Sherlock Holmes and the Chinese Junk Affair and Other Stories (16 page)

Holmes smiled and said, ‘And other members of staff recently appointed?’

The estate manager viewed some distant deer nibbling grass. They were the viscount’s pride and joy but, I suspected, not his from the look that passed momentarily across his face. ‘Well, there is Johnson who does a lot of the odd jobs and helps out in the kitchen. He worked for one of the local farmers, but reduced his workforce; he was lucky to find a job here.’

Holmes cut in quickly. ‘What about persons employed recently who have no local connections?’

Mr Wilson nodded towards the Hall. ‘Ah! Well, there’s Stevens, the butler. Came with good recommendations from his last position. His Lordship interviewed him, of course. Been with us almost three years, I should say.’

‘About as long as his Lordship has been home from India then?’ remarked Holmes.

‘Yes, I should say so. The previous butler retired after the death of his Lordship’s father.’

Holmes turned towards the trophy house. ‘I suppose the construction and security, guns, trip-wires, geese and the like have put extra work on you and your staff?’ Holmes watched his face and saw a look of weariness flicker just for a moment across it; then it was replaced by an alertness, as though realising he had revealed his most private feelings, was now determined that the rest of the conversation would give nothing away. Holmes continued.

‘Do I gather that you think his Lordship has spent too much time and money on his... pet hobby, and not enough time on more important things, like the managing of the estate?’

Mr Wilson drew himself up and gave Holmes an unfriendly look. ‘I did not say so. What his Lordship does is entirely his own affair. I merely carry out his instructions.’

It was obvious Holmes had touched a sore point and had annoyed him.

‘If there are no more questions, Mr Holmes, I will be gone. I have matters to attend to.’

‘Just one more question,’ said Holmes. ‘The names of the workers who helped his Lordship lay out the traps, wires and guns.’

Wilson produced a list from his pocket. ‘I thought you might want to know that, so I made a note of them for you. There are eight all told. The first on the list is Brown; been with the family as a gardener since leaving school.

‘The next is old blind Jim Roberts. An old army man. Rather tragic how he lost his sight; was captured on the Indian northwest frontier by tribesmen. They staked him out in the hot sun for three days. When they found him, he was in a bad way, they say; but he recovered, all except his sight. His Lordship’s father gave him his present job when he was invalided out of the army.

‘Then there is the third on the list. Parsons, a gamekeeper, obviously handy with things like shotguns, traps and trip-wires. He’s a very practical man. His Lordship took him off his normal duties to help. Then there is Smith, a coachman, again handy with his hands, so his Lordship took him too.’

We listened patiently whilst the other four names were listed. All were old and trusted workers.

Holmes bade the estate manager good morning and we continued our walk.

‘Well, we appear to have ruffled the feathers of our good Mr Wilson. Obviously he considered the use of so many of his men taken off their duties to set traps, trip-wires and guns as so much waste of time and money, but was too loyal to admit it.’

‘And the others?’ I said.

‘All good solid respectable workers, I imagine; most of them, as you heard, had been with the family for years. I rather fancy some unknown person we have yet to hear of, one of his Lordship’s cronies, a fellow officer from his Indian days, may be at the bottom of it.’ He stepped around a muddy part of the pathway. ‘You know, someone who was willing to risk life and limb to pit his wits against his Lordship.’ I agreed it was a possibility.

‘I think I shall have a word with the butler, see if he can supply a few names for us to investigate. It might be a short-cut to solving the case, rather than trying to work out how the thief overcame the formidable barrier of security.’

We watched the geese feeding on the grass outside their night quarters for a while, then Holmes went in search of the butler, whilst I walked down to the lake to try a spot of fishing with a rod and line lent me by his Lordship.

I caught a couple of good perch and then returned to the Hall for lunch. Over the meal, Holmes remarked that he understood that, this Saturday, the village show was to be held.

His Lordship swallowed the food in his mouth, and replied.

