Sherlock Holmes and the Dead Boer at Scotney Castle

The Discovery Of A Corpse At Scotney Castle

Standing at the towering cast-iron gates (‘from the same forge that manufactured the railings of St. Paul’s Cathedral’) Siviter saw us off from Crick’s End with a cheery wave. The olfactory delight of the Imam Bayildi still swirled in my nostrils.

Once more Holmes and I were enveloped in soft leather in the Lanchester, Dudeney at the wheel wrapped in his pilot’s helmet. Invited into the vehicle for the short outing, Siviter’s Aberdeen terriers and the curly-coated retrievers yap-yapped and wriggled and slithered around us. A half-dozen tails wagged like furies in our faces, the owners excited beyond measure in anticipation of scents wafting to their small damp snouts at forty miles an hour.

I looked up to see a hand waving fleetingly from a window. It was the Peasant Madonna of the violet eyes who first greeted us at the porch. Would she eventually marry a young herdsman on the Estate? Would she have to compete with the poultry maid? In a fit of amour fou would she let one of the eminent men who passed through the bedrooms at Crick’s End take advantage of her lowly status?

Soon we were back at Etchingham. Just past the great church and fifty yards short of the Ambrose Tavern, we turned left into the small station yard. We said our thanks and goodbyes to Dudeney. I searched my pockets for our return tickets to Charing Cross and a pencil stub. I had earlier spotted an advertisement for Abdulla’s cigarettes on a station wall with a piece of doggerel too amusing to let go without noting it down to share with Eddie Marsh at a future date. Our tickets located, I opened my notebook and transcribed the ditty titled ‘Desert Drama, the Lady Sheik’.

As I transcribed the last stanza, a most unexpected intrusion burst upon this mild occupation. The piping voice of the young news-vendor caught my attention. He stood small and keen in front of Holmes, urging him to purchase a copy of the Evening London Standard, freshly-delivered off the London-to-Hastings train.

‘Late Extra! Dead Body at Scotney Castle,’ the boy sang, his face turned upwards, his apron displaying the bold headline black upon yellow on a poster.

‘Heavens, Holmes,’ I called over, amused. ‘Fame indeed. Scotney Castle has found its way into the Standard!’

On outward journeys by train or diligence Holmes cat-napped like Napoleon force-marching to Paris from Elba, but on the return he often fell into a much deeper sleep. I anticipated my companion would wave aside the small beseeching vendor. Had he declined to make the purchase, I would have followed suit while offering the boy a ha’penny in compensation. Thereby we may never been hurled into the astonishing matter of the dead Boer at Scotney Castle.

Rather than waving the boy away, my companion stared down at him and demanded ‘What did you say?’, one hand going swiftly to a pocket. ‘Dead Body at Scotney Castle,’ the news-vendor sang out once more, pushing a copy into my companion’s outstretched hand and taking three-halfpence in return. Holmes unfolded the newspaper and turned to an inside page as directed. He read for a moment and glanced up.

‘Watson, listen to this. ‘LATE EXTRA. From our local Correspondent by wire’.’

The report commenced with the curiously garbled sub-heading ‘Well-Dressed Unclad Body Discovered At Lamberhurst’ and continued, ‘To-day, at around 4pm near the village of Lamberhurst, on the Kent and Sussex border in the Valley of the River Bewl, in the undertaking of his rounds, James Webster, woodman on the Scotney Castle Estate, came across the unclad body of a man lying mostly submerged in the wagon pond, off the old Carriage Drive at Kilndown Wood, believed drowned. Age is estimated around 50. Gentlemen’s clothes of a good quality and condition lay at a short departure from the verge, neatly piled, and topped by a crimson hat like a bowler out of a Mexican sombrero, bearing a hatband made from the skin of a yellow and brown spiny snake. Death is estimated to have taken place within the previous hour as the arms and legs were still supple. It was noticeable the dead man’s chest was unusually seared by the sun in a triangle to a point some five inches above the navel, with similar ruddiness of arms right to the armpit, and the legs from above the calf to just below the knee. Exact details are few but no traces of struggle or nearby disturbance have been reported. A man in this garb was seen standing at the edge of the wagon pond in the middle of the afternoon, around three o’ clock, by Lord Edward Fusey, owner of the Estate, whose house overlooks the valley from the top of a nearby hill. While suicide is a possibility, the empty pockets of the clothing and weathered condition of the skin incline the Lamberhurst constable to agree with Lord Fusey’s suggestion the body is most likely that of a passing tramp, who, having stolen a gentleman’s clothing, felt obliged to bathe in the wagon pond and consequently drowned.’’

