by David Bagchi
Thursday 13 June
It was mid-afternoon in Maidenhead, and Harris and I were sitting in a picturesque pub garden, at a table placed up against the back wall of the pub. The pub garden was doing a brisk trade that afternoon, with quite a few cooing couples in attendance. I dare say they had tried to get in at more fashionable places, but on account of the great over-supply of cooing couples in Maidenhead at that time of year, had been forced to rough it in this dusty but charming locale. Having taken the essential precaution of arming ourselves with a glass of Bass each, Harris and I were exchanging notes on our morning’s investigations along the Thames. Harris had just said something that astounded me.
‘But this is incredible, Harris! They cannot be the same man, and yet it is impossible that there could be three such as they on the river!’
‘I had it from two witnesses, J. One in the pub, the other in Goring post office. And I wrote down what they said as soon as I could in each case. Here it is in black and white: the one seen in the pub was described as ‘Battered old soldier. Patch on left eye. Twisted lip. Accompanied by distinctive foreign-looking pygmy he called “my Andaman friend”.’ The one seen in the post office was ‘Old soldier with patch on right eye, false left leg, crutch under left arm, with trained otter who followed him everywhere, at times on a lead, at others walking to heel like a dog.’
‘Could he be the same man, altering his appearance each time to throw off a pursuer?’ I asked. It was, I confess, an odd scenario I was essaying. But I have long maintained that, until something is proved to be absolutely impossible, it must always be held to be possible, no matter how improbable it may be—as the man said when he met his prospective mother-in-law for the first time.
‘It’s not much of a change of disguise, is it, J.? For the Thames, I mean,’ replied Harris. ‘Besides, you are supposing that he has an unending supply of short foreign friends and exotic pets.’
‘Perhaps the pygmy ordinarily looks after the animals,’ I suggested, without much conviction.
‘Then we are looking for a pet-shop or menagerie somewhere in the Thames Valley run by an expatriate Andaman Islander. That shouldn’t be too hard to track down.’
‘No, it shouldn’t…’ I said absent-mindedly, for at that moment my eye was drawn to a figure who had just entered the pub garden. He was an old soldier, evidently down on his luck. He wore dirty bandages around his head, held in place by an antique kilmarnock with renewed chinstrap, and a straggly beard more white than grey. He walked with a crutch under his left arm, and carried a cage with a canary in it, singing sweetly. (The canary was singing sweetly, not the ex-serviceman.) He was begging baksheesh from table to table, and soon he would be level with our own.
The Lord had delivered mine enemy into my hands good and proper, and I was determined to settle this once and for all, whatever the cost. He drew close, and I waited until his attention was distracted by a pretty girl reaching into her purse for him. If this fellow were anything like the London branch of his firm who had visited my rooms the previous day, he would be devious and desperate, with a thousand tricks up his tattered and torn sleeve. I needed every advantage I could charm to my side, of which surprise is always chiefest. I therefore leapt at him with all my strength, and we both went crashing to the ground before the pretty girl’s table.
‘What are you doing? Let me go! Get off me!’ shouted the imposter.
‘I shall, my friend, I shall. Just as soon as you tell me what your name is, what foreign government you are working for, and why you have been sending threatening messages to Briony Lodge!’
The imposter cleverly avoided my charges.
‘He’s a madman. Someone help me!’ he shouted to those at the tables around us.
It is a peculiarity of the English that though, when taken singly, they can normally be relied to act with a degree of commonsense that is the envy of the world, when in a crowd all prudence leaves them. It is also a still-common misconception to hail the female of the human species as the gentler sex. In fact, it is they who are mediately responsible for the majority of broken noses, black eyes, cut lips, and grazed knuckles one sees on men around town of a Monday morning. And so it was that I, who should have been carried round Maidenhead as the toast of the town, found myself being handled roughly by two oafs wearing striped blazers, while their pretty companions fussed around the bearded tramp.
‘Oh, you poor old gentleman!’ said one young charmer. ‘Here, have my champagne. It always makes me feel so much better.’
