Sherlock Holmes and the Dead Boer at Scotney Castle

We Burn Down The Mill

With the clatter of the horses’ hoofs reducing the likelihood the driver could hear our words, Holmes darted an artful glance at me and repeated in a gleeful sing-song, ‘We’ve got ‘em. I believe we’ve got ‘em!’

I peered at him reproachfully in the near-dark of the cab’s interior.

‘Holmes,’ I pleaded despairingly, ‘please inform me...’

‘The canvas on the floor, Watson. Tell me, you mentioned how artists staff such canvases with shepherds and peasants - to create the idyllic? Then what about the stranger in that painting too?’

‘Which stranger, Holmes?’ I enquired. ‘I have no recollection of any figure.’

‘Why, at the moat’s edge, where else!’

Once more my hopes rose. ‘Holmes, I recall no stranger by the moat!’

‘No stranger? Then perhaps a shepherd employed by Fusey?’

‘Holmes, there was no shepherd in the painting.’

‘Then woodman or peasant?’

‘Holmes,’ I yelled in exasperation, regardless of our driver. ‘There was no peasant nor woodman nor hunter nor pig-sticker nor mediaeval knight nor any other figure standing by the moat. I can assure you unequivocally - do you hear me? - unequivocally there was no such figure. If you now expect to base your entire case on...’

‘Was there not?’ Holmes enquired, grinning over at me in the gloom. His unnatural persistence was irritating me beyond compare. ‘You looked at it more closely than I. Surely you observed someone in the painting? Just across the moat from where Pevensey must have placed his easel, perhaps?’

‘Holmes!’ I repeated, in the tone of voice I would normally reserve for the dangerously insane, ‘let me spell it out. There - was - no - figure - by - the - moat - I - am - certain - of - it.’ I followed this in a normal voice. ‘I assure you, if there had been such a figure, it would have come to my attention.’

To my intense irritation, my companion continued, ‘You are completely certain? Surely there was a figure wearing a Tropical hat?’

‘There was not, Holmes. Yet again I must inform you, such a figure would without doubt have caught my eye.’

‘Especially with such a hat?’

‘Especially,’ I affirmed.

‘As did the figure in the painting on the easel?’

‘Precisely as did the figure in the Constable.’

If I had hoped (as I very much did) that at my adamant responses my companion would turn his face to the cabby and order him to return the carriage to Etchingham with us inside, I was disabused immediately. Far from dissuading him from proceeding to Crick’s End and professional extinction, Holmes began to sing a ditty in a jog-trot, in time with the clopping of the horses’ hoofs, ‘The dog that didn’t...’, with open delight at whatever it was which had struck him so forcibly.

‘Holmes,’ I began, ‘I beg you, you really must explain...’

It was no use. Back came ‘The dog that didn’t...’ in a high falsetto. His voice was quite unlike his usual tones. It was the most eerie trill I had ever heard, as though a Mongolian throat-singer had sprung unbidden from the dusk of the Dudwell Valley and taken over my companion’s larynx. I looked back and forth from him to the world outside. The carriage wheels drummed like tumbrels in my ear. While Holmes carolled away like a lark I meditated upon the many-sidedness of the human mind.

Suddenly the grotesque trill stopped and my companion spoke as normal. ‘Watson, motive must take a back seat for the present. We must pursue this regardless of their motive - if we can prove opportunity and planning, if we can show an irrefutable connection between moat and corpse and wagon pond, that will suffice for a jury to convict. The President of the Royal Academy is their weakest link. When we threaten him with an appearance in the dock as accessory to murder, the chainmail will unravel like an old wool cardigan. Confront him at the Royal Academy and I guarantee he will buckle. I shall provide you with the evidence of the vital role he played the moment we reach the mill-attic. After that we can, I assure you, put up the shutters on the day and pull a pint of beer. Tobias Gregson will arrest Pevensey in his studio with his customary quiet and business-like bearing. We will let Gregson and Lestrade have a report before tomorrow is out.’

By now very close, the sociable took on an ever-more-cautious pace, reducing the noise of clopping of the horses’ hoofs. My companion fell silent. He sat as I recall him at the start of every chase, arms folded, soft grey deer-stalker (though now the ear-flapped travelling cap) pulled down over his admirable forehead, chin sunk on his chest. Although almost paralytic with dread I felt proud to know him. Attired as he was, and with such a pensive mood upon his angular face, he presented a sight that will forever be pictured in the imagination of all those faithful to the memory of the nation’s greatest detective, his face so subtle in its play of expression.