Turning to me with an air of excitement, Holmes demanded, ‘Well, Watson, what do you make of it?’

‘What do you make of it, Holmes?’ I parried, staring at him. He was on a hot scent but as yet I could not in the least imagine in what direction his inferences were leading him. Without responding to my own query, he returned to the Standard and continued, ‘‘A pair of shiny dark glasses was discovered between finger and thumb, but identifying papers or other memoranda are lacking. The old smugglers’ track is a favoured route of indigents and vagabonds overnighting in the castle ruins on their way to London. No further action is expected’.’

Holmes lowered the newspaper.

‘‘The body is most likely that of a passing tramp?’’ he repeated. ‘How could this be?’

He raised the paper again and continued reading out loud. ‘The probability remains that the deceased has been the victim of an unfortunate accident which should at the very least have the effect of calling the attention of the Estate owner to the parlous condition of the wagon pond verges’.

Once more Holmes lowered the newspaper, frowning. ‘Again, Watson, I ask, what do you make of it?’

‘Apart from the sensationalistic prose, Holmes, what should I make of it?’ I replied evasively. ‘Any self-inflicted death or accident is a sad event.’

He cocked his head. ‘’Self-inflicted death or accident’ you have already decided?’ he demanded. ‘Is it not obvious to you this matter strikes rather deeper than you think?’

He looked back at the report, his brow still furrowed. He muttered, ‘It makes no sense.’

Even now I find it hard to divine what confluence of suspicions in Holmes’ keen and penetrating mind drew him so quickly to conclude something sinister lay behind the unfortunate victim’s death. It was as though lead had turned to mercury. His eyes positively gleamed with excitement against the startlingly white skin of his face.

‘Watson, my instinct tells me there is something here afoot. Surely you agree there are points about the case which promise to make it unique?’

‘I am sure I do agree, Holmes,’ I responded. ‘But we have a train to catch.’

‘What was it Siviter told us about the pond at Scotney Castle?’

‘That it replicates the wagon pond in Constable’s painting?’

‘That is its provenance - but what of its condition?’

‘As it was dug only the other day to anticipate Pevensey’s arrival, I would deduce...’

‘Yes, Watson, well done - the Standard reports a dangerous condition of the verge. This clearly cannot be. In conversation with this special correspondent why has Lord Fusey failed to exculpate himself by bringing this fact to the man’s attention - why so?’

He paused, still maintaining a perplexed expression. Then, ‘It seems to have been a very deliberate affair... yet if this is foul play... murdered men are seldom stripped of clothing.’

I was thunderstruck at so sudden a reference to murder. ‘Holmes,’ I protested, ‘you have just read out the constable’s conclusion - an indigent may have wanted to bathe...’

Holmes turned to me sharply. ‘You look a little bewildered, Watson. I tell you, there is the dark shadow of an unusual crime behind this occurrence which a singular chance has placed in our hands.’

‘Holmes!’ I returned, unable to hide my incredulity. ‘I am inclined to think...’

‘I should do so,’ my companion retorted, quickly vexed when challenged in an assumption. ‘Do you deny the report has given us a set of very suggestive facts?’

I fell back into an unsettled silence. I had had no time to give any thought at all to such facts as we were offered. Were we so quickly deep in some weighty quest, I wondered?

