The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Denis O. Smith

  ‘“What makes you say that, Sherlock?” asked Uncle Moreton, an expression of both curiosity and amusement upon his face.

  ‘“He cleans his own boots,” I replied, wishing I had never opened my mouth.

  ‘Uncle Moreton laughed. “Now, how on earth can you know that?” he asked.

  ‘“He had a thin line of boot-polish along the outer edge of his right thumb,” I explained. “It’s very distinctive. When you’re using a cloth to polish your boots, you nearly always get such a mark in that exact place.”

  ‘“What an oddly observant boy you are!” exclaimed Aunt Phyllis, somewhat ambiguously, leaving me unsure as to whether I should feel complimented for being observant, or hurt at being thought “odd”.

  ‘“You may be right about the boot-polish,” said Uncle Moreton, “but there may of course be reasons other than lack of means why Mr Crompton does the polishing himself. He may, for instance, enjoy doing it – other people’s tastes are often very different from one’s own – or he may think that no one else would do it so well. Most likely, I would guess, is that he doesn’t want to over-work his housekeeper and thinks she already has enough to do without having that particular chore on her list. People tend to keep fewer domestic servants in rural parts such as this and are often afraid of losing them as they can be so difficult to replace. The problem is often not so much a lack of means as a lack of suitable candidates.”

  ‘I remember this conversation vividly for two reasons, Watson. First, because of the part that the smear of boot-polish was to play in my reasoning later and, second, because Uncle Moreton’s willingness to enter into discussion with me about it was something I had never experienced before. Usually, any observations I made were simply ignored and on the rare occasions they were not, they would be dismissed out of hand, or I would be rebuked for speaking out of turn. That Uncle Moreton had exposed the weakness in my deduction did not trouble me at all. I could see that he was right: my observation was sound enough, but in making my deduction I had over-reached myself; there were, as he said, other possible explanations. But the fact that he had at least recognised the essential point of my observation and considered it worthwhile to engage me in debate on the matter was for me a moment of great significance, and emboldened me to express another and more important opinion to him later in the summer.

  ‘About that time, we also got to know Constable Pilley, the local policeman, a large, smiling man who never seemed to have much to do, but who, to my young eyes, cut a most impressive figure in his dark uniform and brass buttons. The first of all these acquaintances who stayed to take tea with us in the garden, however, was the rector of the parish, the Reverend Amos Beardsley. I cannot pretend that I could follow all his conversation, which ranged over many subjects, from the geology of the Wolds to what was then the highly topical issue of Church governance, but the Reverend Beardsley evidently found it a stimulating experience, for he very soon became a frequent visitor. He was a widower, I understood, his wife having died some years previously, and he struck me, I recall, as a nervous and possibly lonely man, who was glad to find some new and agreeable company.

  ‘One sunny afternoon, he brought with him one of the local farmers, a very large, broad-shouldered and ruddy-cheeked man, who gloried in the name of Mr Pigge. His manner of speech was quite different from that of Mr Beardsley, being slow and somewhat ponderous, but he seemed to amuse Uncle Moreton and the other adults. He mentioned Mr Crompton several times, generally in a distinctly disparaging tone, and although it of course meant little to me, I gathered from Pigge’s remarks that Crompton regarded himself as the local scholar par excellence and was keen that everyone in the parish should acknowledge the fact.

  ‘When Mr Pigge had left us, the Reverend Beardsley explained that Pigge and Crompton had had a disagreement three years previously, which had become rancorous, and the two men had scarcely spoken to each other since. Crompton, it seemed, had become convinced that there were important Roman remains under the corner of one of Pigge’s fields and had wished to conduct an excavation there. This proposal the farmer had rejected out of hand, insisting that he needed to use every square foot of his land for his crops. Crompton had pressed the claims of archaeological discovery and the advancement of historical knowledge, but Pigge had just as vehemently pressed the claim of his own livelihood and, as the land in question belonged to him, his view had of course prevailed. This disagreement might have faded into the past and been forgotten, but a more recent incident had apparently rekindled the embers of dispute between the two men. Just two months previously, Crompton had unearthed a Roman coin of some kind, which discovery he had announced triumphantly to the world, whereupon Pigge had accused him of digging in his field without permission and had said that anything found there rightfully belonged to him. Crompton had retorted that he had not set foot in Pigge’s field, but had, rather, found the coin upon his own property. Pigge had insisted that someone had certainly been digging in the corner of his field, Crompton had denied vehemently that it was he, and there, somewhat unsatisfactorily, the matter had rested.

