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Chapter
Five

Surrey
Interlude

Mid-morning on the
following day found Holmes and myself at Waterloo Station where the
sleuth purchased two tickets to Litchfield.

Our train journey to
Surrey was uneventful. During most of it my friend leaned back in his
seat with his hat pulled over his eyes, his chin sunk on his chest
and his long legs stretched out before him. He might have been
catnapping, or his brain could just as easily have been churning. I
guessed that neither was the case and that he was, instead,
disassociating himself from our discussion with his brother and the
events of the previous evening so that he could approach the Deets
mansion and its problems with a clear mind. It was Holmes's
contention that a brain free of supposition and unclouded by
half-truths was like an unused photographic plate, ready to take
impressions.

A four-wheeler awaited
our arrival at the station and whisked us into the countryside. The
rain had passed through the area on its way to London and the greens
were greener because of it. A spring sun projected lukewarm rays to
brighten the scene, and everywhere was a soft, almost melodious sound
as swollen rivulets attempted to drain off the surface water that had
accumulated during the torrents of the past few days.

As we wound through
curved lanes bordered by hedges and trees eagerly displaying the
first new growth of the season, there was the musty but not
unpleasant odor of wet leaves and moist earth. Into these tranquil
surroundings a seeming contradiction sprang to my mind and traveled
to my lips.

"Did Deets mention
why he lived down country?"

"It would seem your
interest in the racing world is confined to the equines that you
wager on, ol' fellow."

I admitted as much.

"But they had to
come from somewhere. Mayswood is well known as a stud farm."

"By Jove, I have
heard of it."

"But did not
associate it with our client. No matter. Possibly you can secure
some hot tips on potential winners of the future."

Our road now left the
trees and progressed up a slope towards an imposing marble building,
much as Deets had described it. I noted a considerable cluster of
buildings in the rear, obviously stables, and white rail fences that
subdivided lush meadowland. In one area there were several jumps, and
everywhere there was the neat and clipped white-on-green one would
expect at a breeding farm.

As we reached the crest
of the incline, our carriage swept round the imposing house and we
found Clyde—I forced myself to think of him as Deets—speaking
to two gillies in the stable area. He crossed towards us immediately,
a smile creasing his firm face.

"I trust your
journey was pleasant, gentlemen."

"Quite,"
replied Holmes.

His busy eyes were
absorbing the scene as were mine. A number of horses were being
released to follow familiar paths towards pastures. Some of the
animals were mature, powerful beasts given to demonstrate their fit
condition with leaps and lashing feet as they gained momentum and
streaked into the fenced areas that surrounded the establishment.

Our host, in riding
trousers and cavalry boots with an open shirt, was a far cry from the
dandy of the previous day. As he led us toward the mansion house, I
could not suppress a question.

"Any potential
stakes winners among your animals?"

"We always hope.
Several yearlings show unusual promise and their bloodlines are
excellent. There's one, sired by Nurania, that we're excited about."

We were close by the
dwelling now. A
porte cochere
was the main feature of this
side of the mansion, and a large affair it was. Two carriages could
have driven underneath it at the same time. Deets indicated
puzzlement as to the next move.

"Would you care to
wash up now before lunch, or does a visit to the scene of the
incident appeal?"

"Being outside, let
us view the balcony from the ground," suggested Holmes, and our
host led us round the nearby corner.

The north side of
Mayswood had an imposing flight of steps up to a formal entryway,
this being the front entrance, though I imagined the major
traffic passed through the door by the
porte cochere.
Further
along, the smooth stone walls formed a right-angle recess allowing
for a second-story balcony onto which five French windows opened. The
break in the rectangular shape of the edifice was a pleasing
architectural touch. The balcony was fronted by a stone balustrade on
which were ornamental heads of savage beasts. In the center, a lion's
head was slightly larger than its companions, a nice patriotic touch
I thought.

"This being the
balcony that you feel the intruder reached?" questioned Holmes
in a manner that indicated his query was purely form.

Deets nodded. "For
the life of me, I don't see how he made it."

I didn't, either. The
windows on the ground floor were all effectively barred. Above them
the walls were smooth, and any ledges or projections of some sort
that would have given a cat burglar the handholds necessary to reach
the balcony were just not there. Stout English ivy, which has served
the lawless so well, was also absent.

Deets and I watched
Holmes survey the side of the building and then move to a different
position to view the balcony from another angle. When the
horse-breeder looked at me questioningly, I indicated that I was as
ignorant as he was to what was going through the sleuth's mind. This
was not quite true, of course.

"Suppose I go
inside and clean up," he suggested. "If you would care to
view the sitting room, Dooley will show you up."

"Capital!"
responded Holmes in a preoccupied manner.

As our client removed
himself, I turned anxiously to my companion. Unless he had already
come upon something, I fancied that he was viewing the scene and
asking his agile mind what he would do were he a burglar intent on
reaching the balcony. Before I could frame a question, Holmes's
eyes found mine.

"A poser, would you
say, Watson?"

"Indeed. I cannot
imagine how even one of those human flies from the circus world could
do it."

"Well, he did not
climb the walls. He did not use a ladder. Such equipment could
not have been removed in time. And," he added, chuckling, "he
did not fly, lacking wings."

