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acdholmesfest2013-04-02 03:00 pm
tweedisgood.livejournal.com) wrote in acdholmesfest2013-04-02 03:00 pm
Entry tags:
Fic for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
impulsereader: The Adventure of the Brewer's Ring, PG
Title: The Adventure of the Brewer's Ring
Recipient:
impulsereader
Author:capt_facepalm
Rating: PG (language)
Word Count: 7400
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson, Inspector Lestrade (cameo)
Warnings: None
Summary: An early casefic containing a mystery (or two), some danger, and a ring.
Disclaimer: Not for profit.
It was late in August of the year 1881 when my fellow lodger, the amateur detective, Sherlock Holmes was contracted by two unlikely clients. Well, to be fair, it had been my experience in the scant seven or so months I had known him, that people of all shapes and sizes, and of varying means, sought his counsel regarding matters ranging from the dire to the trivial.
That particular day, the summer rain beat down as if its sole purpose was to scour months of accumulated grime from the very streets of London. At that time it was not unexpected to find me in our apartments. The Medical Board had been annoyingly prophetic when they gauged my health ruined beyond hope, and a year of convalescence had done nothing to disprove their prognosis. I would not be resuming my military service, my pension was cut to half-pay, and that was that. I was seven and twenty years old. Retired. Crippled. Useless.
The dismal weather reflected my mood when the sound of the doorbell interrupted my bleak ruminations. Mrs Hudson tapped on the door and announced that there were two people requesting to consult with the detective.
‘Thank goodness!’ Holmes exclaimed.
‘You were expecting someone?’ I asked.
‘No. But I am so extremely bored, and at this point I welcome any diversion, no matter how frivolous. I am between cases and, to be frank, your dour mood has rendered your company less sterling than usual.’
‘No doubt,’ I muttered ungraciously as I was not of a humour to be mocked.
‘My dear fellow, don’t go. Stay and see what unfolds. There may be some ray of light to penetrate the day’s gloom. Please show our guests in, Mrs Hudson!’
A young woman; a girl, really, of not more than eighteen years, and a boy of perhaps twelve who, due to his similar colouring and class of clothing, must be her brother, were bidden to enter. I took note of their details as best I could in case I was to be quizzed on it later.
Both young people had been walking in the rain for some distance yet their ginger-brown hair remained dry. Whether they had umbrellas or rain-hoods, I could not tell. Any wet apparel and accoutrements would have been left downstairs.
Our younger visitor looked around the room, and in the manner of boys, his eyes lighted on the one wall panel decorated by my fellow lodger with his collection of exotic daggers and knives.
In the past, I had commented that these things were hideous and not suitable to be on display for visitors. That Holmes’ callers were of a business nature rather than a social one, and the fact that I had no callers at all, rendered the point moot. Since I had been overruled, I tried not to dwell upon them overmuch.
One of the boy’s shoulders appeared damper than his other. I turned my attention back to the young lady. It was the same with her, except her right shoulder appeared damp, not her left. I pictured the two, making their way through the street, sharing one umbrella, the diverted rain eventually soaking through to their clothing, but I got caught up in the details of the conversation and the reason for their consultation.
The girl was young but of a bold type and she did not hesitate when Holmes identified himself to her.
‘My name is Jeanetta McLean and this is my brother, Douglas. We come from the village of Millington-on-Thames, not far from Oxford. Our late father, Mr David McLean, managed the Silver and Gold brewery in Oxford, and owned The Thistle, a public house in Millington. We were summoned to London to meet with our solicitors regarding the settlement of his estate.’
‘Was there some complication in the deposition?’ Holmes asked.
‘No, father’s health had been failing for some time and he ensured that everything was in order before his passing. Douglas will have shares in the brewery and will inherit The Thistle when he comes of age, and I have been granted a generous allowance. In the meantime, our interests will be managed in trust by the our solicitors at Mercer and Locke.’
‘They are a reputable firm. What business do you have with me?’
‘Because, Mr Holmes, we found this,’ she retrieved a small silver item from her purse and handed it to Holmes, ‘In a pawn shop in Soho.’
Holmes picked up a magnifying lens and moved to the window where the light was better for his examination. The item in question was a ring.
‘Your father was a soldier. This is a regimental ring. Watson, what can you tell me about it?’ When he handed the ring and the glass to me, I felt Holmes’ intense scrutiny shifting to my person. Whether this was another test of my (admittedly) feeble observational abilities, or whether he was truly seeking my advice, I found hard to determine.
‘My father was a brewer, not a soldier,’ the boy scoffed. Holmes favoured him with an indulgent smile which I, who knew him better, read as condescending.
I examined the ring, and wondered what it was that he expected me to see. Holmes was usually quick to point out the deficiencies in my thought processes. He assured me it was for my own edification and not for his particular sport, yet I often doubted it. I was the one closest to hand most often, and if he happened to be bored at the time, even the thick skin I developed at school and with the army, could not keep him from aggravating my rawest nerve.
I looked to Miss McLean. ‘Mr Holmes is correct; this is a regimental ring. Did your father inherit it?’ I asked.
‘I don’t think so. He referred to it as his ring when he gave it to our mother, and it bears his initials,’ the girl replied.
‘This is a regimental ring of the 42nd Regiment of Foot,’ I said. ‘Your father must have been an officer in the Crimean campaign.’ Holmes nodded, indicating I should proceed.. ‘It was common practice for officers to band together after a significant battle and commission souvenirs to be made and shared amongst each other. This ring bears the Cross of St Andrew and the regimental motto of the 42nd, as well as the wheat emblem of the city of Sebastopol. The siege ended in 1855, late summer, I believe.’
‘Father never spoke of the army except to forbid any interest Douglas entertained in a military career,’ Miss McLean said, her brother scowled his agreement. ‘But what is most vexing is that Father never pawned this ring. It was buried with our mother, five years ago.’
Miss McLean described the nature of their mother’s illness resulting from a late-in-term miscarriage, and their grieving father’s insistence that the ring should be buried along with his dear wife, rather than desecrate the corpse to salvage it,.
Rain had driven the McLean children into the establishment of Dodwich and Howell that morning and some tin soldiers caught Master McLean’s eye. The ring was found among the Crimean War memorabilia. Jeanetta spotted it at once and raised a fuss. The shopkeeper was so alarmed that he gave her the ring in exchange for the promise that she would not call for the police. Since Jeanetta was a clever girl, and Mr Holmes was not the police, per se, she sought him out.
‘Well, that is quite piquant! If you trust this ring to my safekeeping for the time being, I will look into this matter for you. I will give you a receipt in the meantime, and will update you as to my, or I should say “our”, progress.’
Before young Douglas could ask about the daggers and knives, Holmes had briskly shown them to the door and closed it with his ‘the game’s afoot’ grin.
‘Although it’s not worth very much, it’s a wonder the pawnbroker let her keep the ring,’ I began.
‘Of course he let her have it. Can you imagine the commotion that spirited young woman would have caused if they hadn’t?’
Indeed, I could.
‘The ring’s circumstance is hardly mysterious; it is a simple case of grave robbing,’ said Holmes. ‘The real mystery is, why would someone wish to keep their military career from their family.’
I could think of several reasons, none which Holmes would understand, and none of which I cared to explain.
The next morning, over my solitary breakfast, Mrs Hudson informed me that my flatmate had left our lodgings early in the morning in high spirits, with the promise of returning by afternoon tea. I spent the remainder of the morning searching through the scraps of our recent newspapers for the obituary of David McLean, late of Oxford. It proved less helpful than I had hoped. The death notice was brief and gave no mention to the brewer’s military past.
Holmes was as good as his word and returned by mid-afternoon.
‘I have sown the seeds, and now all I have to do is harvest the crop! There is one last avenue of inquiry I want to make, and that involves you,’ he said, arousing my curiosity. ’I am sending you to St George’s to interview anyone who knew McLean’s service.’
‘No, not that,’ I protested. ‘The St George is a private club for retired officers; Army officers.’
‘My mistake. I thought I was addressing John H. Watson, Captain, retired; late of the Army Medical Department, and survivor of Maiwand.’
‘You do not understand!’ I retorted, ‘Medical officers are not--’
‘Why you should be afraid of a hall full of stuffy greybeards, I have no idea!’
That was true. Holmes was not privy to what I knew. He assumed, like the rest of the public, that those who survived the disastrous battle in 1880 should be honoured, and even worse, pitied. Far from sympathetic, the opinion within some of the higher army echelons was more pointed: for the sake of our Empire’s honour, we all should have died rather than accept such an ignoble defeat.
‘Reserve some of that indignation for this evening. I have arranged for you to meet Colonel Wadye at eight o’clock.’
There was no arguing with Holmes so by seven o’clock, I presented myself, fresh-shaven and in proper evening attire, in the sitting room. ‘No uniform?’ Holmes asked.
