by David Marcum
“Toby, the officers’ horses. I should tell you right away it’s most unlikely I am in the market for - ”
“Nor would I expect you to be, Dr. Watson, living in Marylebone as you do,” came the immediate return. “That would simply be your excuse to visit the Depôt.”
My companion stared uneasily at other riders scattered among the well-spaced trees. He pointed towards the Serpentine.
“Let’s take the horses over there. I’m terrified we could be overheard.”
I followed him in silence to the water’s edge. I could see no reason why he should be calling on my services in any way. I was a product of the British Army’s medical training at Netley, not the Army Veterinary School at Aldershot, for Homo sapiens, not Equus ferus caballus. Yet his ruffled demeanour impressed me. As to being spied on in the middle of Hyde Park, it seemed absurd.
“Tell me,” I began, when he interrupted with, “I hope, Doctor, I’ve convinced you of the importance of Raffley Park to the war effort?”
“Why, yes, I can see why it - ”
Again he interrupted.
“Something happened last week. Something completely unexpected.”
I waited.
“Completely unexpected,” McCoy repeated. “During the night, two German airships flew over us. Really low. One of them was the Zeppelin L-13. Their firebombs got direct hits on the stables. The wood and straw was ablaze in seconds. More than half the horses were burnt or suffocated by the smoke, or had to be put down. The rest will need months of rehabilitation. The Army says to lose a horse is worse than losing a man. Men are replaceable. Right now, horses aren’t.”
“A terrible thing to happen,” I remarked, “but this is a nasty war. Surely that sort of thing is to be expected...?”
“Nasty it is,” he agreed, “but there was something odd about this attack. Maybe it was chance, but it was the way the Zeppelins came in to drop their bombs.”
“Go on,” I urged. The old warhorse in me was starting to snort and paw at the ground.
“I shouldn’t tell you this, but the Royal Garrison Artillery have got two motorised sections in the fields near us. It’s their responsibility for defending us. They take up different positions every week or so. It happened that neither of the units was sited along the route the airships came in at us. It’s as though the enemy knew exactly which approach was safe that particular night - and exactly the night it would pay off to come and drop firebombs on us. A fresh batch of five-hundred horses arrived only hours before. Between you and me, I’ve been wondering how the Boche knew. A day earlier and there’d have been no horses. One day later and most of the horses would have been dispersed to other Remount depôts. We’d have been left with less than one-hundred.”
“My dear fellow,” I exclaimed, “we’ve long since rounded up all the German spies in Liverpool or Southampton or whichever ports these horses come to. It could be completely by chance that the Zeppelins came on that particular route - wind direction perhaps - and on that particular night.”
“You may be right, Doctor,” McCoy replied. “Nevertheless... if it’s not likely there are any spies left at the ports, could there be someone right among us - on the staff of Raffley Park?”
I leaned forward and clapped him on the shoulder.
“Toby, look. If you really feel there’s a serious possibility one of the staff at Raffley Park is an enemy spy, then I’d be happy to come down for a night or two. I’ll entice my old comrade Sherlock Holmes to come, too. As you suggest, we could come incognito, pretending we’re looking at chargers for sale.”
“Dr. Watson, I would welcome that very much!” McCoy exclaimed. “There’s one more matter you need to know. Except for a couple of us men riders helping out, it’s the only Remount depôt in England run entirely by the feminine sex, mostly from the gentlewoman class, the sort who rode to hounds before the war. For example, the latest arrival, by the name of Adrienne, went to finishing school on the Continent. Even the boss is a woman - Lady Mabel, an American. She’s married to Major-General ------- at the War Office.”
I dismounted and passed the horse’s reins to him with, “I’ll await your invitation, Toby. Meantime, tell me, what’s the word on the St. Leger Stakes this September?”
“A chestnut trained by Fred Darling. You’d do well to keep an eye on him.”
“By the name of?”
“Hurry On.”
“Worth a five guinea bet?” I asked.