"Then how? There's
certainly no clue."

"You are not at
your best, ol' chap. By eliminating the more common methods, we must
settle on a rope, an aid used by mountain climbers all the time."

My mouth sagged. Not at
Holmes's simple explanation but at my idiocy for not thinking of it
myself.

"Here I stand,"
continued the detective. "It is a dark and rainy night,
important since the sound of falling water serves to cover any noise.
In my hand is a coil of line attached to a light grappling hook. From
right about here," he said, positioning himself, "I believe
I could cast the hook upwards and over that stone balustrade. When
the tines of the hook grip the railing, I keep the line taut and
swarm up it to the second story. Now, if clever, I prepare for the
worst by releasing the grappling hook, passing it under the rail of
the balustrade, and lowering it to the ground. Now I have two strands
of rope leading to the ground. I enter Mayswood via the French
windows. But I hear approaching sounds. I flee back to the balcony
and lower myself rapidly by sliding down the lines. Back at ground
level, I pull the line free and disappear into the darkness. 'Tis
done."

"Holmes, that's
amazing. You have recreated the entire event."

"Not so, for I've
revealed how I would do it. However, should we discover some
scratches on that balustrade that might have been made by the hook I
envision, I rather fancy the matter is solved."

There was a certain
self-satisfaction in his words that was grating. I banished my
irritation as unworthy.

A venerable butler
greeted us at the front entrance and led us upstairs. Mayswood was
high-ceilinged, and most of the rooms were large enough to hold a
meeting of the army general staff. But the feudal atmosphere of so
many English country estates was completely lacking, no surprise
since the mansion was certainly erected in this century and the
furnishings were of no particular period but reflected the styles of
many lands.

The upstairs sitting
room was filled with sunlight from its four French windows, and the
balcony revealed a breathless view of the surrounding countryside.
Holmes was surveying the stone balustrade with his ever-present
pocket glass when Deets rejoined us, now clad in tweeds. Holmes's
movements had become more feverish as he moved from section to
section of the stone railing, and finally he regarded us both
with an expression akin to chagrin.

"I presented a
plausible explanation to Watson regarding the coming and going
of your uninvited guest, but the necessary corroboration eludes me."

I had begun to explain
to Deets Holmes's idea when there was a sharp exclamation from the
sleuth, who was now inspecting the outside of the railing.

"All is not lost,"
he exclaimed as we crossed to stand beside him, following the line
indicated by his outstretched index finger. The ornamental lion's
head on the outside of the balustrade rail was missing half an ear.

"What's this?"
said Deets. "I wonder when that happened."

"Quite recently,"
replied Holmes in a triumphant tone. "Note how the newly
revealed marble is not weathered as is the stone around it. My basic
idea was sound, but I missed on the execution."

Deets was regarding him
with a baffled expression that I recognized and well understood.

"Allow me to
re-create the actions of your intruder."

Holmes shot me a quick
glance. "This time, correctly. The man stood below, having no
doubt seen you, Mr. Deets, depart. He held a light but strong line
with a weight attached to its end, similar to the South American
bolo. He spun the weighted line round his head, much in the manner
of a cowboy of the American West with a lariat, and then cast it
upwards. The weighted end wrapped itself round this ornament,
knocking off part of an ear in the process. Holding the line taut, he
climbed up. Once here on the balcony he removed the weighted end, ran
it under the rail, and let it drop to the ground. I would estimate
that on departure he could slide down the rope and pull the
unweighted end free in a matter of fifteen seconds. Especially if he
wore gloves or had heavily calloused hands."

Deets was shaking his
head. "You have solved the mystery with a very clear
explanation, Mr. Holmes. What do I do now?"

"I don't know. Nor
do I know my next move unless I find out what the intruder was
after."

This suggestive remark
was allowed to dangle for a brief moment and I felt that we might be
getting somewhere, but then Deets looked away. Was there an
expression of guilt on his face?

"I can't tell you,"
he finally said.

This could have been
read two ways, but Holmes did not choose to pursue the matter.
Rather, he turned to admire the vista of rolling green fields.

"I note the horses
all around us," he said casually.

Deets eagerly seized on
the change of subject.

"We keep the brood
mares separate, of course, but allow the yearlings and the stallions
to roam at will. We're at the crest of the hill here and the fields
stretch on every side. They are well fenced, and it gives the young
fellows a chance to watch the sires. They seem to develop faster that
way, chasing after pater as it were."

"I understand,"
said Holmes, "that horses, especially race horses, rather fancy
companions. Roosters, dogs. . . ."

"Some do. Before my
father bought Mayswood he raised dogs. But he developed a skin
allergy that the doctors attributed to canine hair. That was the end
of the dogs."

"Whippets?
Greyhounds, perhaps?"

"Dobermans,"
was the reply. Holmes allowed this subject to drop as well.

By unspoken mutual
consent, we all retired to the interior, descending the great
stairs towards the dining room where we enjoyed a tasteful luncheon
and some excellent burgundy that our host recommended highly. I was
prompted to inquire as to where he had secured this vintage but
suppressed the question as it seemed in poor taste.