The lane straightened as we approached Crick’s End head on. The high yew hedges loomed. We came ever-nearer to the wrought-iron gates. Questionable and forbidding though it appeared, it looked at most the setting for a plot of Empire rather than callous murder. To our right lay Donkey Field, stretching up at a steep incline to the village on the ridge. From it, low above the coachman’s head, the thick branches of the great oak stretched across the lane, planted when Crick’s End was in its youth. Lit by the gibbous moon, Constable clouds bubbled up from the north-west, sinuous wisps like tentacles drifting across the face of the moon. It was a place and hour you might well expect to see Kipling’s phantom rickshaw.

The carriage halted. Holmes leaped out, up for the chase. Without a backward look he swept a hand behind him.

‘Watson, ask our coachman to return to this precise spot in half an hour. And tell him at all cost not to be seen.’

I passed Holmes’ words to the coachman. Without so much as a look in our direction he raised the whip to his hat and turned the greys full circle. The sound of the rattling wheels died away along the narrow lane. We crouched in the dense black shadow of the yew hedges which separated the grounds from the track. Immediately to our left a small sign proclaimed ‘Park Farm No Through Road’ along an uneven pock-marked stretch of track. Twenty paces along, shielded from Crick’s End by the high hedge, we saw a six-bar gate.

‘Wait here, Watson,’ Holmes instructed.

Over the years Holmes had leapt many a gate. Even at a middling age Holmes maintained his india-rubber ability un-sapped. In some awe of this, Inspector Lestrade of the Yard with momentary wit said Holmes would vault a six-bar gate even when it was open wide. By contrast, cumulative injuries since my days playing rugby, and especially the hardships and wounds of Afghanistan, had left me less athletic.

Holmes turned to the gate like a good horse given cry and rein, and cleared it in a twinkling. A magnificent dog-fox, startled by the human arrival, made a dash for the long grass cover of the Wild Garden. A warm breeze blew from the westward. I stood alone, waiting, heart in mouth, as I had waited in the midst of many a case.

Above the nearby Park Wood the clouds had passed on. The young white moon was visible in a darkling sky. The Sussex Weald at night is other-worldly, full of mystery and sounds. Under the veiled moon, on this late-spring evening, it was possible to conjure in the mind wolves standing eyes a-glowing, howling amid bluebells and wood anemones. Among them, men wearing tunics with a belt, like a Norfolk jacket, over which was thrown a plaid fastened with a brooch, dwelt in the woods, as charcoal-makers or herding swine and small-horned cattle, or tending crops of wheat and barley. The pale moonlight cast deep shadows, turning everyday shapes into menacing creatures from a nether world. The very ground felt treacherous underfoot. My nerves were a-tingle by the time Holmes returned, presaged by his high-pitched whistle in imitation of a woodcock performing its roding ceremony.

‘Watson, the moon makes this route too visible. There are two doors ajar, including Dudeney’s, and several windows with lights behind them. We shall take the lane and enter unseen from the Mill-pond side.’

In case of need we agreed a civil greeting and a plausible excuse, based on a missed train, a love of moonlight walks and a keen interest in the countryside by night, but unremarked we soon stepped over the turbine with its 14-inch pipe and came once more to the entrance to the mill. Inside the unbolted door Holmes pushed aside his dust-coat to reach into a pocket. He withdrew the stump of a red wax candle, passing it to me with the murmured words ‘Please light it only when we reach the attic.’

We clambered in darkness up the narrow stairs, the familiar smell of old wood and rotted oats arriving at our nostrils. Within seconds we regained our former places in the attic. The speed and angle of our ascent left me puffing and blowing like a spavined horse, my old leg wound aching. Tense with excitement, Holmes ordered, ‘Watson, first the canvas on the easel. Light the candle and bring it to the painting of the wagon pond.’

I did as Holmes bid, stepping forward cautiously on the uneven boards. My foot knocked against a discarded bottle, spilling its last contents upon the dust layering the floor. The smell of linseed oil rose in the damp air. Holmes joined me at the easel. In the candle’s light his forefinger darted at the flamboyant stranger by the wagon pond. ‘Look, Watson, see the figure’s shadow, painted in so clearly? Note its direction. It indicates the sun was just west of south. And gauge its length - there can be no doubt it confirms the stranger was standing there at three o’ clock, sworn so by Pevensey and Fusey if required.’

‘Holmes,’ I began, in a hoarse whisper, ‘of itself, this does not...’

‘Offer proof of a conspiracy to murder, I agree! That you shall now have, Watson, did I not give you my word? Come with the candle to the canvas on the floor - my doubting Thomas, you and Scotland Yard are about to have your proof!’

I feel Holmes’ triumphant anticipation even now. Even now I hear the ringing timbre of his voice.