‘Oh, look, Charles!’ said the other dear charmer. ‘That hooligan has made this gentleman drop his birdcage. And look—his poor little bird—a feather has come loose! A feather, Charles! That man is a brute!’
Charles was squaring up to punch me on the nose. Harris was not by my side—in fact, from the corner of my eye I could see that he had suddenly become fascinated by an old poster pasted on the wall above our table. I was alone. I had to act fast and decisively.
‘Ha, you poor dupes!’ I shouted, hoping to gain the attention of the whole garden. ‘You think this man is a harmless old soldier. A hero, perhaps, who fought for Queen and country. I tell you he is nothing of the sort. Quite the opposite: he is a German—yes, and he has been terrorizing a young English schoolmistress by the name of Briony Lodge. And if you do not believe me, then believe the evidence of your own eyes!’ At this, I lunged forward and grabbed the man’s straggly white beard.
The beard did not budge.
I pulled and pulled in vain, the only result being that the imposter cried all the louder.
‘You are a bounder, sir,’ fumed Charles. ‘You come here and knock that innocent man off his feet, cause his canary to lose a feather,’—here he glanced back to make sure that his belle was still admiring him—‘and then try to pull off his beard. It will be a pleasure to strike you, sir. In fact, I hate your sort, the type of city swell who fills up the best hotels so no-one else can book a room. Then you come here and think you can behave as you like. Well you can’t, and my strong right arm will prove my point. Why, I even bet you’re here with some floozy, aren’t you? Does your wife know that you two are here together? Because I’ve a mind to tell her when I get back to town. And to tell her I gave you a good thrashing.’
Some people can be so censorious, so judgmental, about their fellow-man, so eager to cast the first stone, that it can be quite appalling to hear it.
At this point my hirsute victim addressed his new champion.
‘God bless you, sir. If this whippersnapper had tried it on with me twenty year ago, he’d have known about it all right. But in my state—well, I thank you for coming to my rescue. As for being a German spy, I’ve never even left Berkshire, except in the service of my Queen, God bless her. I don’t even speak Germanish. I’m here for the annual rally. Look!’
He was pointing to the large, gaudy poster in red and blue ink on white background that Harris was still steadfastly perusing.
NATIONAL ANNUAL CONVENTION OF INJURED EX-SERVICEMEN
Brave sailors and soldiers of Britain!
Answer the call once more!
Come to Maidenhead on Friday 14 June!
Wear your wounds and medals with pride!
ENGLAND EXPECTS YOU THIS DAY!
‘He’s right, you know, J.,’ announced Harris unnecessarily. ‘The poster says that nurses, companions, and companion animals are particularly welcome.’
The light had dawned, and I went over to the old hero.
‘I’m… I’m very sorry, sir,’ I said. ‘I mistook you for another man who looks very like you. I hope that no harm has been done.’ I offered my hand to help lift the dignified old man to his feet.
‘No harm? No harm!’ spluttered Charles, before the man had had chance to reply. ‘You half kill him then say “No harm done”? You owe him more than an apology, you… you city poltroon! Give him some of your money for his trouble. Unless you want Edgar and me to teach you a lesson you won’t forget.’
&nb
sp; I had no choice but to fish out my pocket-book.
‘More than that,’ Edgar broke in. ‘What about his hurt feelings?’
Edgar must be a lawyer, I decided, as I handed over another note.
‘And what about his poor canary?’ said Charles’s young lady. ‘It deserves the very finest medical attention, and I don’t suppose that comes cheap, does it, Charles?’ She looked at Charles coquettishly.
Charles must be a medic, I decided, as I handed over two more notes.
All in all, it was the most expensive visit I ever made to a public house. But then, I was with Harris.
Chapter Eleven
THE THIRD REPORT OF
DR JOHN H. WATSON, FOUR DAYS EARLIER
The Dog and Duck,
Goring,
Sunday 8th June
My dear Holmes,
Today’s proceedings have been as full of incident as we could have wished or feared. I only hope that my pen can do justice to the high drama of the day.