“Definitely. I’ll be back in touch if anything else occurs at the Depôt.” At which the champion jockey turned away and rode off in the direction of Buckingham Palace.
Weeks passed. The unusual encounter with Toby McCoy drifted from my memory. We had not set a definite date for a visit to Raffley Park, though I solicited and received Sherlock Holmes’s assent in principal. Then in high summer, a letter marked “Personal” arrived, postmarked Swindon.
Dear Dr. Watson (McCoy wrote),
It won’t be reported in the newspapers, but Zeppelin L-13 and friend were back last night. Again it was just hours after we’d fetched a large batch of horses from Southampton Docks. Lots of damage and a hundred horses lost (though luckily none of us bipeds). The Royal Garrison Artillery had just moved their pom-poms to cover the first approach, but this time the Zepps came from a completely different direction. I suspect something serious is going on. Either there really is a spy in Newport News, where the horses board ship that side of the Atlantic, or Southampton, or there’s someone much closer to home. We’re in line for a further batch of horses. Everyone’s extremely jittery. Can you come down soonest, and bring Mr. Sherlock Holmes with you? He should be dressed in Mufti. Otherwise people here will catch on in an instant.
The journey by train took Holmes and me through a Wiltshire landscape hardly changed in four-thousand years. We passed impressive signs of human activity far back into the Stone Age - barrows and ancient hill forts and great sarsen stones, the post-glacial remains of a cap of Cenozoic silcrete that once covered much of southern England - a dense, hard rock created from sand bound by a silica cement.
Holmes had chosen one of his favourite disguises, a clergyman in a broad black hat, baggy trousers, and white tie, with the general look of peering and benevolent curiosity I described in the case of “A Scandal in Bohemia”. He could have chosen to impersonate a minister of the Church of England, except it was a criminal offence. Impersonating a Free Churchman or a minister of any cult different from that of the official religion of the State was not.
Toby McCoy was waiting for us at the railway station. He was seated arms akimbo on a smart new motor-cycle. “A Premier,” he told us, “supplied by the Army.” I noticed his long black curls had been shorn like the sheep on nearby Salisbury Plains.
We shook hands. He sat staring at my comrade for several seconds. Finally, he asked, “Is it truly him? Sherlock Holmes?”
Although the Italians say “l’abito non fa il monaco” - the cassock doesn’t make the clergyman - the truth is, for the majority of people the visual impact of clerical garb does make the clergyman.
“It’s he,” I replied. “We can simply address him as ‘Parson’ when anyone’s about.”
With a wide grin McCoy pointed at his own hair. “I thought I was a civilian but then out of the blue I received a telegram last week telling me to turn up at the War Office. They said, ‘We’ll commission you as a Second Lieutenant in the Intelligence Corps’. I even got £50 to buy my uniform and equipment, along with some instruction on how to salute and who to salute.”
Recalling my own first military kitting out at Gieves in Saville Row, I asked, “Where did you go to buy your uniform?”
“Moss Brothers in Covent Garden. Thirty shillings. It’s second-hand. I’ll mostly wear it when I go to meet the horses at the Docks.”
Lodgings had been arranged for u
s at a public house going by the odd name of Who’d A Thought It, a convenient quarter-of-a-mile or so from the Remount depôt gates. Speaking quietly, McCoy related how Lady Mabel had given him permission for our visit and revealed the next batch of horses would be unloaded at Southampton in a few days’ time.
We deliberately spent a further few minutes at the station exit talking about trivial matters. McCoy laughed inordinately when any of us made anything resembling a joke, yet behind the humorous blarney I discerned the same shadow - not exactly of fear, but an anxiety as when runners line up for the starting gun at the start of a horse-race.
“As usual, the mounts will stay here just for the one night,” he informed us. “About three-hundred-and-fifty horses will travel onwards the next day to Remount depôts at Romsey and Ormskirk, or Swaythling.”