  ‘What else Mr Beardsley had to say, I did not hear, for Sylvie and I were then excused from the tea-table, and went off to find something more interesting to do than sitting there listening to the adults’ conversation. I had recently discovered the delights of tree-climbing and there was a particularly large, spreading tree at the bottom of the garden that I wished to attempt. Sylvie came with me, for although Aunt Phyllis had forbidden her to climb trees, as being both dangerous and unladylike, she always took a keen interest in my attempts, calling up to me and quizzing me as to what I could see from my elevated perch, and recording in her diary anything that seemed to her of particular interest, such as the discovery of a bird’s nest. Percival did not accompany us. He, too, had been forbidden to climb the trees. In fact, he had been forbidden to do almost everything that seemed to me of interest. Mrs Hemming had for some reason conceived the idea that Percival was a delicate child, who had to be protected from the rough and tumble of life. There never seemed to me to be much wrong with him that an increase in exercise and a decrease in cake-consumption would not have remedied; but on this occasion I was glad he was not with us: the tree in question presented a formidable challenge and I considered that his presence would only have hindered me. As it turned out, however, it would have made no difference. The trunk of the tree was so perfectly smooth and branchless at the bottom that it defeated all my attempts to climb it, and, reluctantly, I was obliged to admit defeat. Casting around for something else to do, Sylvie and I decided to leave the garden altogether, and push our way through the hedge into a neighbouring field which was lying fallow that year and had nothing in it but tall grass and weeds. There we lay down and crawled along on our fronts like native trackers. There were always lots of rabbits bobbing about in that field and we wanted to see how close we could approach to them before they noticed us.

  ‘We were doing reasonably well, although the rabbits had begun wrinkling their noses and glancing suspiciously in our direction, when the whole lot of them abruptly turned tail and bolted for cover under a dense tangle of brambles at the edge of the field. Sylvie turned her head my way and was about to speak, but I put my finger to my lips. Some distance ahead of us, a man had entered the field from a lane at the side. He had a black beard and a dark hat pulled down low on his brow. We lay still in the long grass and watched him, and it was evident that he had not seen us. Slowly, in what struck me as a highly furtive manner, he made his way towards the garden hedge of The Highlands, until he was right up against it. For some time he stayed in that position, peering through the foliage, and it was clear that he was watching Uncle Moreton and the other adults in the garden, for I could hear their voices quite clearly. Eventually he turned away, made his way back across the field the way he had come and vanished from our sight once more.

  ‘“I wonder who that was,” I remarked.

  ‘Sylvie pulled a face of mystification an
d shook her head. “A stranger,” she whispered at last, and added that there seemed to be something sinister about him. I agreed, and from that moment on the gentleman in question was always known to us as “the sinister stranger”. Who he was, and why he should be spying through the hedge at our relatives, we could not imagine, but it certainly seemed odd. We debated whether we should inform the adults, but in the end decided against it. As we were discussing the matter, we heard Percival calling to us from the garden, so we returned that way, and as the croquet lawn was free, occupied ourselves in our own unique version of that game for the next hour or so.

  ‘The following day Mr Cecil Crompton himself called by and was invited to stay for tea. He was, I must say, the very image of a scholarly gentleman, with his shining bald head and wisps of white hair about his temples. He was undoubtedly a very erudite man. He had written a pamphlet on the history of East Thrigby, a copy of which he had brought with him and presented to Uncle Moreton, as he had promised on a previous occasion. This history apparently encompassed more than two thousand years, for there were, he said, clear indications that the Wolds had been settled by Ancient Britons when the lowlands to the east and west had been uninhabitable marshes. His own particular interest, however, was the period of the Roman occupation. Uncle Moreton mentioned as tactfully as possible that we had heard about his disagreement with Mr Pigge, at which he shook his head in a gesture of dismissal.

  ‘“That doesn’t matter now,” said he. “I certainly believe that there may be the remains of a small fort or barracks under part of Pigge’s field, but it’s not so important now. I have made far more important discoveries during the past eighteen months. I have managed to trace the line of an ancient road southwards from Pigge’s field, and have discovered that there are Roman remains under my very own house and garden.”

  ‘“How exciting!” cried Aunt Phyllis. “Was that where you found the Roman coin?”

  ‘Crompton nodded. “Yes. It has been thrilling, I must say, to learn that I was living on top of such historic remains. I had always known that my house, High Grove, was built upon the site of a small Tudor dwelling which itself had replaced a mediaeval structure, but the discoveries of the past eighteen months suggest that the site has been continuously occupied for almost two thousand years. Last summer I communicated my discoveries to a correspondent of mine at St Stephen’s College in Cambridge and he arranged for a couple of very keen undergraduates to spend half their summer vacation up here, helping me with the excavations. By the time they left, we had dug up half the garden in our efforts to establish the outline of the buildings that had once stood there and were convinced it was the villa of a fairly high-ranking Roman official – possibly a district governor of some kind. You must come over some time and have a look!”

  ‘“We should be delighted to,” said Uncle Moreton. “When would be convenient?”

  ‘“There’s no time like the present,” returned Crompton with a chuckle. “If you’ve finished your tea, I’d be pleased to show you over the diggings this evening.”

  ‘This suggestion met with general agreement and in a few minutes we had set off to walk the mile or so to High Grove.

  ‘“Do you know anything of Tacitus?” Crompton asked Uncle Moreton as we walked along.

  ‘“Not a great deal,” replied Uncle Moreton. “I read some of his shorter works when I was at school and a lot more when I was up at Oxford, but I regret to say that I’ve forgotten most of it now. How about you, Hemming?”

  ‘“Pretty much the same, I’m afraid,” Mr Hemming replied. “I do remember enjoying some of his biography of Agricola.”