Again Holmes plunged back into the Standard.

‘Watson, you do not need a double lens or a measuring-tape to examine such simple facts. They are not laid down in faded pencil-writing in this report. There are several most instructive points about it, not less than seven, whose value we can only test by further inquiry. Even four such points should have you reaching for your service revolver.’

I was keen to reach our lodgings as soon as possible. ‘Holmes, may I humbly ask for even one of these instructive points which indicates anything other than the suicide or accidental death of an itinerant wanderer, other than a mistaken description of the verges?’ I requested, allowing a hint of sarcasm to creep into my tone.

‘Answer this, my dear friend, are knee-breeches the summer uniform of England’s tramps?’

‘Why, no, Holmes,’ I responded. ‘I would hardly think...’

‘Why else would it say his legs were ‘unusually seared by the sun... from above the calf to just below the knee’? Surely vagrants are more accustomed to corduroy trousers tied beneath the knee with string!’

There had been more than one occasion where Holmes just as swiftly concluded we were in the starter’s blocks of a desperate crime, only to withdraw his claim on a further moment’s cogitation. I felt the lack of the service revolver Holmes had mentioned. Our considerable speaker’s fee in large bank-notes was tucked in my coat. I would not breathe freely until I climbed our stairs and locked the money in the bureau of my dressing-room.

I glanced up at the station clock. Perhaps upon a moment’s consideration Holmes would discover an irredeemable flaw, one which would put the kibosh on his quick conclusion. I hoped we would soon be aboard the evening train whirling back to Charing Cross and thence by brougham to Baker Street and home.

My companion’s face stayed buried in the Standard.

‘’A pair of shiny dark glasses was discovered between finger and thumb, but identifying papers or other memoranda are lacking what do you make of that?’ He looked up sharply. ‘This further point cannot have escaped your Machiavellian intellect? Watson, there is a thread here which we have not yet grasped, and which might lead us through the tangle.’

I replied brusquely, resentful at the gibe. ‘I cannot answer about identifying papers, but perhaps the dark glasses were in a pocket when the clothing was stolen?’

I turned from him, attempting his trick of feigning lack of interest, to no effect.

‘If a tramp came across a pair of dark glasses in stolen clothing why would he retain them?’ Holmes demanded. ‘How likely are they to have been his own purchase or a gift? If it were theft, rightful ownership could speedily be established by the confluence of costly clothing in good condition and these dark glasses. The authorities would lay an unanswerable charge at his door and throw him in prison.’

‘Holmes,’ I broke in anxiously, ‘the train will be here at any moment.’

Ignoring my intervention, Holmes shot a further pensive look at the article. ‘What then of the pockets, Watson? The fact they are completely empty?’

‘Holmes,’ I said impatiently. ‘Should they contain a milliner’s account for thirty-seven pounds fifteen made out by Madame Lesurier of Bond Street? Or the stolen plans of a revolutionary submarine? What of the pockets, Holmes, beyond the fact they are empty?’

‘It is their very emptiness which should engage you. Even vagabonds would transfer two inches of tallow candle and wax-vestas when they shed their former skin.’

He threw me a determined look. ‘No! I declare the wit of the fox is here. This is the most finished piece of blackguardism since the days of the Borgias. All the indications seem to me to point in that direction. I repeat, there is the smack of a great crime in the air.’

Dismayed by his hyperbole I stood forlorn at his side at a country railway station. Little did I imagine how Holmes’ deduction would eventually be realised, how strange and sinister this new development would be.

‘’Skin of a yellow and brown spiny snake...’?’ he continued, with an incredulous look. ‘Watson, how many spiny snakes have you encountered in your travels? Did you trample on them in the Himalayas or the Khyber Pass? Did these same snakes sneak inside your blanket by night and scratch you? I warrant not! Sea urchins, sand dollars, basket stars which make up the Echinodermata have such spines, not snakes, but such creatures are scarcely of utility for a hatband, though...’