I trod with caution across the uncertain floor and took hold of the canvas, lifting it to the level of our eyes.

‘This is truly to be my coup de maître, Watson,’ my comrade exulted, bending his head towards the canvas. ‘Note well, Ruth to my Naomi! Now we can lay an account of the case before Inspector Gregson in its due order. Have your pencil at the ready! You shall have...‘

His words came to a disbelieving stop. A cry at once furious and anguished burst from him. Finally he managed a half-gasp: ‘Look! Watson, they have done us in!’

I swivelled the canvas towards me. Stare as I might, I could see nothing in the canvas to trigger so dramatic a reaction.

‘They have done us in,’ Holmes repeated in a strangulated voice. ‘The cunning devils! I fear our train has escaped the rails and is now sliding across the landscape. Their alibi is complete. Dudeney did not take Pevensey to the railway station. Siviter kept him back. Now I know for certain they killed the Boer but we can never prove it.’

Violently Holmes turned towards me. ‘I have been a farcical blunderer! I have committed the most serious error of my career!’

His agonised gaze returned to the canvas. ‘My display of interest in Pevensey’s work... Watson, had we been on a case, I would have kept my cogitations to myself. Unintended, my amiable enquiries caused them to conduct an examination of the paintings. They discovered the very oversight I required intact to make a convincing case to Gregory and Lestrade.’

I stood in helpless silence, uncertain how to respond. After a moment, to my surprise, Holmes spoke in a vibrant voice rather than the former strangulated whisper.

‘It’s all right, Watson,’ he reassured me. ‘They will know we are here. I warrant there is no likelihood they will come to meet us.’

‘But Holmes,’ I began, bewildered, staring at the canvas. ‘What is there in this painting which...’

My companion pointed to a spot on the inner edge of the moat. His outstretched finger looked gnarled in the flickering light. ‘Look most carefully, Watson. Earlier, you swore thrice you had no recollection of a figure in this painting - surely now you see your error. Surely you see the figure of the Boer!’

Panic swept over me. Am I in a nightmare, I wondered, such a nightmare as I suffered after engaging the forces of Ayub Khan at the battle of Maiwand where I was badly wounded? Would I soon awaken at break of day in a fevered sweat? Would I soon be able to dash my face and head in cold water to dispel the magic-lantern illusions of the night?

‘I’m sorry, Holmes,’ I croaked. ‘Where you indicate is just a patch of grass beneath an open sky. I see no Boer.’

Holmes kept his insistent finger close to the moat. ‘Nevertheless,’ he continued, ‘you note the shadow on the bank as of a human standing there, its length and direction indicating early evening?’

I peered again, bringing the guttering candle ever closer to the canvas.

‘No, Holmes,’ I responded at last. ‘I see no human shadow, only that of the overhanging bushes.’

‘Then what of the Boer’s reflection in the water?’ Holmes pursued, increasing my agitation with each successive question. ‘Surely you discern his reflection! ’

Again I peered where his shaking finger pointed.

I said firmly, in a low but determined voice, ‘Holmes, once more, may I make myself entirely clear - there is no human shadow on the bank nor any such reflection on the surface of the moat.’

‘That’s the utter damnation of it!’ my companion cried out. ‘On this very canvas this afternoon there was both shadow on the ground and dappled reflection on the surface of the water as of a man standing there - but no figure. I recall still with what meticulous detail he painted the hat’s reflection. Clearly he had seen it at close hand. Even now I can visualise the daubs of dark purples, browns and viridescence. He must have painted in the shadow and reflection last evening, waiting to complete the oil today.’

At Holmes’ words, a work of art flooded into my mind. In the foreground, below fine trees, a reflection on the surface of a stream picked up the passers-by.

‘That’s why you shouted Daubigny just now!’ I burst out.

My companion nodded.

‘Then what...?’ I began.

‘Immediately on our departure, they returned Pevensey to this attic to examine both canvases for any possible blunder.’

He pulled the painting to him and held it close to his face, sniffing at its surface.

‘Poppyseed oil - there you have it!’ he cried hoarsely, pushing the canvas back at me. ‘Poppyseed oil is not the best medium to over-paint a reflection, let alone a shadow, but it was to hand. It is much too light, yet it has served its purpose.’

Tentatively I dabbed a finger at the spot Holmes indicated. A thin line on the moat’s edge, perhaps half as long again as the shadow of the stranger by the wagon pond was tacky to my touch. In the gloom I looked back at my companion’s contorted face.