‘No. I am not a club member. It would not be appropriate, and it is ill-fitting.’
The cab dropped me off that the prestigious club and perhaps Holmes galling presence, ensuring my compliance by watching me from the pavement, was what I required to overcome my uneasiness. I entered the club, gave my calling card to the commissionaire, and asked for Colonel Wadye. The commissionaire bade me wait and a moment later he returned with a distinguished-looking officer.
Colonel George Innes Wadye was exactly how I envisioned him: all scarlet and gold with a long line of medals which jingled as he moved. He seemed very active for a man of some sixty years. Wispy grey hair adorned his head but some colour remained in the bushy eyebrows which all but shaded his sharp blue eyes. He looked me over and shook my hand in welcome, indicating for me to follow him into one of the grand parlours.
Bookshelves and paintings of the great battles lined the walls, and the high ceiling boasted intricate plasterwork. A fug of cigar and pipe tobacco smoke greeted me and I nearly stumbled on the unexpected plushness of the carpet. Several other grey and balding heads lifted from various armchairs and turned in our direction. Two of the old guard, soon introduced to me as Majors Headdy and Philpott, joined us around a low table.
I explained that my inquiry was on behalf of the children of the recently deceased McLean, who until now, had had no knowledge of their father’s military career. I then supplied what I knew, which amounted to his age, which I had discovered in the obituary, his regiment, and the expectation that he was likely present at the siege of Sebastopol.
‘There may be many reasons a man might wish to conceal his past,’ said Headdy.
‘Something shameful,’ suggested Philpott, eyeing me as if to gauge my reaction.
‘Yes, but not necessarily,’ said Colonel Wadye. ‘If a man wished to keep his past a secret, I wonder if it is any of our business to go digging into it.’
‘Those are my sentiments as well,’ said I, ‘But it can do him no harm anymore, and it may give some measure of comfort to his children to have this matter resolved. I promise to handle any information with the utmost delicacy.’
Thus assured of my discretion, names and dates were bandied about. None of the three officers knew of Mr McLean, but each of them thought they may know of someone they could ask. We at last came to an impasse and, thanking them for their time and consideration, I left them the address where they could contact me.
Holmes met me outside and demanded all the details of my interview as we walked back to Baker Street.
‘More seeds sown, Watson! Only time will tell if we will find fruit, or only weeds. With a little luck, we should be able to solve the mystery of Mr McLean and catch some grave robbers as well!’ Holmes practically bounced with glee. ‘And I have come to the conclusion that the importance of this ring lies not in its provenance, but in its circumstance of finding its way to the pawn shop of Messrs. Dodwich and Howell.’
In the weeks that followed, while we watched the broadsheets for news of deaths in the region of Millington-on-Thames, replies to Holmes’ telegrams and letters wended their way to our flat. I, too, had some success. Major Philpott had located an officer, by the name of Hargreave, who had served with McLean. His letter was polite but distant. He remembered McLean from Sebastopol and later from India. According to him, Second lieutenant McLean distinguished himself at Sebastopol and received promotion. His service in India at the time of the Mutiny had been unremarkable, yet he again received a field promotion to brevet captain when his commander became ill. In 1858, after the last of the Mutiny had been quelled, McLean unexpectedly resigned his commission and returned to England.
Holmes was disappointed with the paucity of the information the letter contained. ‘I expected to learn more,’ he said.
‘If you want to know what an officer was like, you don’t ask his fellow officers; you ask his men.’ I replied. And so I was tasked to run a regular advertisement in most popular agony columns of London, Glasgow, and Edinburgh, asking for anyone who served under Captain McLean to contact me.
Two weeks passed and I received no response from my agony column campaign. Holmes’ inquiries at the military college and with the Royal Army gleaned very little that we did not already know. Dates of McLean’s enrollment, commissions, and discharge were all that those tight-lipped institutions were willing to divulge. I asked whether we ought to continue the newspaper advertisements. Holmes thought they might still be useful and had me switch to a weekly, rather than daily, posting.
Time passed and other clients requiring the expertise of Sherlock Holmes showed up at our doorstep and my flatmate became engrossed in their cases. To my great surprise, Holmes woke me early one morning in a state of great excitement.
‘Good news, Watson! Miss Marjory Keane, spinster, aged 70 years, has died!’ he exclaimed.
‘Good news? For whom?’ I groaned. Not for me, startled awake hours before my usual time of rising. Not for her family, if she had one. Holmes waved an early morning edition under my nose.
‘For us, old man! The obituary mentions her philanthropic causes and a long list of beloved nieces and nephews... Watson, don’t you see? We may yet pick up the trail of the McLean graverobbers. The funeral and burial will take place this Friday... in Millington-on-Thames!’
We swayed back and forth in our compartment as the countryside passed by our window. Holmes seemed lost in thought and had I not been accustomed to his methods, I would have imagined that he was theorising on the case before him. I left him to his thoughts and tried not to dwell on the ache that resulted from our dash to catch the departing train. It was my first excursion in weeks and I did not want to be an encumbrance.
Millington-on-Thames proved to be a quaint village not more than five miles from Oxford. Like many smaller settlements in our time, Millington’s glory was in its past. Most of the young people had left the bucolic life to find work in the factories and offices of the larger cities. Those who remained either operated small businesses catering to the local populace, or took jobs in Oxford. Several of the old estates had been purchased by the rich who fancied pretences of country life. These homes were immediately apparent because they were better maintained than the others.
The high street boasted a church, a modest collection of shops, and The Thistle public house. In the centre of the village, there was small park, which was all that remained of the old common. A pillory stood in the middle of the gardens. Holmes and I examined it as we strolled through the park. Some child or prankster had drawn unhappy caricatures on it with chalk. Since the brass padlock was new and the mechanism itself seemed intact, I asked Holmes if he thought it was fully functional.
‘Indeed it is, sir,’ a stranger’s voice answered. I looked up to see that we had been joined by a very large police constable. ‘And if I catch the cheeky little blighter what done these scribbles, I’ll lock ‘em up good and tight ‘til he begs for his mum to come and get him.’
‘That seems a bit drastic,’ said Holmes. ‘Surely there are greater crimes to worked than minor vandalism which will wash away with the next rainfall.’
‘Naw, the village is pretty quiet. Sometimes a flock o’ wild Oxonians descends on The Thistle, and I has to knock a few heads together. Otherwise, it’s gipsies and vagrants. But they’ve been rare lately. Guess the news has spread. They aren’t welcome here, if you catch my meaning.’
He tapped the top of his truncheon with a knowing wink. Holmes assured him that we understood and that we were gentlemen from London, come for the funeral. The constable suggested that if we planned to stay overnight, we should book rooms early. ‘As you must know, the dear old girl was rich, and her family is large. They’re coming from miles around. Tell ‘em at The Thistle the Jack Adern sent you and they’ll treat you right.’
‘There goes the strong arm of the law,’ Holmes remarked as Constable Adern ambled off down the high street.
‘Did he just intimate that he beats up vagrants to drive them away?’ I could barely restrain my incredulity.
‘And children, and strangers, and anyone else he takes a dislike to.’ said Holmes. ‘But, his advice is sound: luncheon at The Thistle, book rooms for the night, and pay our respects to the late Miss Keane this afternoon.’
The Thistle was a well-kept establishment and it was obvious that the McLean ownership had done much to improve what would have been one of the village’s oldest buildings. It was clean and the atmosphere inside was comfortable and welcoming. The age of the house was felt in the compact size of the upstairs guest rooms. My room was small, with just enough room for a narrow bed and a washing stand. Holmes took the room across the passage and we readied ourselves for the afternoon.
The funeral took place in the village church. There were hymns and flowers, and a congregation that looked daggers at each other. Holmes amused himself by observing and deducing the nature of the bereaved individuals. The vicar, the Reverend Alfred Penningdon, appeared to be an active man despite his fifty-odd years. He spoke with the solemnity the occasion required and praised the deceased, emphasising her generous support to his ministry over the years. Another mouth at the table, I concluded. From time to time I looked over at Holmes. No doubt, he had catalogued all the principal players in the drama. On my part, I gave silent thanks for not having family attachments of consequence.
The service ended and we followed the cortege to the hillside cemetery on the outskirts of Millington. Miss Keane’s friends and family favoured us with suspicious looks but apparently there were so many other strange faces in attendance that we need not have worried as being spotted as interlopers. Once the graveside service was completed, and when almost everyone had drifted away, two workmen began to shovel earth back into the grave. Holmes was examining some of the old gravestones and paid very little attention to the labourers, but I thought them to be worthy suspects since it was not a far stretch to go from grave-digging to grave-robbing. There were no signs that they were shirking their duties. Miss Keane’s grave was packed tight and tamped down, and the loose earth around it was tidied up. With shovels over their shoulders, the two workmen headed back to the village for their tea.
