacco.

‘Inspector Gregory asked me, is there any point to which I wished to bring his attention? I replied, ‘To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time.’ The Inspector responded, ‘Holmes, the dog did nothing in the night-time’. That was the curious incident, I told him. A farm dog was kept in the very stables from which this horse had been led away, and yet, though someone had fetched out the horse, the dog had not barked sufficiently to arouse the farm. It was clear the midnight visitor was someone the dog knew well. From there it was quite simple, confirmed when later we were to find the culprit, the trainer John Straker, dead, killed by the hoofs of the horse he was trying to nobble at the instance of a criminal betting syndicate. As my panegyrist Watson says, my observation, referred to as ‘the dog that didn’t bark in the night’, has become as well known as the maxim I propounded in The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet, that when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. I should tell you the stable dog benefited greatly from my deduction. So angry had her owner been at her apparent dereliction of duty that had I not intervened with my explanation he would shortly have put this blameless dog down.’

He studied the faces before him thoughtfully. ‘I must assume you have read the adventures of Marco Polo?’

The five of us nodded emphatically.

‘Of course,’ Holmes continued. ‘Who among us with a disposition for adventure has not? What do we know about him? Born in Venice some six centuries ago. Went with his father on a Papal mission to the territories of the Grand Khan, to return to Venice after an absence of twenty-four years. Imprisoned by the Genoese. At a loss for money he wrote his fanciful tales.’ Holmes paused. ‘You are convinced from his descriptions he did indeed reach the Middle Kingdom?’

Siviter’s finger darted upward. ‘I might say I have some knowledge of the East,’ he intervened. ‘I wager you fifty guineas if you convince us otherwise!’

‘Then,’ Holmes continued, ‘let me ask you, when I say ‘China’, what springs to mind?’

‘The Great Wall,’ Siviter responded.

‘Good. The Great Wall would undoubtedly be visible from the moon. What else?’

‘Chop sticks,’ added Weit.

’Excellent. No Chinaman eats without them.’

‘The barbarous practice of binding female children’s feet,’ I chimed in.

‘A very barbarous and wide-spread practice indeed,’ Holmes nodded. ‘And like the Great Wall and the use of chop-sticks no doubt highly visible to anyone visiting the Middle Kingdom?’

‘Indisputably,’ we all agreed.

Holmes paused for dramatic effect.

‘Then is it not curious that in all his writings about his many years in that faraway and magic place, Marco Polo never mentions chopsticks? Nor does he mention the Great Wall, nor refer to the widespread and barbarous practice of the binding of female babies’ feet. Why not? Is it likely when you seek to attain the greatest sale of your pamphlet, where you must entice by the rare and exotic nature of your experience, you would omit such extraordinary things? If I were to publish an account of my two years in Tibet, would it ring true if I left out the giant black mastiffs of the Grand Lama? Or from my visit to Khartoum and Omdurman fail to mention the Khalifa - or the Suez Canal?’

Siviter’s mouth fell open in delight. ‘Why, Holmes,’ he burst out. ‘You have convinced me. If what you say is true, he could not possibly have been in China.’

Holmes gave a final, slightly ironic bow.

The small assembly stood up and clapped. Our host was smiling and nodding. I too clapped.

Privately I was chagrined by Siviter’s reference to me (picked up by Holmes) as panegyrist - a jibe which seemed designed to denigrate my profession.

As to his use of Ruth to Naomi!