Our young friend said he had extracted a firm promise from Lady Mabel not to mention the arrival date of the next batch of horses to anyone whatsoever. He was quite certain he and she were the only two people in Raffley Park and nearby villages who knew the exact morning the ship would dock. He hoped we could stay until the new remounts arrived at Raffley Park., “Though, gentlemen,” he added with great thoughtfulness, “in light of the last Zeppelin attack, I shall understand if you prefer to take your leave a day or two before, just in case. One hit with a firebomb and the pub’ll go up just like the stables.”
Luggage in hand, we set off. As we approached our lodgings, McCoy said, “I could meet you here this evening. I’ll just say you’re old friends from the race-course though...” he looked dubiously at Sherlock Holmes’s clergyman’s dress, “...your appearance, sir, may inhibit the drinking. If I’m lucky,” he added, “the new girl, Adrienne - the one I mentioned - might be there.”
A slight flush came to his cheeks. “She’s taken to coming to the pub along with four or five of the other girls. They’ve formed a sort of knitting circle. Scarves and socks for the occupied Belgians. They’re always pulling old bits of wool clothing apart to knit into small squares which get sewn together into blankets.
“I’m quite taken with Adrienne,” he added unnecessarily, “though we haven’t yet exchanged a word... I’ll say au revoir, Parson and Mister... er...”
“Wilson will do,” I said.
McCoy turned to leave.
Holmes said, “Hold on a moment, Toby. I want you to do something important. The horses will arrive soon, you say?”
McCoy nodded.
“Which exact day?” Holmes pursued.
“Friday evening.”
“And you are certain this fact is known to no-one here except Lady Mabel and yourself?”
“Not another living soul. Even Lady Mabel never knows until two or three days ahead. This time we plan to put word out the next lot are going straight to Romney Marsh, over in Kent.”
“Then I want you to do something,” Holmes continued. “One person at a time, as though in the greatest confidence, let out that the next consignment is due this Friday, here at Raffley Park, not Romney Marsh. Do this most at the Who’d A Thought It. Just say everyone thinks the horses are going to Kent, but give a knowing look and inform them that’s not true. Do you understand? Do so as soon as possible. If there’s a spy around, they’ll need enough time to pass the information to the enemy.”
McCoy and I stared incredulously at Holmes.
“But they are coming here,” McCoy said.
“Precisely. Make it look like a couple of drinks have loosened the tongue. Immediately look embarrassed and swear them to silence. Have you got that all right?”
“If that’s want you want, I’ll do as you say... Parson,” came the perplexed reply.
We watched as the small figure set off across the fields.
“Parson,” I said quietly, “I was as surprised as our young friend when you told him to blurt out details of the horses’ arrival. Surely it’d be safer to pretend they’re going to Romney...”
“It’s a risk, yes,” my comrade interrupted. “But it’s a risk we have to take. If there’s a spy at the Raffley Park depôt, we must catch whoever it is in flagrante delicto.”
In the morning we ate a light breakfast at the Who’d A Thought It before setting off for the depôt to meet Toby McCoy. He signed us in at the sentry-box and led the way towards the isolated stables holding the officers’ horses for sale. As soon as he was certain there was no-one else around, McCoy stopped in his tracks. His look became serious.
“Something happened last night, after you went off to bed,” he began. “Something I think you should hear before we meet tonight at the pub. I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Go on,” said Holmes.
In a low tone, the jockey related how the knitting circle had been in the bar for more than an hour. “First the other girls left. Adrienne followed, but a good ten minutes later. Before leaving, she turned and waved goodbye to me as she made her way out of the bar.”
A short while later Toby realised she had left her knitting behind.
“I knew it was hers because I noticed the others were knitting wool squares, but Adrienne was, as usual, working on one of her scarves. This one was mostly grey with bits of different colours.”