After a short reflective pause he added, ‘... not from Asia or South America but South Africa.’

He swung round to face me. He spoke in a sharp tone. ‘Watson, we must waste no time. There are withers to be wrung! An unclad corpse and a pile of clothing topped by this hat is no accident. It is an object-letter as cunning and deadly as any we have had to decipher. I say that in the history of crime, even if we include the Brixton Mystery, there has seldom been a tragedy which presented stranger features.’

Before I could remonstrate further, with a quick gesture he beckoned the newspaper boy, still close, to approach him. ‘Is there a jitney or post-chaise in the village?’ he asked.

Keen to make a penny, the boy replied, pointing to the yard at a vehicle even smaller than a Governess cart, ‘Sir, I have a dog-cart for my papers.’

‘So you do,’ Holmes responded quite amiably. ‘No doubt you are a veritable jehu, but I do not wish for a mettlesome dog. We would rather a four-in-hand.’

‘There’s a sociable on hire driven by a pair of spanking greys. It stands in the village at the ready.’ The boy added, ‘though quite a departure from here.’

‘See this,’ said Holmes, holding up a sixpence. ‘Put quicksilver in your shoes and bring us the swift four-seater.’

‘And if he’s here within the quarter-hour?’ the boy responded.

‘Then ninepence,’ Holmes responded with a short laugh.

The young vendor threw the last of his newspapers into the clap-trap conveyance and set off, the dog galloping like a small race-horse sensing the tape not far ahead. Standing at my comrade’s side, puzzled and unnerved, it seemed to me Holmes’ eyes had scarcely glanced over the paragraphs before we were to spring into a cab and rattle off.

I persisted. ‘Look here, Holmes, this is all surmise. You confessed at the time we were engaged in solving the disappearance of Silver Blaze that the provisional theories you formed from the newspaper reports were entirely erroneous. You cannot cry murder at every turn. Why, the constable stated...’

Holmes’ quelling expression caused me to falter and fall silent.

‘Watson, do you have a more favourable hypothesis? The constable, you say? Was it not a constable in ‘the Hound’ who sent the good doctor and all others down a blind by his interpretation? Was it not the same Peeler who concluded the deceased tip-toed in the dark rather than running for his very life? ‘The constable stated’! Is it not obvious we have a Peeler whose head is more for ornament than utility, a man more accustomed to using his muscles rather than his wits? He will state whatever is put into his brain by the Lord of the Manor, Fusey. I surmise, you say, but at least it covers all the facts. When new facts come to our knowledge which cannot be covered by my assumption, it will be time enough to reconsider. No, Watson, and again no! I say this is at the very least a suspicious death.’

‘A suspicious death?’ I responded more boldly, a hint of sarcasm returning to my voice. ‘And at the hand of anyone in particular, have you already decided?’

Holmes flared at my dogged manner. His pale cheeks began to flush. ‘You must take this seriously, Doctor! I am not about to make a joke! There is much that is still obscure though I have quite made up my mind on the principal facts. I say there is a great driving-power at the back of this business.’

For a further moment he stared at me angrily.

‘As you ask, Watson, I shall tell you. I believe this man’s death points unerringly at the very denizens we have just been instructing in our work.’

‘The Kipling League?’ I stammered in disbelief, horrified at this unexpected accusation.

’The very ones,’ Holmes affirmed. He smiled grimly at my dismay. ‘Watson, you must join me in a double-game against a most powerful criminal syndicate.’

‘Holmes,’ I gasped, ‘by habit I trust to your judgment though less often to your discretion. If murder this is - and it is still only a matter of the most extraordinary speculation - it is exceptionally outré and sensational. I have heard your reasons and while I am intrigued, I am quite unconvinced by your deductions. The most repellent man of our acquaintance, even a Professor Moriarty, should not be killed and left naked in a wagon pond. If murder it is, the most grotesque of human minds must lie behind it. Yet you lay the authorship of such a crime upon the Kipling League whose members are pre-eminent in the whole of London!’