Holmes’ words spilled out. ‘The presence of a human shadow and reflection awaiting a figure made me the more surprised when Pevensey told us he completed this canvas yesterday. I took it he was in a rush to finish his commissions. He would not trouble himself to paint a figure in or, otherwise, to paint out the shadow and reflection. Now I realise it was an oversight brought on by panic. That omission was what the Sungazers discovered even as we were returning here from Etchingham. The shadow and the reflection were painted out not half an hour ago. Like the sign-post to Wood’s Corner, once painted in, the figure would become the gnomon of a sundial, its shadow of a length and direction signalling six o’ clock, precisely the time Fusey would swear he saw our Boer standing by the moat had we boarded the three-ten train as commanded.’ He added despairingly, ‘To be ‘found by the woodman in the exercise of his rounds’ at seven.’

In the silence of the Sussex night I could hear Holmes’ gold watch ticking the seconds by. A grudging admiration was taking hold on him.

‘Watson, the mechanisms employed in this extraordinary crime are quite unique. This is the work of immensely skilful men. The wagon pond was a far less satisfactory choice than the moat and indeed makes little sense - adults seldom drown in waters a mere eighteen inches deep. The Sungazers had no option once it was known we were on our way aboard the earlier train - they needed warmer water to stew the corpse. They calculated - correctly - they could rely on the influence of Fusey’s powerful testimony on the local constable. In return, Fusey was happy to take a little disapprobation over the condition of the wagon pond verges.’

Holmes turned to me. ‘Watson, it took a mind capable of the most remarkable daring to accommodate such a last-minute change of plan.’

‘Siviter’s?’

‘I have no doubt.’

‘And it succeeded.’

‘It did. Did he not write ‘You must not blink when the wounded tiger comes running at you’?’

After a minute’s heavy silence, Holmes continued.

‘The cunning dogs have truly covered their tracks.’ He pointed to the moat. ‘That empty space awaiting a human figure... that was the dog that didn’t bark. Had they not been pushed by my innocent enquiries... had I not related The Adventure of Silver Blaze... they may not have uncovered Pevensey’s lazy blunder. The painting you hold would have led to the unravelling of murder.’

I was disturbed to hear Holmes’ voice taking on a quite sinister drawl, rather high-pitched as though, like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, he was transmogrifying into an alter ego. Seeing him in the gloomy attic with his head thrown back and eyes half-closed, a chill of fear came over me. I stood uncertain how to react, holding fast to the canvas and candle. I was about to speak some consolatory word, even congratulate him on taking such a violent setback so well, when - not for the only time on that extraordinary day - something took place which will forever stay in my memory. His face now utterly distorted, Holmes shrieked ‘Am I to stand here and chuckle at my own defeat? Put candle to canvas, Watson! Do it now!’

Realising even as he spoke I would refuse to perform this sensational act, Holmes closed with me like a Fury, seizing me with convulsive strength. The ink- and chemical-stained hands able to display an extraordinary delicacy of touch with his experiments now seemed to belong to a Madagascar python. My legs began to sag. Within an instant a hand able to bend a steel poker crushed my fingers, pressing the candle against the canvas. Tiny bluish flames sprang like genies from the surface, licking at my hand. The candle dropped. Spilt linseed oil on the thick dust and tinder-dry wood-shavings caught fire. Within seconds the roar of the burning floorboards sounded preternaturally loud.

We made our exit. Despite the stiffness in my leg from the Jezzail’s bullet, I scrambled at speed down the narrow stairs, staying on the very heels of my fleet companion. Once outside, at the small bridge leading to the Wild Garden, for an unconscionable time Holmes stopped to stare in silence at Crick’s End. I waited anxiously. Even though the wind had slackened and the night air was cooling fast, I worried that the Aberdeen terriers would catch our scent.

At Holmes’ whispered command we re-commenced a withdrawal, as despairing as Napoleon on the retreat from Moscow, passing a statue of Hephaestus, blacksmith of the gods, half-hidden by the Brazilian gunnera, the plant’s leaves huge and sinister in the half-moon’s light. At the side-gate to the pitted lane I paused to look back through high trees. The mill was a blaze of light. Flames had forced their way through the ancient roof, stabbing into the heavens, like pink feathers from a monstrous flamingo. Alerted by the acrid smell of smoke drifting across open windows and the loud crackle of burning timber, Siviter’s staff were running out into the open. Soon the garden would be alive with people. At any second I expected to hear the deep, booming voice of a scenthound on our trail, hunting us as such hounds hunt jackals in Afghanistan.

Ahead of me by some yards, I could see the gleam of the side-lights of our waiting carriage. Holmes was already there. He gave a rapid order to our cabman. Driven by my and Holmes’ exhortation, quite as though he had no eye for the flames nor ear for the urgent voices of half a dozen Crick’s End staff, our loyal driver used his whip. The carriage surged forward.