Holmes suggested we pay a visit to the McLean household and return the ring to Jeanetta. The warm sunshine and the fresh country air was incentive enough even though I was unaccustomed to walks of that length.
Miss McLean received us with a warm welcome. She was clearly disappointed that Holmes had not been able to tell her more of her father’s mysterious past. Holmes returned her father’s ring and told her that he still had hopes that more information could be found, but for the time being she should content herself in the knowledge that we had no reports of infamous or shameful behaviour her father’s past. We wished her happiness and, declining her invitation to stay for supper, we returned to The Thistle.
For me, the day had been long and wearying. That evening, I prepared a solution of analgesic and water which I consumed before heading down to supper, with the hope that the inn’s fare and the local ale would erase its bitter taste. Holmes blithely nattered on upon several subjects, none of which had any bearing on the case at hand. The fact that he picked at his meal was the only indication that he was deeply involved in an investigation. I ate my fill and thus satiated, and with the welcome effect of the painkiller, and the very agreeable muzziness from the ale, I found it hard to stay awake. It had been a long day and I did not need convincing when Holmes suggested I get some sleep.
I retired to my tiny room, loosened my clothes and lay down upon my welcome cot. Although tired from the day’s activities, deep sleep eluded me as it invariably does in unfamiliar places; therefore, I was well alert when my chamber door creaked open sometime in the dead of night. It was Holmes and he wore the dark outfit of a day labourer. I cast about for my pocketwatch. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning.
‘Wha... ?‘
He provided the answer before my question had even been uttered. ‘I came to invite you for a nocturnal peregrination, but seeing you are so comfortably settled, I have reconsidered. Tonight, I will go alone.’
I assured him that I was sufficiently rested and that I would not hear of him venturing out alone against foe or foes unknown. Although I had not thought to bring burglary attire, for indeed at the time I had nothing of the sort, the muted brown suit I wore would be dark enough for night work.
Now I came to understand why Holmes had insisted on taking the room which faced away from the village. It had been his plan all along to monitor the vicarage and he had spent the time since our parting, sitting in the dark, keeping a watchful vigil with determined fascination and a spyglass. Minutes ago, he had spotted what he had been waiting for: a light moving about inside the vicarage.
We slipped out of the inn unnoticed. Thankfully, the night was clear and mild, and the air was very still. The moon, waning gibbous, provided sufficient illumination once our eyes grew accustomed to its pale light. Similar moonlight on a similar summer night haunted my uncertain memories. Crossing a fallow field away from the sleeping village, Holmes stopped to scoop up some earth and proceeded to darken his face. I followed suit and suggested that the backs of our hands should be likewise addressed. He agreed and after inspecting my efforts, he doffed his woollen flat cap and indicated for me to wear it. Apparently, my fairer colouring required more cover than his naturally dark hair did.
Keeping an eye on the bobbing lantern light which marked the vicar’s progress along the road, we made a dash for the cemetery and managed to conceal ourselves minutes before he arrived. Other than the dark lantern, which he extinguished on arrival, the vicar carried no other tools, and instead of unearthing the grave, he secreted himself among the gravestones. Holmes expression told me that he had not been expecting that.
Time passed and Holmes long legs began to cramp. I too resisted the urge to fidget and, reaching for him, I put a finger to my lips. We both listened intently although nothing of note could be heard.
‘I hear nothing,’ he said is the lowest tones after a minute or so had passed.
‘Neither do I,’ I replied in kind, ‘But the crickets certainly have.’
Indeed, the chorus of crickets and frogs had ceased.
A minute or so later, heavy footsteps could be heard on the gravel lane and with the creaking of the old iron gate, four men entered the cemetery. The first man was one of the grave diggers from the afternoon. His companions included a shorter, stocky balding fellow, a youth of perhaps 16 years, and the big policeman with whom we were already acquainted, Jack Adern.
‘What is that thing the shorter one carries?’ I asked.
‘Ah. It’s a long-handled jemmy. Undoubtedly to pry open the coffin. These are not subtle villains. If they were, they would unscrew the bolts, raid the contents, and restore the fixtures without leaving such obvious evidence of their crime.’
The gravediggers set about their work. Two would dig at a time and the third would wait to spell off the others in turns. Constable Adern did not take up a shovel. When the others grumbled, he insisted that he was keeping watch.
Where was the vicar, I wondered. And why had he not intervened? I gestured my curiosity to Holmes and, signalling me to remain quiet, whispered, ‘He is waiting for the right moment.’
The digging progressed until the sound of shovel striking wooden coffin was heard.
‘That will be quite enough, gentlemen,’ said Reverend Penningdon, rising from his place of concealment, the hood of his lantern raised and the light shining in their faces, blinding them with it unaccustomed brightness. ‘Constable, you should be ashamed!’
The startled diggers ceased.
‘Oh, Vicar, I am, but why do you confront us now, when you musta been here all night? Waiting in the dark, until we was just about to--,’ Adern paused to think. ‘You greedy bastard! You want a cut!’
‘No! How dare you accuse me, you insolent thug! I was hoping you would repent and give up this unholy undertaking, but seeing that you are determined to consign your souls to Hell, I will not let you desecrate the departed lady’s casket!’
‘Fool,’ hissed Holmes under his breath.
I watched with trepidation as the big policeman towered over the vicar. ‘And exactly how do ya plan to stop us?’
Adern was lightning quick for a man of his size. He seized the vicar and proceeded to choke the life out of him. Holmes gripped my arm and prevented me from rushing to my untimely death. Four against two were not good odds. Penningdon’s struggling ceased and Adern cast him to the ground, stopping only to retrieve the lantern which had survived the fall. Adern closed the hood and darkness returned to the cemetery.
They waited until the creatures of the night resumed their nocturnal serenade. The oblivious village had not been alerted by the noise.
‘Is he dead?’ asked the boy.
‘You’re not loosin’ yer nerve, are you, Frankie?’
‘N-n-no , sir,’ the youth stammered.
‘Good. ‘Cause he’s not dead yet. Take this shovel an’ smash ‘is head in if he wakes up.’
The other two men began to clear the remaining earth from the hole. Soon they would be able to breach the coffin.
‘Help me, for God’s sake, help me--’ Penningdon pleaded. Frankie froze, shovel raised, but unable to strike.
Adern swore, grabbed the boy, and wrenching his head back, cut his throat with his knife. As the boy fell sputtering, the policeman seized the shovel and struck the unfortunate vicar.
One of the grave robbers joined Adern and watched as the life drained away from the boy.
‘Why’d ya have ta do that? It was his turn ta dig!’ he muttered.
‘Now what? This hole ain’t big enough for the coffin, the priest, and the boy. Someone’s gonna notice,’ said the other villain who had also joined them.
Suggestions were bandied about: the river was too uncertain; the pond might do, but they would need a boat; enlarging the grave would be too suspicious. Back and forth the discussion flowed until a piteous wail pierced the night. The hair on the back of my neck pricked. Holmes’ eyes went wide as saucers. Our villains had retrieved their shovels in defence. We all reached the same conclusion at once. The boy had been right. The vicar, despite his wound, was still alive.
‘Bloody Hell!’ Adern exclaimed. ‘What is it going to take? Finish him, will ya?’
After standing by while the boy was slain, my refusal to watch the helpless vicar being murdered before my very eyes nearly doomed both myself and my friend.
I swung my cane at the closest graverobber and it caught him full in the face. Holmes sprung forward as well, engaging Adern who still had the knife. My cane was struck from my hands by the other one wielding the shovel before I could strike again.
‘To me, Watson! Cover my back!’
Holmes had only his fists. My first assailant rose to join the others. Unarmed and out-numbered, we were at a horrible disadvantage. Things moved very fast. We exchanged blows with our opponents as best we could. I heard a cry when Holmes downed one of them. Suddenly, my friend thrust a liberated shovel into my hands and I employed it for all I was worth.
It was only a matter of time before my ebbing strength could no longer be relied on to defend us. Before I could tell what hit me, I was on the ground. I was struck and kicked again and again. My attacker ceased only when the others summoned him to join the press against Holmes. If he had stayed to finish me, this story would have had a different outcome (and nobody to narrate it).
My ears were ringing and I my eyesight wavered as I watched the three descend on my friend. That two of them were obviously hurt did not improve the odds by much. The stocky one swung the jemmy. I heard the crunch of ribs and Holmes’ gasp and the wind was knocked from his lungs. How he remained standing, clutching his side, I do not know. He was defenceless against the blow that followed, only managing to twist aside at the last moment and block the impact with his shoulder. He fell to his knees and the graverobbers paused to laugh.