I stared at him with grave concern. ‘Holmes, have you become unbalanced? The members of the Kipling League are not wax figures of Voltaire at Madame Tussaud’s. Has too much Medlar jelly left you demented? Am I mistaken in believing you are the author of a famous saying taught to young detectives at Scotland Yard, that the temptation to form premature theories upon insufficient data is the bane of our profession?’

Even as I uttered these heated words, I knew all argument was folly. The subtle eagerness, the suggestion of tension in the brightened eyes, the briskness of his manner, all showed me the game was in play. My companion’s face wore the grim and determined look of Nelson’s admirals at Trafalgar on sight of No. 16 battle signal.

Holmes responded, ‘Good old Watson! Ever obsequious to the rich and powerful! As you say, it is grotesque, and, yes, they are indeed pre-eminent names, yet I say there is more to this League than a Lodge of the Ancient Order of Freemen. They play a deep game! The very second I adopted the hypothesis everything seems to fit - or at least nothing so far appears to traverse it - otherwise it is as random a death as ever was reported.’

I answered with considerable understatement, ‘Holmes, they will be much surprised at our return.’

‘I had not realised the faculty of deduction to be so contagious, Watson,’ he returned bitingly. Heedless of my concern, he went on, ‘It is certain those who killed him have had the co-operation of Lord Fusey. His sighting of a tramp - in mid-afternoon, so he states - has already placed a certainty in the local bobby’s mind both to the calling of the soul which once inhabited this corpse and the hour of death - and will no doubt in the coroner’s too. At most he will record an open verdict.’

He stared back at the Standard. ‘Yet,’ he went on in a lower voice, ‘why invent a tramp?’

He held the newspaper towards me. ‘Watson, a further point for you to examine - this hat. What do you make of ‘a bowler out of a Mexican sombrero’?’

‘I make nothing of it, Holmes.’

‘What if we suggest ’bowler’ means a high crown, and the Standard’s use of ‘sombrero’ denotes the wid^th of brim, what then?’

‘Why, it would be a hat crafted for the Tropics!’

‘Bravo, my friend. That is the deduction I would draw, which I am about to augment and solidify.’

Dread seeped through my every vein. I was being swept along like a coracle on a choppy sea. I knew from bitter experience my courage to protest against so forceful a person as my comrade-in-arms would be found deeply wanting.

Holmes pushed the newspaper to me, turning away to peer across the station yard for a sight of the sociable, the vehicle favoured by Edward as Prince of Wales.

Returning his glance to me he continued, ‘Watson, we are spies in an enemy’s country. We must make great haste. You referred to my ability to track the Lanchester by its tyres. I am sure that noble carriage was used to convey the corpse from Crick’s End to Scotney Castle. By now Fusey’s men will have smoothed every inch of the Kilndown track with Pevensey’s Ratel brushes. They will have scumbled madly around the wagon pond. As to my reference to the clay and chalk-dust on our late arrivals’ shoes, those shoes will have had the boot boy’s fullest attention. Your reference to my small trick of divining the trade of the artisan - or hardships of the tramp - by the callosities of his knees or fore-finger and thumb may cause some consternation. There is no account in the Standard of any hard and repetitive work or callouses on the corpse from sleeping rough, despite the visibility of its every joint and palm.’

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 wid^th 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?

With no sight of the sociable, Holmes turned back to me. ‘Watson, you are outraged this corpse was left unclothed, yet I say killing someone and leaving his body bereft of clothes in a public place was for a purpose.’

‘What would you deduce?’

‘It can only be to expose the patterning on the skin.’

I stared at Holmes in bewilderment. ‘Holmes, the report makes no mention...’ I paused and guffawed. ‘Ah, you mean, what of the fish tattooed on the corpse’s hand in a peculiar pink pigment which the constable failed so lamentably to spot, the sign of the Hung anti-Manchu secret society?’