He blushed. “I saw it as a heaven-sent excuse to break the ice further. I picked up the knitting and rushed after her. She’d only gone about fifty yards. I must have given her a shock - after all, it was dark. The moon’s just the one night over the quarter. She certainly gave quite a start when I called out her name. I suppose after recent events, everyone’s nerves are a bit raw. She seemed extremely relieved when I explained why I’d come running after her.”
“And then?” Holmes asked.
“I handed her the scarf, and so as not to make her uncomfortable I told her I was returning to the pub. I started back, but I remembered there’s been sightings of a rabid fox hereabouts. The quickest way to the depot is over some open fields. The fox could easily be there. Or someone might... one of the lads of the village with a few pints in him might... might try it on, nothing harmful, you know, but it could upset her...”
“So you offered to accompany her?” I asked. “Well, why not!”
“Not exactly accompany her, no, Doctor. I decided I would keep her in sight while she wended her way, so that if anything untoward took place - ”
I ended his sentence for him: “ - You could come to the rescue of a damsel in distress!”
He explained that Adrienne had started off in a direct line towards the depot, but quite soon something odd occurred.
“She stepped off the main path and made her way to the copse, the one with the tall trees with blue-green leaves and orange-red bark.”
I had noticed the small wood earlier.
“Pinus sylvestris,” I said. “Scots Pine.”
“If you say so, Doctor,” came the answer. “Anyway, she gave a good look round before she entered the copse. I couldn’t think why she would go into there. There’s just a ruddy great hole in the centre where the Royal Garrison Artillery put one of their Anti-Aircraft guns, a QF 1-pounder pom-pom, but it soon turned out they couldn’t shoot at anything coming at them from the sky until it was right overhead. Because of the tall trees, you see,” he added superfluously. “So they took it away.”
“Do continue,” I encouraged him.
“I stayed my distance, but kept my eye on where Adrienne should come out of the trees to carry on towards the depôt. But this is what I mean by unusual. She didn’t come out for more than half-an-hour. I was freezing cold when she did at last appear. From there, it was easy to see her in the starlight and be certain she was all right, so I followed along behind her, ducking now and then into the long grass whenever she looked back, until she reached home.”
“And she entered through the main gate?” Holmes asked, looking intently at the jockey.
&
nbsp; “Funny you ask that, Mr. Holmes,” came the puzzled reply. “No, she didn’t. She got through a hole in the fence. I never knew there was a gap there. I suppose by then she realised it was getting late and going through the fence was quicker, or maybe she’d forgotten her pass to show the sentry.”
There was a moment’s silence. Holmes asked, “You told ‘Mr. Wilson’ here that Adrienne went to finishing school on the Continent. Do you know where?”
“It was in Switzerland.”
“Which part?”
“She mentioned it once. The name stuck in my mind. Zugerberg. I remember overhearing her saying most of the girls from her English boarding school went to Château Mont-Choisi - that’s where they speak French - but she decided to go to one in the German-speaking part, high up in the mountains. Ah!” he exclaimed, pointing at a line of stables just ahead. “Here we are. These were the only stables left undamaged from the Zeppelins. It’s where we keep the officers’ chargers, the ones for sale. As I said, with mostly trench warfare, chargers like these aren’t much in demand any longer.”
I heard Holmes ask, “A last question, Toby. You said ‘one of her scarves’. Presumably you’ve noticed Adrienne knitting them before?”
“Yes,” came the answer. “Twice. Seems most of England’s women are knitting away at squares and things for the poor old Belgians.”
Before sunset, Holmes and I said goodbye to our jockey friend. On the way, we diverted from the path and crept like poachers into the copse. I noted the greens and browns and blacks of Holmes’s clergyman’s outfit provided excellent camouflage among the trees. The thick layer of pine needles muffled our footsteps. The Scots Pine gave way to a scattering of Majesty Oaks, almost certainly propagated by the activity of jays. We went deeper until we came to a glade perhaps twenty-feet square. A battered tin sheep trough lay to one side, as though cleared from the centre.