I don’t know how I managed it, but somehow I reached the boy’s abandoned shovel, rose, and kneeling, swung it with all my might. Although I had aimed higher, my balance was uncertain and the blade caught the Constable Adern in the back of his ankle, severing his tendo Achilles and rendering him a screaming heap. The other two advanced on me with the jemmy and the shovel.
I do not remember the details of the skirmish that followed. I cannot separate the howlings of my adversaries from those of my own. Holmes, who must have witnessed it all, still refuses to discuss it with me.
‘Doctor! Enough, Watson!’ Holmes wrested the bloody broken shovel from my hands, and shook me by the shoulders. My attackers lay sprawled about like battlefield casualties. Holmes’ face was strained with the pain of this exertion. I was disoriented but I do remember trying to see how badly he had been hurt. ‘Please, Doctor, see to the vicar. He has more need of your skills than I.’
I fell to my knees beside Penningdon. Holmes, his movements slow and deliberate, retrieved the lantern and shone its light on Penningdon. It was a grievous wound, and a cruel miracle that he still drew breath. The vicar was beyond any human intervention. I knelt over him, knowing that my words of comfort were futile for he was beyond the hearing of them. Holmes drew me away and I was amazed to discover that I had been trembling uncontrollably.
My friend looked me over, collected himself, and rose to unsteady feet.
‘We need help. I have to go to the village,’ he gasped. ‘Stay with the vicar. If Adern stirs, smash his head in.’
He only managed a dozen or so steps before the pain forced him to halt. I staggered after him and eased him down into a position seated back against a grave stone. The priest might be beyond my abilities, but my friend was not. His side, where the jemmy had struck, was already swelling and discoloured. I asked him to breathe deeper and more slowly but he could only manage rapid shallow breaths.
‘I’ll go,’ said I. ‘You must not move about. Your wound is serious and you might puncture your lung. Do you understand?’
He nodded, and even though his words came with difficulty, he said, ‘You must have someone summon the constabulary from Oxford.’
I promised I would not be long. I only took the time to secure Ardern before I headed back across the field. Had I the strength, I would have toppled him into the open grave.
The sky remained cloudless and my path clearly visible by moonlight. Even so, in my clumsy haste, I tripped on unevenness of the ground numerous times. My head throbbed and my chest ached but I somehow regained my footing. The moonlit outline of The Thistle seemed so far away. By God, I could do this. I had to.
The landlord recoiled in shock at the sight of me. I had not realised that I was bleeding and covered in mud. At first, he did not recognise me as his guest of yesterday’s afternoon, and I don’t suppose I was making much sense at the time. Somehow I managed to convey that a horrific crime had taken place at the cemetery before I collapsed, exhausted, in his doorway.
The next few days were a blur to me. I had the impression of many unfamiliar faces looking in on me. From the fog of my memory emerged the question: where was Holmes? Nobody would tell me anything other than to lie back and rest. Had I been too late, I wondered. That prospect chilled my very soul. One afternoon, I woke to find Mr Lestrade from Scotland Yard at my bedside. He was not the person I most wanted to see but at least he was not a stranger.
‘Well, Doctor, it seems you have landed in serious trouble.’ he said. ‘The Oxford constabulary summoned me from London this morning. The local boys need to take your statement of the events occurring last Friday night before I can assume custody of you and Mr Holmes. Not that either of you are in any condition to give anyone much trouble.’
Of course, all I wanted was news of Holmes, and Lestrade provided it. Holmes was hospitalised in Oxford due to the seriousness of his injuries. His doctors predicted a full recovery. My own injuries were far less dire and I had been housed at The Thistle since the incident. The local physician had been around to see me daily, and a police photographer had taken pictures of my injuries in evidence. I was very confused but one of the unfamiliar faces entered and Lestrade would tell me no more.
‘John H. Watson, I am Inspector Bright, and I have a few questions to ask you.’
I did my best to answer despite my general confusion. The events of that night were hardly clear in my mind, and the continued insistence that I recall them was wearing me out. In the background, Lestrade frowned and finally asked Bright to leave. I was very tired but I managed to ask, ‘Why these questions? What has happened?’
‘You, and Mr Holmes, have been accused of grave-robbing, assaulting an officer of the law, and the willful murder of four, including Reverend Penningdon.’
‘No! Who makes this accusation?’
‘Police Constable Jack Adern. He claims that you and Mr Holmes conspired with the local grave digger and his brother to loot the coffin of Miss Marjory Keane. The constable, suspicious of you since your meeting earlier in the day-- Mr Holmes had better be more discreet when asking questions-- lay in wait with the vicar and a local boy. They confronted you and your party, and a fight ensued. It was his word against Mr Holmes’. Fortunately the shreds of your story agree with those of Mr Holmes. Also, it is incredulous to believe that the two of you could vanquish a group of five!
‘There will be an official inquest, but you may return to London in the meantime, as soon as you can manage it.’
It would be two days before I saw my friend and flatmate again. Lestrade and I waited at the train station for Inspector Bright and Holmes to arrive. Although his cautious movements told of the pain he was experiencing, I was very glad to see him slowly approaching to join us on the platform.
‘You’re looking well,’ said I, squinting up from my bench.
‘Flatterer,’ Holmes replied, taking the seat beside me. ‘You look like Hell.’
The inspectors left us to engage in a discussion of their own.
Battered and bandaged, we were quite a sight as we rode the train back to London. The rocking of the carriage elicited a few choice exclamations of pain from my friend, who despite repeated protests to the contrary, was not as well as he professed. Paddington Station was unusually busy when we finally reached London, and although we neglected to tell him so, we owed a great deal to Lestrade for making sure we arrived safely home to Baker Street.
Holmes, who possessed the constitution of an ox, recovered quickly from his serious injuries, and only sometimes complained of pain when he took up his violin. Thus Mrs Hudson and I were spared the worst of his smoking and his disharmonious recitals for a time. While I had been taken less of a beating, my worst complaint was anaemia due to blood loss, and it took much longer for my health to return.
The inquest turned out to be uneventful. Lestrade, no doubt at Holmes’ suggestion, produced a witness in the form of the pawnbroker, Mr. Howell, who testified that it was Adern who had originally pawned the McLean ring, and that Mr Holmes had contacted him over a month ago concerning the situation in Millington-on Thames. That being the case, the charges against Holmes and myself would not go forward. Instead, Adern was immediately taken into custody and Lestrade enjoyed what brief attention that his involvement warranted.
Back at Baker Street, Holmes deigned to elucidate some of the missing details of the case. His best lead on the Millington grave robbers came from the pawnbroker. From him, Holmes received the date when the ring came to be pawned. Since it fell after Mr McLean’s death, and since he believed Miss Jeanetta when she claimed the ring was buried with her mother, five years prior, the plot became obvious to his rational mind. The grave robber, or robbers, were unknown to him, but their crime was apparent. As husband and wife, the McLean’s graves would lie next to each other. The villains had taken the opportunity of looting Mrs McLean’s coffin when her husband was laid to rest. All that remained was to determine the person, or persons involved, and that is what necessitated our trip to Millington-on-Thames. It seemed so simple once he explained it to me.
Months later, when the mystery of Mr McLean’s military past had been all but abandoned as a lost cause, I received a visitor. A commissionaire from Liverpool by the name of Coe introduced himself and asked if I was the one with the interest into Captain McLean. Holmes was engaged elsewhere at the time so I welcomed him in and informed him of my involvement with the McLean family.
Not a rich man, Coe did not often travel to London. He had received a clipping from my Glasgow advertisement from a friend, and being in London on other matters, he wanted to meet me and judge for himself my motives for asking after his former commanding officer, rather than committing any personal details to the mail.
He accepted my explanation and told me of the Great Mutiny where he first came to serve as a private, in Captain McLean’s brigade of the 42nd Regiment of Foot. Young Captain McLean was a good officer and he was considerate to his men. Given time, it was Coe’s opinion, McLean would have risen to higher ranks. It was early in 1858, and the suppression which followed the Mutiny was where McLean lost his taste for his chosen career. A small village rioted after the execution of several known instigators and the orders were to quell all signs of uprising. As a good officer, he followed his orders even when they conflicted with his morality. But as a good man, he could not live with the idea that he might have to carry out similar orders in the future. He spoke with his colonel as soon as he could, and resigned his commission immediately thereafter. From that point, we knew the rest. McLean returned to England, became a brewer and successful businessman, had married and had raised a family. I included this information in the letter I wrote to Miss Jeanetta McLean, and assured her that she and her brother could be proud of their father’s past.
When he returned that evening, Holmes read the letter and pronounced it adequate, so I sent it out with the next morning’s post.
Since then I often found myself reflecting on Mr McLean and to comparing our situations. My forced retirement was really not all that different from his decision to resign his commission. While it was true that our circumstances differed, neither of us could pursue our chosen careers, and, although it could not have been easy for him, David McLean had adapted and thrived. In time I realised that if he could find a new path, and find meaning and happiness in his life, then I might be able to do the same, and in this thought, I found the courage to begin to hope.