  ‘“Ah!” said Crompton. “That is interesting, for it was of Tacitus’s account of Agricola that I wished to speak. As you will no doubt be aware,” he continued, “Agricola was not only a military commander and governor of the province the Romans called Britannia, but was also, of course, Tacitus’s own father-in-law. It was no doubt this personal acquaintance with his subject that enabled Tacitus to recognise in Agricola a man of high principle and unimpeachable moral standing. But although Tacitus clearly knew Agricola well, it has never been established whether he had a similar personal acquaintance with Britain, or whether his account of the people here was based entirely on secondary sources, including of course Agricola’s own records of his time here.”

  ‘“I seem to remember a suggestion that Tacitus might have served as tribune for the soldiers and spent some time in Britain in that capacity,” said Uncle Moreton.

  ‘“That is true,” responded Crompton, nodding his head, “but no one knows for certain. It would therefore be of great interest if it could be established that Tacitus did indeed visit Britannia, either before he wrote his book on Agricola or afterwards.”

  ‘Uncle Moreton nodded his head in agreement. “I don’t suppose we’re ever likely to know that now, though.”

  ‘“You mustn’t be so pessimistic!” said Crompton with a chuckle. “One can never tell when new historical evidence may come to light, even after two thousand years.”

  ‘There was a note in Crompton’s voice that suggested he had something specific in mind. Uncle Moreton evidently noticed it, too, for he turned to Crompton with a look of surprise on his face. “Don’t say you have found something relating to Tacitus in your own excavations!” said he.

  ‘“Nothing absolutely conclusive,” returned Crompton, “but something which is highly suggestive. I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but there is some evidence that a cousin of Tacitus’s wife held a minor administrative post in the province of Britannia, possibly in this very part of the country. It is therefore perfectly conceivable that Tacitus himself stayed in these parts before or after he had composed his Agricola. I was aware of this before I began my own digging, but had never really given it much thought, as it seemed somewhat unlikely. However, my excavations at High Grove have cast the whole business in a new light and have made the possibility seem a much more likely one. Part of the floor of the villa that has been revealed by the digging is covered with tiles and one of these, which I only uncovered two months ago, has an inscription on it which mentions Tacitus by name.”

  ‘“How thrilling!” cried Uncle Moreton. “What does it say?”

  ‘“Unfortunately, the tile is broken. Part of it has crumbled to dust and part of it is missing altogether, so all I have been able to make out is Tacitus in pomario.”

  ‘“What does pomario mean?” asked Mrs Hemming.

  ‘“‘An orchard’ I think,” suggested Uncle Moreton. “Is that right, Mr Crompton?”

  ‘“Yes,” agreed Crompton, “or possibly simply a garden with fruit trees in it. There is probably a verb missing and perhaps also an adjective qualifying pomario. So we cannot say what Tacitus was doing in the orchard, nor where the orchard referred to was situated. It may be he is described as walking or sitting in the orchard – who knows? Similarly, whether the orchard in question was one attached to the villa the remains of which lie under High Grove, or was somewhere else entirely, we cannot say. However,” he continued, “I am always optimistic that further excavations will turn up more evidence.”

  ‘“What you have found so far is amazing enough!” said Mr Hemming with enthusiasm. “Have you publicised it yet?”

  ‘“Well, I have notified the British Museum, if that is what you mean; but the wheels of the British Museum grind very slowly, I’m afraid. They informed me that they receive news of several such discoveries every year and are not able to investigate them all immediately. So when they will put in an appearance in our humble parish I don’t know. I have also written to the people I dealt with before at Cambridge University and they are sending someone down in a week or two.”

  ‘“Does the coin you found date from the same period as Tacitus?” asked Uncle Moreton.

  ‘Crompton shook his head. “Not exactly,” said he, “but it’s not much later. It’s a denarius of the reign of Hadrian, from about twenty years or so after Tacitus might have been
here. As you’re no doubt aware, the Roman occupation of Britain lasted almost four hundred years and one might, of course, expect to find artefacts, coins and so on from any time during that very long period, so to find a coin from so close to Tacitus’s time was rather exciting. To be honest, I am not much of a coin expert, and when I found it, I was not really sure what it was. It is quite scratched and battered, and some of the lettering on the edge is missing. I thought at first it was from the reign of Titus, then wondered if the face on it might be Hadrian. In the end, to decide the matter, I sent off for an authenticated denarius of Hadrian from an antiquarian coin-dealer in London, and from that I could see at once that mine was one of Hadrian’s, too.”

  ‘“And you definitely haven’t been digging in Mr Pigge’s field?” asked Mr Hemming in a mischievous tone.

  ‘“Certainly not,” said Crompton in a tone of humorous indignation. “If anyone has really been digging there as Pigge claims, I think it must have been one or two of the local boys. No doubt when they heard I had found something interesting they thought they would like to find something, too. I might mention, incidentally, that my discoveries have caused a certain amount of envy locally, largely among the ignorant, who have no idea how much time and effort I have put into the excavations. The last time I dined with Mr Stainforth, two or three weeks ago, we discussed this very point.