This morning at Wallingford I waited for Jan to emerge from his hotel (The Angel) and walk the short distance to the landing stage where his boat was moored. When eight o’clock (the time of his start from Abingdon the previous day) had come and gone, I began to worry. It was of course perfectly natural for an inexperienced rower to rest as long as he could after such unaccustomed exertion. For that matter, my own shoulder was glad of the enforced idleness. On the other hand, it is never good news for the predator when his prey changes his behaviour. Had he humbugged me? A hasty check revealed that Jan’s boat was still at its mooring. But what if Jan himself had risen early and already left Wallingford by some other means?
This thought so nagged at me that at last I resolved to enter his hotel even at the risk of my being seen by him yet again. He must have seen me already in the Botanic Gardens, where I would have been distinguished by my dress, age, and moustaches from the languid, clean-shaven, black-cloaked Adonises of Magdalen who were the only other visitors at that hour. He was certain to have seen me on the river, unless he really were more focussed on rowing than his lack of linear progress suggested. Entering the lobby with heart in mouth, I approached the small reception desk and, under cover of making some commonplace inquiry, observed that none of the guest room keys was hanging on its peg. An equally discreet reconnaissance of the grounds proved that there was no way out that did not lead directly into the road I was watching.
There was nothing for it but to continue my siege of Jan’s hotel, from cover and a safe distance, until his departure. There was a good deal of traffic in and out of the hotel, but none involved Jan. I began to wonder whether he had not flitted from the hotel without settling his bill or returning his key. The man was after all an anarchist, a conspirator, a blackmailer and a potential assassin, who would surely not blanch at the thought of decamping without payment. But after forty minutes I was rewarded by the sight of Jan leaving. He was not alone, and he did not direct his steps to the river as I had expected. Instead, he made his way towards me, in the company of two men who had called at the hotel about ten minutes before. The new men were certainly striking in appearance—both were tall and powerfully built, and one had hair the colour of snow above a bronzed, out-doors face. He carried a suitcase and a smaller attaché case, his friend a large gladstone and what looked like a bundle of fishing rods and a net wrapped in a waterproof. Jan had his usual small bundle with him, and an envelope, which he posted in the wall-box outside the hotel as they passed.
They crossed the road and made towards me with a purposeful step. I had taken cover in a thicket on rising ground above the point at which a narrow path forks off the main lane from the river and strikes into dense woodland. For a long moment, I thought that they had spotted me and were anxious to hold an old-fashioned conversation. I thought to run, but I did not rate my chances very highly with the two hefty newcomers if they caught me in the open, and I decided that I was safer in my den. But it became evident that they were simply seeking the solitude of the wood, for they turned off the lane and walked a little along the path. Here they were invisible from the lane but not from me. They began to speak in hushed, hurried tones in a guttural language I supposed to be Czech or German. At length, the white-haired man motioned to his companion who produced a neatly-tied brown paper parcel and handed it to Jan. Leaving the well-wrapped fishing gear and the large gladstone, the companion then went towards the road, took up a central position on the path, and adopted such a menacing stance as would have deterred the most seasoned habitué of woodland walks from venturing upon that track. Meanwhile, the white-haired man moved up the path in the opposite direction, presumably to perform a similar obstructive function.
Jan had now unwrapped the parcel. As I had predicted, it contained a change of clothes. What I could not have predicted—although I suspect that the matter would have seemed quite straightforward to you, Holmes—was that the clothes would be older and dirtier than those he was wearing! He removed his foreign-looking but otherwise perfectly decent set and changed to a set that no self-respecting tramp would have looked at twice—torn trousers, filthy shirt, and tattered military jacket. I was astonished by this transformation, but more was to come. White-hair returned and opened the neat attaché case. Jan stood patiently as White-hair transfigured him before my eyes. False sideburns and eye-brows were applied by spirit gum; one side of his upper-lip was lifted and affixed by a self-adhesive plaster, giving Jan a permanent sneer; and finally maquillage was applied and thirty careworn years of hardship were instantly etched upon Jan’s face, together with a couple of weeping pustules of more than usually horrid appearance, difficult to behold even for a medical man like myself. Various other defects were added to neck, arms, and legs, and Jan was transformed into the sort of man that no-one would pay, or want to pay, close attention to—one of the offscourings of humanity who inspires pity in all hearts, but who repels rather than attracts. In short, a perfect disguise for one who wishes to pass unnoticed through life.