Recipient:
impulsereaderAuthor:
capt_facepalmRating: PG (language)
Word Count: 7400
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson, Inspector Lestrade (cameo)
Warnings: None
Summary: An early casefic containing a mystery (or two), some danger, and a ring.
Disclaimer: Not for profit.
The Adventure of the Brewer’s Ring
It was late in August of the year 1881 when my fellow lodger, the amateur detective, Sherlock Holmes was contracted by two unlikely clients. Well, to be fair, it had been my experience in the scant seven or so months I had known him, that people of all shapes and sizes, and of varying means, sought his counsel regarding matters ranging from the dire to the trivial.
That particular day, the summer rain beat down as if its sole purpose was to scour months of accumulated grime from the very streets of London. At that time it was not unexpected to find me in our apartments. The Medical Board had been annoyingly prophetic when they gauged my health ruined beyond hope, and a year of convalescence had done nothing to disprove their prognosis. I would not be resuming my military service, my pension was cut to half-pay, and that was that. I was seven and twenty years old. Retired. Crippled. Useless.
The dismal weather reflected my mood when the sound of the doorbell interrupted my bleak ruminations. Mrs Hudson tapped on the door and announced that there were two people requesting to consult with the detective.
‘Thank goodness!’ Holmes exclaimed.
‘You were expecting someone?’ I asked.
‘No. But I am so extremely bored, and at this point I welcome any diversion, no matter how frivolous. I am between cases and, to be frank, your dour mood has rendered your company less sterling than usual.’
‘No doubt,’ I muttered ungraciously as I was not of a humour to be mocked.
‘My dear fellow, don’t go. Stay and see what unfolds. There may be some ray of light to penetrate the day’s gloom. Please show our guests in, Mrs Hudson!’
A young woman; a girl, really, of not more than eighteen years, and a boy of perhaps twelve who, due to his similar colouring and class of clothing, must be her brother, were bidden to enter. I took note of their details as best I could in case I was to be quizzed on it later.
Both young people had been walking in the rain for some distance yet their ginger-brown hair remained dry. Whether they had umbrellas or rain-hoods, I could not tell. Any wet apparel and accoutrements would have been left downstairs.
Our younger visitor looked around the room, and in the manner of boys, his eyes lighted on the one wall panel decorated by my fellow lodger with his collection of exotic daggers and knives.
In the past, I had commented that these things were hideous and not suitable to be on display for visitors. That Holmes’ callers were of a business nature rather than a social one, and the fact that I had no callers at all, rendered the point moot. Since I had been overruled, I tried not to dwell upon them overmuch.
One of the boy’s shoulders appeared damper than his other. I turned my attention back to the young lady. It was the same with her, except her right shoulder appeared damp, not her left. I pictured the two, making their way through the street, sharing one umbrella, the diverted rain eventually soaking through to their clothing, but I got caught up in the details of the conversation and the reason for their consultation.
The girl was young but of a bold type and she did not hesitate when Holmes identified himself to her.
‘My name is Jeanetta McLean and this is my brother, Douglas. We come from the village of Millington-on-Thames, not far from Oxford. Our late father, Mr David McLean, managed the Silver and Gold brewery in Oxford, and owned The Thistle, a public house in Millington. We were summoned to London to meet with our solicitors regarding the settlement of his estate.’
‘Was there some complication in the deposition?’ Holmes asked.
‘No, father’s health had been failing for some time and he ensured that everything was in order before his passing. Douglas will have shares in the brewery and will inherit The Thistle when he comes of age, and I have been granted a generous allowance. In the meantime, our interests will be managed in trust by the our solicitors at Mercer and Locke.’
‘They are a reputable firm. What business do you have with me?’
‘Because, Mr Holmes, we found this,’ she retrieved a small silver item from her purse and handed it to Holmes, ‘In a pawn shop in Soho.’
Holmes picked up a magnifying lens and moved to the window where the light was better for his examination. The item in question was a ring.
‘Your father was a soldier. This is a regimental ring. Watson, what can you tell me about it?’ When he handed the ring and the glass to me, I felt Holmes’ intense scrutiny shifting to my person. Whether this was another test of my (admittedly) feeble observational abilities, or whether he was truly seeking my advice, I found hard to determine.
‘My father was a brewer, not a soldier,’ the boy scoffed. Holmes favoured him with an indulgent smile which I, who knew him better, read as condescending.
I examined the ring, and wondered what it was that he expected me to see. Holmes was usually quick to point out the deficiencies in my thought processes. He assured me it was for my own edification and not for his particular sport, yet I often doubted it. I was the one closest to hand most often, and if he happened to be bored at the time, even the thick skin I developed at school and with the army, could not keep him from aggravating my rawest nerve.
I looked to Miss McLean. ‘Mr Holmes is correct; this is a regimental ring. Did your father inherit it?’ I asked.
‘I don’t think so. He referred to it as his ring when he gave it to our mother, and it bears his initials,’ the girl replied.
‘This is a regimental ring of the 42nd Regiment of Foot,’ I said. ‘Your father must have been an officer in the Crimean campaign.’ Holmes nodded, indicating I should proceed.. ‘It was common practice for officers to band together after a significant battle and commission souvenirs to be made and shared amongst each other. This ring bears the Cross of St Andrew and the regimental motto of the 42nd, as well as the wheat emblem of the city of Sebastopol. The siege ended in 1855, late summer, I believe.’
‘Father never spoke of the army except to forbid any interest Douglas entertained in a military career,’ Miss McLean said, her brother scowled his agreement. ‘But what is most vexing is that Father never pawned this ring. It was buried with our mother, five years ago.’
Miss McLean described the nature of their mother’s illness resulting from a late-in-term miscarriage, and their grieving father’s insistence that the ring should be buried along with his dear wife, rather than desecrate the corpse to salvage it,.
Rain had driven the McLean children into the establishment of Dodwich and Howell that morning and some tin soldiers caught Master McLean’s eye. The ring was found among the Crimean War memorabilia. Jeanetta spotted it at once and raised a fuss. The shopkeeper was so alarmed that he gave her the ring in exchange for the promise that she would not call for the police. Since Jeanetta was a clever girl, and Mr Holmes was not the police, per se, she sought him out.
‘Well, that is quite piquant! If you trust this ring to my safekeeping for the time being, I will look into this matter for you. I will give you a receipt in the meantime, and will update you as to my, or I should say “our”, progress.’
Before young Douglas could ask about the daggers and knives, Holmes had briskly shown them to the door and closed it with his ‘the game’s afoot’ grin.
‘Although it’s not worth very much, it’s a wonder the pawnbroker let her keep the ring,’ I began.
‘Of course he let her have it. Can you imagine the commotion that spirited young woman would have caused if they hadn’t?’
Indeed, I could.
‘The ring’s circumstance is hardly mysterious; it is a simple case of grave robbing,’ said Holmes. ‘The real mystery is, why would someone wish to keep their military career from their family.’
I could think of several reasons, none which Holmes would understand, and none of which I cared to explain.
~~~
The next morning, over my solitary breakfast, Mrs Hudson informed me that my flatmate had left our lodgings early in the morning in high spirits, with the promise of returning by afternoon tea. I spent the remainder of the morning searching through the scraps of our recent newspapers for the obituary of David McLean, late of Oxford. It proved less helpful than I had hoped. The death notice was brief and gave no mention to the brewer’s military past.
Holmes was as good as his word and returned by mid-afternoon.
‘I have sown the seeds, and now all I have to do is harvest the crop! There is one last avenue of inquiry I want to make, and that involves you,’ he said, arousing my curiosity. ’I am sending you to St George’s to interview anyone who knew McLean’s service.’
‘No, not that,’ I protested. ‘The St George is a private club for retired officers; Army officers.’
‘My mistake. I thought I was addressing John H. Watson, Captain, retired; late of the Army Medical Department, and survivor of Maiwand.’
‘You do not understand!’ I retorted, ‘Medical officers are not--’
‘Why you should be afraid of a hall full of stuffy greybeards, I have no idea!’
That was true. Holmes was not privy to what I knew. He assumed, like the rest of the public, that those who survived the disastrous battle in 1880 should be honoured, and even worse, pitied. Far from sympathetic, the opinion within some of the higher army echelons was more pointed: for the sake of our Empire’s honour, we all should have died rather than accept such an ignoble defeat.
‘Reserve some of that indignation for this evening. I have arranged for you to meet Colonel Wadye at eight o’clock.’
There was no arguing with Holmes so by seven o’clock, I presented myself, fresh-shaven and in proper evening attire, in the sitting room. ‘No uniform?’ Holmes asked.
‘No. I am not a club member. It would not be appropriate, and it is ill-fitting.’