‘Yes, it’s a great event. The workers on the estate and everyone in the village look forward to it. There are prizes for best jams, best vegetables, best rabbits, you know the sort of thing; and, of course, events.’

Holmes said, ‘And feats of skill and daring, I hear.’

His Lordship poised his fork midway. ‘If you refer to the prize I give to the village lad who can get furthest into my trophy house fortifications, then you’re right.’

I gasped and before really thinking, said, ‘But surely that is highly dangerous, sir. I mean, one of those boys could set off a trap or a shotgun.’

His Lordship laughed. ‘No, no, Dr Watson. The traps are all sprung so they cannot hurt anyone, and the guns are disarmed; no shot in them. The boys are blindfolded and they have to try and get as near the trophy house as possible, without tripping over a wire or tinkling a bell.’

Holmes asked, ‘And have any managed to get all the way to the trophy house wall yet?’

‘Bless you, no. The best was a lad who got halfway, so it is proof of the effectiveness of my defences.’

‘Not quite... otherwise we would not be here,’ replied Holmes.

‘Quite right, Mr Holmes, quite right.’ The viscount looked a little abashed.

Holmes continued, ‘And after the show, all the man-traps are reset and the guns loaded again?’ His Lordship agreed.

‘Yes, and don’t forget the geese. At night, young Sanders, the stable lad, herds them all into the inner compound to sleep. No one can get by them without waking them up...’ He looked rather foolishly at Holmes, realising the fallacy of his boast, yet again.

When we were by ourselves after dinner, enjoying the use of his Lordship’s library, I asked Holmes if he had gathered any useful information from the butler.

‘Much, much, Watson. But it will take time to follow it up; for that we shall need to return to London, for it is there most of his Lordship’s friends reside, but not all. One or two live close by, very close by indeed. They visit him, I understand, mostly at weekends. They swap stories and anecdotes about their old life out in India. I should imagine about the polo matches and sports events they took part in, that sort of thing. Young army officers the world over get up to some rare pranks, as you no doubt did yourself, Watson.’ I had to agree, thinking about some I had taken part in.

‘So you think it likely that it could be one of them behind it all?’ Holmes did not reply, but got up from his chair and went over to the window, which had a view of the trophy house in the distance. The geese were now penned-up in the outer perimeter, the inner containing all the traps, wires and guns, of course.

Holmes turned around, sat down, filled his pipe and puffed away, blue smoke drifting in clouds about him. At last he spoke.

‘You know, Watson, the thing that worries me most about this case is the geese. They are creatures of a most sensitive nature. The slightest unfamiliar sound, as you are aware, will set them off honking in a most unholy manner.’

‘Could they have been drugged?’ I ventured to suggest. ‘The old poacher’s trick, you know, of putting down raisins soaked in brandy to catch pheasants. The pheasants eat up the raisins, go up into the tree to roost and later drop down to the ground, drunk with the brandy, ready for the poachers to quietly gather up during the night.’

‘No, Watson, I’m afraid not. I thought of that, but the young lad Sanders, who has the job of both penning and releasing them at sunrise each morning into the park, informed me that on no occasion have the geese appeared doped or drunk. They have all been alert and ready to be let out. If an attempt at doping them had taken place, some of the geese would have been bound to have eaten more of the doped raisins than others, appearing still drowsy the following morning.’

Holmes settled down for a catnap, while I looked along the library shelves for something to read.

‘You don’t think it is Wilson, the estate manager, do you Holmes?’

I was rather surprised myself at my sudden speaking out aloud my thoughts. He opened his eyes and looked at me for a few moments before replying.

‘I, too, have considered him as a possible candidate. Consider this, Watson. He is in a very difficult position, trying to please his employer, and yet at the same time, being the whipping boy for everything that goes wrong and needs attention on the estate. He sees what requires to be done, but is denied the authority to do anything about it, so busy is he with carrying out the whims and wishes of his Lordship. Did you notice how he stared at the deer grazing the grass when we spoke to him?’