‘Watson,’ came Holmes’ immediate response, ‘despite your quite admirable attempt at humour, think, I beg you. Among the many foolish customs of the white man in Africa is the way he exposes his body to a drubbing by the celestial orb. He takes scissors and chops the knees off breeches. He rolls up the sleeves of khaki shirts to the armpit. He folds the shirt front inward to expose as much of his chest as possible which, might I bring to your attention, clearly approximates a ‘V’. In short, this is the corpse of a migrant bird from Tropical climes.’

‘Holmes,’ I scorned. ‘This is absurd! On what pretext are we to return to Crick’s End with a charge of murder! With what evidence shall we confront Siviter and the Kipling League? Some dozen lines contrived by a sub-editor’s lurid mind for the Late Edition of the Evening London Standard? A naked corpse, quite probably the victim of drowning, lying in a wagon pond at Scotney Castle in Kent? Nearby, clothes neatly folded and topped by a crimson hat perhaps of Tropical origin. Shall I go on - the V-shaped markings on a corpse’s chest... the use of reds, oranges and yellow for the wagon pond. Oh, yes, not forgetting a majestic spiny ... cordylid.’

I stared boldly at my companion. ‘Can you not see? They will think, as I am myself inclined to, you are demented. At best they’ll greet us at the door and conclude you have a pawky sense of humour never before discovered, even by you, despite all your forensic skill, against which both they and I should guard ourselves. Certainly its employment in this enterprise and fashion is extremely untimely.’

Other rail passengers were growing ever more numerous around us. I went on in a lower tone, ‘My dear Holmes, by long experience I have learned the wisdom of obeying your injunctions to the letter. Yet I must now inform you I am seriously disinclined to believe your conclusions despite the edifice you erect. You must rally support for any facts you muster. So far, the facts themselves are far from dramatic or remarkable except through the lens of an overblown interpretation. On the contrary. They are so slight and commonplace that I would not feel justified in laying them before our loyal public regardless of the clamour for further chronicles from the Editor of The Strand. You may have - will have - ranged against you constable and coroner and Lord Fusey and his woodman too, and if you have your way several illustrious members of the Kipling League. And Pevensey. And further,’ I threw in desperately, ‘why return to Crick’s End? Why not to where the crime took place, at Scotney Castle, if crime it is, which is still so entirely debatable?’

To this last objection, Holmes responded with an impatient cry.

‘Watson, for heaven’s sake, apply your telescope to your eye not your ear! We do not need to look where the body lay but where its heart ceased beating. Have you not learned in our many years together, where the corpse lies may be the greatest lie of all? Have you not had your fill of sightless eyes? Besides, by now it rests under blocks of ice on some butcher’s slab in Lamberhurst or Tunbridge Wells. What do you hope to discover? A pair of ammunition boots? The body on a gun-carriage, his boots reversed in the stirrups of his favourite charger, led by his groom with his dog beside him? This is not an instance where I lie on my face with a pocket-lens to my eye. No, Watson, there is no crop for harvesting at Scotney Castle. Do you not recall the words of Brother Mycroft - ‘give me the details and I will give you an expert opinion’? And uttered where? Seated in his arm-chair among the periodicals at the Diogenes Club. This is a case where the art of the reasoner should be used rather for the sifting of details than the acquiring of fresh evidence. We have enough from this newspaper account. Pevensey’s oils have told us Scotney Castle contains both wagon pond and moat. The evidence you use to refute my conclusions, namely that this person - shall we call him a passing stranger - was sighted at the wagon pond at three o’ clock, the presumption it was a self-inflicted or accidental drowning, the inference the clothes and dark glasses were stolen, all comes from one direction and one alone. As to further clues on offer at Scotney Castle, do you imagine the marks of an assassin’s heel would survive the excited tramplings of the local Peeler or the horses’ hoofs as they roll the wagon back and forth to soak the wheels?’