The cab dropped me off that the prestigious club and perhaps Holmes galling presence, ensuring my compliance by watching me from the pavement, was what I required to overcome my uneasiness. I entered the club, gave my calling card to the commissionaire, and asked for Colonel Wadye. The commissionaire bade me wait and a moment later he returned with a distinguished-looking officer.
Colonel George Innes Wadye was exactly how I envisioned him: all scarlet and gold with a long line of medals which jingled as he moved. He seemed very active for a man of some sixty years. Wispy grey hair adorned his head but some colour remained in the bushy eyebrows which all but shaded his sharp blue eyes. He looked me over and shook my hand in welcome, indicating for me to follow him into one of the grand parlours.
Bookshelves and paintings of the great battles lined the walls, and the high ceiling boasted intricate plasterwork. A fug of cigar and pipe tobacco smoke greeted me and I nearly stumbled on the unexpected plushness of the carpet. Several other grey and balding heads lifted from various armchairs and turned in our direction. Two of the old guard, soon introduced to me as Majors Headdy and Philpott, joined us around a low table.
I explained that my inquiry was on behalf of the children of the recently deceased McLean, who until now, had had no knowledge of their father’s military career. I then supplied what I knew, which amounted to his age, which I had discovered in the obituary, his regiment, and the expectation that he was likely present at the siege of Sebastopol.
‘There may be many reasons a man might wish to conceal his past,’ said Headdy.
‘Something shameful,’ suggested Philpott, eyeing me as if to gauge my reaction.
‘Yes, but not necessarily,’ said Colonel Wadye. ‘If a man wished to keep his past a secret, I wonder if it is any of our business to go digging into it.’
‘Those are my sentiments as well,’ said I, ‘But it can do him no harm anymore, and it may give some measure of comfort to his children to have this matter resolved. I promise to handle any information with the utmost delicacy.’
Thus assured of my discretion, names and dates were bandied about. None of the three officers knew of Mr McLean, but each of them thought they may know of someone they could ask. We at last came to an impasse and, thanking them for their time and consideration, I left them the address where they could contact me.
~~~
Holmes met me outside and demanded all the details of my interview as we walked back to Baker Street.
‘More seeds sown, Watson! Only time will tell if we will find fruit, or only weeds. With a little luck, we should be able to solve the mystery of Mr McLean and catch some grave robbers as well!’ Holmes practically bounced with glee. ‘And I have come to the conclusion that the importance of this ring lies not in its provenance, but in its circumstance of finding its way to the pawn shop of Messrs. Dodwich and Howell.’
In the weeks that followed, while we watched the broadsheets for news of deaths in the region of Millington-on-Thames, replies to Holmes’ telegrams and letters wended their way to our flat. I, too, had some success. Major Philpott had located an officer, by the name of Hargreave, who had served with McLean. His letter was polite but distant. He remembered McLean from Sebastopol and later from India. According to him, Second lieutenant McLean distinguished himself at Sebastopol and received promotion. His service in India at the time of the Mutiny had been unremarkable, yet he again received a field promotion to brevet captain when his commander became ill. In 1858, after the last of the Mutiny had been quelled, McLean unexpectedly resigned his commission and returned to England.
Holmes was disappointed with the paucity of the information the letter contained. ‘I expected to learn more,’ he said.
‘If you want to know what an officer was like, you don’t ask his fellow officers; you ask his men.’ I replied. And so I was tasked to run a regular advertisement in most popular agony columns of London, Glasgow, and Edinburgh, asking for anyone who served under Captain McLean to contact me.
Two weeks passed and I received no response from my agony column campaign. Holmes’ inquiries at the military college and with the Royal Army gleaned very little that we did not already know. Dates of McLean’s enrollment, commissions, and discharge were all that those tight-lipped institutions were willing to divulge. I asked whether we ought to continue the newspaper advertisements. Holmes thought they might still be useful and had me switch to a weekly, rather than daily, posting.
~~~
Time passed and other clients requiring the expertise of Sherlock Holmes showed up at our doorstep and my flatmate became engrossed in their cases. To my great surprise, Holmes woke me early one morning in a state of great excitement.
‘Good news, Watson! Miss Marjory Keane, spinster, aged 70 years, has died!’ he exclaimed.
‘Good news? For whom?’ I groaned. Not for me, startled awake hours before my usual time of rising. Not for her family, if she had one. Holmes waved an early morning edition under my nose.
‘For us, old man! The obituary mentions her philanthropic causes and a long list of beloved nieces and nephews... Watson, don’t you see? We may yet pick up the trail of the McLean graverobbers. The funeral and burial will take place this Friday... in Millington-on-Thames!’
We swayed back and forth in our compartment as the countryside passed by our window. Holmes seemed lost in thought and had I not been accustomed to his methods, I would have imagined that he was theorising on the case before him. I left him to his thoughts and tried not to dwell on the ache that resulted from our dash to catch the departing train. It was my first excursion in weeks and I did not want to be an encumbrance.
Millington-on-Thames proved to be a quaint village not more than five miles from Oxford. Like many smaller settlements in our time, Millington’s glory was in its past. Most of the young people had left the bucolic life to find work in the factories and offices of the larger cities. Those who remained either operated small businesses catering to the local populace, or took jobs in Oxford. Several of the old estates had been purchased by the rich who fancied pretences of country life. These homes were immediately apparent because they were better maintained than the others.
The high street boasted a church, a modest collection of shops, and The Thistle public house. In the centre of the village, there was small park, which was all that remained of the old common. A pillory stood in the middle of the gardens. Holmes and I examined it as we strolled through the park. Some child or prankster had drawn unhappy caricatures on it with chalk. Since the brass padlock was new and the mechanism itself seemed intact, I asked Holmes if he thought it was fully functional.
‘Indeed it is, sir,’ a stranger’s voice answered. I looked up to see that we had been joined by a very large police constable. ‘And if I catch the cheeky little blighter what done these scribbles, I’ll lock ‘em up good and tight ‘til he begs for his mum to come and get him.’
‘That seems a bit drastic,’ said Holmes. ‘Surely there are greater crimes to worked than minor vandalism which will wash away with the next rainfall.’
‘Naw, the village is pretty quiet. Sometimes a flock o’ wild Oxonians descends on The Thistle, and I has to knock a few heads together. Otherwise, it’s gipsies and vagrants. But they’ve been rare lately. Guess the news has spread. They aren’t welcome here, if you catch my meaning.’
He tapped the top of his truncheon with a knowing wink. Holmes assured him that we understood and that we were gentlemen from London, come for the funeral. The constable suggested that if we planned to stay overnight, we should book rooms early. ‘As you must know, the dear old girl was rich, and her family is large. They’re coming from miles around. Tell ‘em at The Thistle the Jack Adern sent you and they’ll treat you right.’
‘There goes the strong arm of the law,’ Holmes remarked as Constable Adern ambled off down the high street.
‘Did he just intimate that he beats up vagrants to drive them away?’ I could barely restrain my incredulity.
‘And children, and strangers, and anyone else he takes a dislike to.’ said Holmes. ‘But, his advice is sound: luncheon at The Thistle, book rooms for the night, and pay our respects to the late Miss Keane this afternoon.’
The Thistle was a well-kept establishment and it was obvious that the McLean ownership had done much to improve what would have been one of the village’s oldest buildings. It was clean and the atmosphere inside was comfortable and welcoming. The age of the house was felt in the compact size of the upstairs guest rooms. My room was small, with just enough room for a narrow bed and a washing stand. Holmes took the room across the passage and we readied ourselves for the afternoon.
The funeral took place in the village church. There were hymns and flowers, and a congregation that looked daggers at each other. Holmes amused himself by observing and deducing the nature of the bereaved individuals. The vicar, the Reverend Alfred Penningdon, appeared to be an active man despite his fifty-odd years. He spoke with the solemnity the occasion required and praised the deceased, emphasising her generous support to his ministry over the years. Another mouth at the table, I concluded. From time to time I looked over at Holmes. No doubt, he had catalogued all the principal players in the drama. On my part, I gave silent thanks for not having family attachments of consequence.
The service ended and we followed the cortege to the hillside cemetery on the outskirts of Millington. Miss Keane’s friends and family favoured us with suspicious looks but apparently there were so many other strange faces in attendance that we need not have worried as being spotted as interlopers. Once the graveside service was completed, and when almost everyone had drifted away, two workmen began to shovel earth back into the grave. Holmes was examining some of the old gravestones and paid very little attention to the labourers, but I thought them to be worthy suspects since it was not a far stretch to go from grave-digging to grave-robbing. There were no signs that they were shirking their duties. Miss Keane’s grave was packed tight and tamped down, and the loose earth around it was tidied up. With shovels over their shoulders, the two workmen headed back to the village for their tea.
Holmes suggested we pay a visit to the McLean household and return the ring to Jeanetta. The warm sunshine and the fresh country air was incentive enough even though I was unaccustomed to walks of that length.