I wondered afterwards why this intricate metamorphosis had not been undertaken in the privacy and convenience of Jan’s hotel room rather than the open air, where there was at least some chance of being discovered in the act. But then I reflected that it would have been difficult indeed for the transformed Jan to have exited through the lobby of such a respectable establishment, and still less have settled his account, without attracting a good deal of attention. The departure of such a foul-looking apparition through the kitchen area at the back would have attracted even more attention, and a black eye or two into the bargain. And so this mysterious party—now become considerably more mysterious—had no choice but to use the small clearing below me as an impromptu dressing-room.
One might have thought that the morning had seen enough strange goings-on already. But there was more to come that, if anything, was stranger still. First, White-hair’s companion gave Jan what I had taken to be a bundle of fishing rods and a net. In fact, what emerged from the wrappings was nothing more—or less—than a T-shaped crutch, with a very substantial shaft and a cross bar well padded and tightly strapped. Jan tried it out and was soon moving as fluently as any man with one sound leg might. But what happened next topped all the events of the morning. Out of his capacious gladstone, the companion withdrew a cage, within which was a docile, still sleeping, animal. Once it was out of the cage, safely on a lead, it woke and started sniffing out the riverside smells. I recognized it immediately as an otter. It was obvious that this was also supposed to be part of Jan’s new disguise. It struck me as a touch too far. Without the otter, Jan could have passed anywhere as a more than usually repellent beggar, and therefore anonymous. With the otter, he became ‘the beggar with an otter’, a man whom people could identify and talk about. Our Bohemian friends were clever, of that there is no doubt. But it occurred to me at that moment that they had overplayed their hand.
What happened next? It is easily told. The three friends each lit and smoked cigaret
tes, in celebration of a job well done, then parted with handshakes and back-slapping all round. Almost as an afterthought, White-hair opened his suitcase and handed Jan what looked like a bar of fancy eating chocolate with a red wrapper. Jan was presumably delighted to receive this gift, but his expression of gratitude succeeded only in making a horribly distorted face more horribly distorted. White-hair and his companion made for the railway station, while Jan fed the otter a meal of what looked like white fish before hobbling off with his new friend in the direction of the Reading road. At length, when all was clear, I emerged from the hide which had served me so well. I descended to the clearing, and sought out the cigarette ends left by the anarchists, in case this information might be of assistance in tracking them in future. You would, I hope, have been proud of me for thinking of this. I became excited when I spotted what I took to be the remains of a distinctive long, thin black Russian cigarette. Unfortunately, closer inspection revealed it to be something the otter had necessarily left behind after his hours spent in a gladstone bag.
My next move was obvious. I had overheard the conspirators refer more than once to Goring. It is such a naturally German-sounding word that at first it did not occur to me that they meant the pleasant riverside village which looks across the Thames to its twin, Streatly. It was evident that that was Jan’s next destination. He would be on foot, or rather hobbling on a crutch, and so I would easily be able to reach Goring by canoe, secure my lodgings for the night, take lunch, and position myself to observe Jan’s arrival.
That is what I did, and all went according to plan, but for one extraordinary occurrence. I was sitting down to lunch in my new billet, The Dog and Duck, when a distinguished-looking man in a window-table beckoned me across. It was a half-minute before I recognized my superior officer in the Royal Berkshire Regiment, Major (now Lieutenant-Colonel) Henry Haversham. (You will remember that I joined the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, but found myself attached to the Berkshires at the time of the Maiwand campaign). We got talking about old times, as old soldiers inevitably do. He, it transpired, had carved out a career for himself in the police after leaving the army, and was now indeed the Chief Constable of the county. He still lived in his splendid family seat, two miles or so from Goring. But tragedy had struck home within the last twelvemonth, taking from him his dear wife and daughter. The great house had become distasteful to him, but he could no more think of selling up than of cutting off his right arm. And so on Sundays, when the solitude of the place, and memories of happier times, hung heavy upon him and he had not the distractions of work to help, he had taken to having lunch at this hotel in Goring.