‘Yes, I thought he viewed them with irritation almost. I didn’t feel he was too happy about them.’

‘You are right. I learned from the man who is in charge of the estate sawmill, that the introduction of deer onto the estate is another of his Lordship’s innovations. The sawyer has had to provide from the estate timber miles of fencing to keep the deer contained to that part of the estate, from where best they can be viewed from the Hall.’

‘But why does his Lordship wish to see deer grazing?’ I was perplexed.

‘I understand it is the latest fad of some of the landed gentry, the ladies mostly, to give a sylvan look to the vista, as they and their guests gather for afternoon tea in their fine country houses.’

‘So, in an act of frustration, Wilson decides to vent his rage on...’

‘No, Watson, I don’t think so. He is the kind of man who, although thwarted and baulked in carrying out his duties, would never, I repeat, never, carry out such an action of revenge. It is not in the nature of the man.

‘I found it most interesting talking to the sawyer. He informed me that the invention of the circular saw came about when a workman in Mansfield, Nottinghamshire, you know the shire county of the legendary Robin Hood, cut the teeth on the edge of a circular piece of cardboard, spun it on an axle and cut a carrot in two with it. From a small simple idea grew the huge steel circular saws like the one on this estate, and now used all over the world.’

Holmes sank back into his chair again and catnapped on, whilst I found a book on pike fishing which filled the time before hearing the dinner gong being struck.

That evening, having dined well with the noble lord and his lady, we walked down to the village inn to partake of the good ale and, knowing Holmes’s habits, to mix with the locals in the hope of picking up any information.

The inn was packed, which rather surprised me. The head gardener came across to speak with us, and then the head gamekeeper came to ask us to have a drink. The locals were well mannered and did not stare directly at the famous Sherlock Holmes, but contented themselves from time to time, with sidelong glances. Holmes remarked, ‘The inn is very full. Is it like this most evenings?’

The head gamekeeper lowered his drinking mug. ‘Oh, no bless you! ’Tis the show on Saturday that brings them in. They’re here to find out who stands a chance of winning, what the other chap is likely to exhibit and such like.’

The head gardener agreed. ‘’Tis a rare old show, Mr Holmes. Be you stopping to see it?’

Holmes looked from one to the other. ‘A lot depends upon my being able to bring the case to a successful conclusion.’

‘Be you any nearer, Mr Holmes, like clearing it up?’ asked the gamekeeper.

Holmes replied that he was still investigating and had not yet finished interviewing everyone.

Many of the locals in the inn we recognised, having spoken with them when walking around the estate. There was Shaw, one of the grooms, talking to old blind Jim Roberts. In front of them Jim had a huge parsnip which the groom was turning over and weighing in his hand. ‘When t’other gardeners knock off from their gardening when it gets dusk, old Jim just carries on; ’tis all the same to ’im,’ said the head gardener.

‘They brings in samples to show each other, it’s a bit of a bluff really. They sometimes brings in a poor specimen to show the other chap, and the other chap thinks, if that’s the best he can show, he needn’t bother too much when he gets his own stuff ready for the show. Only to be beaten like, because the other chap brings his really good stuff in on the day of the show. At other times a chap will bring his very best stuff, hoping to dishearten the other chap from not showing. It’s a bit of lark really; each knows what the other’s up to, but it’s all part of the fun.’

As we talked, we were pleasantly aware that a mouth-organ was being played and the sound of rapid hand-clapping to accompany it was coming from an ever-widening circle of patrons at the far end of the room.

In the centre of the circle a most agile and energetic dancer was performing what can only be described as a cossack dance, popular now on the stage of some of the music-halls. He danced with vigour and vitality; his shirt partly pulled out from his trousers gave it a Russian blouse look.

His audience clapped louder and louder, faster and faster, until the finale, when he walked on his hands, back-flipped and pirouetted into the air.