Miss McLean received us with a warm welcome. She was clearly disappointed that Holmes had not been able to tell her more of her father’s mysterious past. Holmes returned her father’s ring and told her that he still had hopes that more information could be found, but for the time being she should content herself in the knowledge that we had no reports of infamous or shameful behaviour her father’s past. We wished her happiness and, declining her invitation to stay for supper, we returned to The Thistle.
For me, the day had been long and wearying. That evening, I prepared a solution of analgesic and water which I consumed before heading down to supper, with the hope that the inn’s fare and the local ale would erase its bitter taste. Holmes blithely nattered on upon several subjects, none of which had any bearing on the case at hand. The fact that he picked at his meal was the only indication that he was deeply involved in an investigation. I ate my fill and thus satiated, and with the welcome effect of the painkiller, and the very agreeable muzziness from the ale, I found it hard to stay awake. It had been a long day and I did not need convincing when Holmes suggested I get some sleep.
~~~
I retired to my tiny room, loosened my clothes and lay down upon my welcome cot. Although tired from the day’s activities, deep sleep eluded me as it invariably does in unfamiliar places; therefore, I was well alert when my chamber door creaked open sometime in the dead of night. It was Holmes and he wore the dark outfit of a day labourer. I cast about for my pocketwatch. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning.
‘Wha... ?‘
He provided the answer before my question had even been uttered. ‘I came to invite you for a nocturnal peregrination, but seeing you are so comfortably settled, I have reconsidered. Tonight, I will go alone.’
I assured him that I was sufficiently rested and that I would not hear of him venturing out alone against foe or foes unknown. Although I had not thought to bring burglary attire, for indeed at the time I had nothing of the sort, the muted brown suit I wore would be dark enough for night work.
Now I came to understand why Holmes had insisted on taking the room which faced away from the village. It had been his plan all along to monitor the vicarage and he had spent the time since our parting, sitting in the dark, keeping a watchful vigil with determined fascination and a spyglass. Minutes ago, he had spotted what he had been waiting for: a light moving about inside the vicarage.
We slipped out of the inn unnoticed. Thankfully, the night was clear and mild, and the air was very still. The moon, waning gibbous, provided sufficient illumination once our eyes grew accustomed to its pale light. Similar moonlight on a similar summer night haunted my uncertain memories. Crossing a fallow field away from the sleeping village, Holmes stopped to scoop up some earth and proceeded to darken his face. I followed suit and suggested that the backs of our hands should be likewise addressed. He agreed and after inspecting my efforts, he doffed his woollen flat cap and indicated for me to wear it. Apparently, my fairer colouring required more cover than his naturally dark hair did.
Keeping an eye on the bobbing lantern light which marked the vicar’s progress along the road, we made a dash for the cemetery and managed to conceal ourselves minutes before he arrived. Other than the dark lantern, which he extinguished on arrival, the vicar carried no other tools, and instead of unearthing the grave, he secreted himself among the gravestones. Holmes expression told me that he had not been expecting that.
Time passed and Holmes long legs began to cramp. I too resisted the urge to fidget and, reaching for him, I put a finger to my lips. We both listened intently although nothing of note could be heard.
‘I hear nothing,’ he said is the lowest tones after a minute or so had passed.
‘Neither do I,’ I replied in kind, ‘But the crickets certainly have.’
Indeed, the chorus of crickets and frogs had ceased.
A minute or so later, heavy footsteps could be heard on the gravel lane and with the creaking of the old iron gate, four men entered the cemetery. The first man was one of the grave diggers from the afternoon. His companions included a shorter, stocky balding fellow, a youth of perhaps 16 years, and the big policeman with whom we were already acquainted, Jack Adern.
‘What is that thing the shorter one carries?’ I asked.
‘Ah. It’s a long-handled jemmy. Undoubtedly to pry open the coffin. These are not subtle villains. If they were, they would unscrew the bolts, raid the contents, and restore the fixtures without leaving such obvious evidence of their crime.’
The gravediggers set about their work. Two would dig at a time and the third would wait to spell off the others in turns. Constable Adern did not take up a shovel. When the others grumbled, he insisted that he was keeping watch.
Where was the vicar, I wondered. And why had he not intervened? I gestured my curiosity to Holmes and, signalling me to remain quiet, whispered, ‘He is waiting for the right moment.’
The digging progressed until the sound of shovel striking wooden coffin was heard.
‘That will be quite enough, gentlemen,’ said Reverend Penningdon, rising from his place of concealment, the hood of his lantern raised and the light shining in their faces, blinding them with it unaccustomed brightness. ‘Constable, you should be ashamed!’
The startled diggers ceased.
‘Oh, Vicar, I am, but why do you confront us now, when you musta been here all night? Waiting in the dark, until we was just about to--,’ Adern paused to think. ‘You greedy bastard! You want a cut!’
‘No! How dare you accuse me, you insolent thug! I was hoping you would repent and give up this unholy undertaking, but seeing that you are determined to consign your souls to Hell, I will not let you desecrate the departed lady’s casket!’
‘Fool,’ hissed Holmes under his breath.
I watched with trepidation as the big policeman towered over the vicar. ‘And exactly how do ya plan to stop us?’
Adern was lightning quick for a man of his size. He seized the vicar and proceeded to choke the life out of him. Holmes gripped my arm and prevented me from rushing to my untimely death. Four against two were not good odds. Penningdon’s struggling ceased and Adern cast him to the ground, stopping only to retrieve the lantern which had survived the fall. Adern closed the hood and darkness returned to the cemetery.
They waited until the creatures of the night resumed their nocturnal serenade. The oblivious village had not been alerted by the noise.
‘Is he dead?’ asked the boy.
‘You’re not loosin’ yer nerve, are you, Frankie?’
‘N-n-no , sir,’ the youth stammered.
‘Good. ‘Cause he’s not dead yet. Take this shovel an’ smash ‘is head in if he wakes up.’
The other two men began to clear the remaining earth from the hole. Soon they would be able to breach the coffin.
‘Help me, for God’s sake, help me--’ Penningdon pleaded. Frankie froze, shovel raised, but unable to strike.
Adern swore, grabbed the boy, and wrenching his head back, cut his throat with his knife. As the boy fell sputtering, the policeman seized the shovel and struck the unfortunate vicar.
One of the grave robbers joined Adern and watched as the life drained away from the boy.
‘Why’d ya have ta do that? It was his turn ta dig!’ he muttered.
‘Now what? This hole ain’t big enough for the coffin, the priest, and the boy. Someone’s gonna notice,’ said the other villain who had also joined them.
Suggestions were bandied about: the river was too uncertain; the pond might do, but they would need a boat; enlarging the grave would be too suspicious. Back and forth the discussion flowed until a piteous wail pierced the night. The hair on the back of my neck pricked. Holmes’ eyes went wide as saucers. Our villains had retrieved their shovels in defence. We all reached the same conclusion at once. The boy had been right. The vicar, despite his wound, was still alive.
‘Bloody Hell!’ Adern exclaimed. ‘What is it going to take? Finish him, will ya?’
After standing by while the boy was slain, my refusal to watch the helpless vicar being murdered before my very eyes nearly doomed both myself and my friend.
I swung my cane at the closest graverobber and it caught him full in the face. Holmes sprung forward as well, engaging Adern who still had the knife. My cane was struck from my hands by the other one wielding the shovel before I could strike again.
‘To me, Watson! Cover my back!’
Holmes had only his fists. My first assailant rose to join the others. Unarmed and out-numbered, we were at a horrible disadvantage. Things moved very fast. We exchanged blows with our opponents as best we could. I heard a cry when Holmes downed one of them. Suddenly, my friend thrust a liberated shovel into my hands and I employed it for all I was worth.
It was only a matter of time before my ebbing strength could no longer be relied on to defend us. Before I could tell what hit me, I was on the ground. I was struck and kicked again and again. My attacker ceased only when the others summoned him to join the press against Holmes. If he had stayed to finish me, this story would have had a different outcome (and nobody to narrate it).
My ears were ringing and I my eyesight wavered as I watched the three descend on my friend. That two of them were obviously hurt did not improve the odds by much. The stocky one swung the jemmy. I heard the crunch of ribs and Holmes’ gasp and the wind was knocked from his lungs. How he remained standing, clutching his side, I do not know. He was defenceless against the blow that followed, only managing to twist aside at the last moment and block the impact with his shoulder. He fell to his knees and the graverobbers paused to laugh.
I don’t know how I managed it, but somehow I reached the boy’s abandoned shovel, rose, and kneeling, swung it with all my might. Although I had aimed higher, my balance was uncertain and the blade caught the Constable Adern in the back of his ankle, severing his tendo Achilles and rendering him a screaming heap. The other two advanced on me with the jemmy and the shovel.
I do not remember the details of the skirmish that followed. I cannot separate the howlings of my adversaries from those of my own. Holmes, who must have witnessed it all, still refuses to discuss it with me.
‘Doctor! Enough, Watson!’ Holmes wrested the bloody broken shovel from my hands, and shook me by the shoulders. My attackers lay sprawled about like battlefield casualties. Holmes’ face was strained with the pain of this exertion. I was disoriented but I do remember trying to see how badly he had been hurt. ‘Please, Doctor, see to the vicar. He has more need of your skills than I.’
I fell to my knees beside Penningdon. Holmes, his movements slow and deliberate, retrieved the lantern and shone its light on Penningdon. It was a grievous wound, and a cruel miracle that he still drew breath. The vicar was beyond any human intervention. I knelt over him, knowing that my words of comfort were futile for he was beyond the hearing of them. Holmes drew me away and I was amazed to discover that I had been trembling uncontrollably.
My friend looked me over, collected himself, and rose to unsteady feet.
‘We need help. I have to go to the village,’ he gasped. ‘Stay with the vicar. If Adern stirs, smash his head in.’
He only managed a dozen or so steps before the pain forced him to halt. I staggered after him and eased him down into a position seated back against a grave stone. The priest might be beyond my abilities, but my friend was not. His side, where the jemmy had struck, was already swelling and discoloured. I asked him to breathe deeper and more slowly but he could only manage rapid shallow breaths.
‘I’ll go,’ said I. ‘You must not move about. Your wound is serious and you might puncture your lung. Do you understand?’
He nodded, and even though his words came with difficulty, he said, ‘You must have someone summon the constabulary from Oxford.’
I promised I would not be long. I only took the time to secure Ardern before I headed back across the field. Had I the strength, I would have toppled him into the open grave.
The sky remained cloudless and my path clearly visible by moonlight. Even so, in my clumsy haste, I tripped on unevenness of the ground numerous times. My head throbbed and my chest ached but I somehow regained my footing. The moonlit outline of The Thistle seemed so far away. By God, I could do this. I had to.
The landlord recoiled in shock at the sight of me. I had not realised that I was bleeding and covered in mud. At first, he did not recognise me as his guest of yesterday’s afternoon, and I don’t suppose I was making much sense at the time. Somehow I managed to convey that a horrific crime had taken place at the cemetery before I collapsed, exhausted, in his doorway.
~~~
The next few days were a blur to me. I had the impression of many unfamiliar faces looking in on me. From the fog of my memory emerged the question: where was Holmes? Nobody would tell me anything other than to lie back and rest. Had I been too late, I wondered. That prospect chilled my very soul. One afternoon, I woke to find Mr Lestrade from Scotland Yard at my bedside. He was not the person I most wanted to see but at least he was not a stranger.
‘Well, Doctor, it seems you have landed in serious trouble.’ he said. ‘The Oxford constabulary summoned me from London this morning. The local boys need to take your statement of the events occurring last Friday night before I can assume custody of you and Mr Holmes. Not that either of you are in any condition to give anyone much trouble.’
Of course, all I wanted was news of Holmes, and Lestrade provided it. Holmes was hospitalised in Oxford due to the seriousness of his injuries. His doctors predicted a full recovery. My own injuries were far less dire and I had been housed at The Thistle since the incident. The local physician had been around to see me daily, and a police photographer had taken pictures of my injuries in evidence. I was very confused but one of the unfamiliar faces entered and Lestrade would tell me no more.
‘John H. Watson, I am Inspector Bright, and I have a few questions to ask you.’
I did my best to answer despite my general confusion. The events of that night were hardly clear in my mind, and the continued insistence that I recall them was wearing me out. In the background, Lestrade frowned and finally asked Bright to leave. I was very tired but I managed to ask, ‘Why these questions? What has happened?’
‘You, and Mr Holmes, have been accused of grave-robbing, assaulting an officer of the law, and the willful murder of four, including Reverend Penningdon.’
‘No! Who makes this accusation?’
‘Police Constable Jack Adern. He claims that you and Mr Holmes conspired with the local grave digger and his brother to loot the coffin of Miss Marjory Keane. The constable, suspicious of you since your meeting earlier in the day-- Mr Holmes had better be more discreet when asking questions-- lay in wait with the vicar and a local boy. They confronted you and your party, and a fight ensued. It was his word against Mr Holmes’. Fortunately the shreds of your story agree with those of Mr Holmes. Also, it is incredulous to believe that the two of you could vanquish a group of five!
‘There will be an official inquest, but you may return to London in the meantime, as soon as you can manage it.’
It would be two days before I saw my friend and flatmate again. Lestrade and I waited at the train station for Inspector Bright and Holmes to arrive. Although his cautious movements told of the pain he was experiencing, I was very glad to see him slowly approaching to join us on the platform.
‘You’re looking well,’ said I, squinting up from my bench.
‘Flatterer,’ Holmes replied, taking the seat beside me. ‘You look like Hell.’
The inspectors left us to engage in a discussion of their own.
Battered and bandaged, we were quite a sight as we rode the train back to London. The rocking of the carriage elicited a few choice exclamations of pain from my friend, who despite repeated protests to the contrary, was not as well as he professed. Paddington Station was unusually busy when we finally reached London, and although we neglected to tell him so, we owed a great deal to Lestrade for making sure we arrived safely home to Baker Street.
~~~
Holmes, who possessed the constitution of an ox, recovered quickly from his serious injuries, and only sometimes complained of pain when he took up his violin. Thus Mrs Hudson and I were spared the worst of his smoking and his disharmonious recitals for a time. While I had been taken less of a beating, my worst complaint was anaemia due to blood loss, and it took much longer for my health to return.
The inquest turned out to be uneventful. Lestrade, no doubt at Holmes’ suggestion, produced a witness in the form of the pawnbroker, Mr. Howell, who testified that it was Adern who had originally pawned the McLean ring, and that Mr Holmes had contacted him over a month ago concerning the situation in Millington-on Thames. That being the case, the charges against Holmes and myself would not go forward. Instead, Adern was immediately taken into custody and Lestrade enjoyed what brief attention that his involvement warranted.
Back at Baker Street, Holmes deigned to elucidate some of the missing details of the case. His best lead on the Millington grave robbers came from the pawnbroker. From him, Holmes received the date when the ring came to be pawned. Since it fell after Mr McLean’s death, and since he believed Miss Jeanetta when she claimed the ring was buried with her mother, five years prior, the plot became obvious to his rational mind. The grave robber, or robbers, were unknown to him, but their crime was apparent. As husband and wife, the McLean’s graves would lie next to each other. The villains had taken the opportunity of looting Mrs McLean’s coffin when her husband was laid to rest. All that remained was to determine the person, or persons involved, and that is what necessitated our trip to Millington-on-Thames. It seemed so simple once he explained it to me.
~~~
Months later, when the mystery of Mr McLean’s military past had been all but abandoned as a lost cause, I received a visitor. A commissionaire from Liverpool by the name of Coe introduced himself and asked if I was the one with the interest into Captain McLean. Holmes was engaged elsewhere at the time so I welcomed him in and informed him of my involvement with the McLean family.
Not a rich man, Coe did not often travel to London. He had received a clipping from my Glasgow advertisement from a friend, and being in London on other matters, he wanted to meet me and judge for himself my motives for asking after his former commanding officer, rather than committing any personal details to the mail.
He accepted my explanation and told me of the Great Mutiny where he first came to serve as a private, in Captain McLean’s brigade of the 42nd Regiment of Foot. Young Captain McLean was a good officer and he was considerate to his men. Given time, it was Coe’s opinion, McLean would have risen to higher ranks. It was early in 1858, and the suppression which followed the Mutiny was where McLean lost his taste for his chosen career. A small village rioted after the execution of several known instigators and the orders were to quell all signs of uprising. As a good officer, he followed his orders even when they conflicted with his morality. But as a good man, he could not live with the idea that he might have to carry out similar orders in the future. He spoke with his colonel as soon as he could, and resigned his commission immediately thereafter. From that point, we knew the rest. McLean returned to England, became a brewer and successful businessman, had married and had raised a family. I included this information in the letter I wrote to Miss Jeanetta McLean, and assured her that she and her brother could be proud of their father’s past.
When he returned that evening, Holmes read the letter and pronounced it adequate, so I sent it out with the next morning’s post.
Since then I often found myself reflecting on Mr McLean and to comparing our situations. My forced retirement was really not all that different from his decision to resign his commission. While it was true that our circumstances differed, neither of us could pursue our chosen careers, and, although it could not have been easy for him, David McLean had adapted and thrived. In time I realised that if he could find a new path, and find meaning and happiness in his life, then I might be able to do the same, and in this thought, I found the courage to begin to hope.
~~~
fin
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