The Mystery of Briony Lodge

by David Bagchi

  I was treated to an example of this ignorance when I went to free Harris and Jerome from Maidenhead gaol. I gave a description of their identities, address (Jerome’s, at least), and occupations, and they stood there quite astonished, as if I were some clairvoyant who had supernatural access to such secrets. It clearly did not occur to them that Mrs Hudson chats incessantly about the other tenants of 221 Baker Street, at least when under medical examination. As the pair stood there open-mouthed in amazement, I could not help but recall Holmes’s favourite line from Tacitus—omne ignotum pro magnifico. Well, it might be useful to keep those boisterous neighbours in awe of my magical reputation for a little longer, so I shall say nothing to spoil the delicate bloom of their ignorance.

  ‌

  ‌Chapter Fourteen

  The correct treatment of policemen—The extraordinary power of Briony Lodge’s name

  No sooner had the unfortunate foreigner struck the lip of the weir than Harris and I were surrounded by the bicyclists, who had suddenly shown a turn of speed with which I should never have credited them. A group dashed off downstream after the German (as we still supposed him to be), who was being dragged by the current; the rest hemmed us in. The leader of the group introduced himself.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Sergeant David Gruffudd of the Reading City Police Mounted Division (River Company), and these are my men. Also present are Sergeant Poole of the Maidenhead Police and Mr Antrobus of the Thames Conservancy Board. We have detained you in order to ask you a few questions about your activities on the river bank, and in particular your connection with the man who has just taken a swim.’

  ‘Good evening, Sergeant,’ I replied, reasoning that it was always as well to remain polite with policemen until it became absolutely imperative to show firmness. They are rather like dogs in that respect, especially when in a pack.

  ‘Now I noticed that you addressed the gentleman. You said something to him that made him throw his crutch at you and then throw himself in the river, to what I suspect was his certain death.’

  At the mention of death, the Thames Conservancy man looked downstream and nodded gravely.

  ‘Do you mind telling me what it was you said?’

  ‘Not at all, Sergeant,’ said Harris, who had recovered a more equable temperament. ‘I said, “Guten Abend, mein Herr”. It means “Good evening, sir”. In German.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. As it happens, and despite what the Maidenhead boys say, the Reading police are not completely ignorant. We have a very competent foreign language unit back at division, and they do provide us with sufficient knowledge to keep up with the lingo of our summer visitors. What made you think he was German, sir?’

  ‘Because of this,’ said Harris, handing over the chocolate wrapper, which he had smoothed out and folded neatly into a pocket of his blazer.

  ‘I see, sir. And did you say anything else to him before he flung himself into the river?’

  ‘Yes, I said “Kennen Sie vielleicht…”. I asked him if by chance he knew Briony Lodge.’

  ‘Indeed, sir? This is most gratifying to hear. Most gratifying indeed.’

  ‘Why so, Sergeant?’

  ‘Because it means I get to say this: “I arrest you both in the name of the Queen”. That is English, sir, for “You’re nicked”.’

  ‌

  ‌Chapter Fifteen

  Spacious, unfurnished Georgian room to let, central Maidenhead area—The predictable dialogue of young swains in love—The lethality of the straw boater—The Scylla of melodrama and the Charybdis of sentiment both successfully avoided—The salutary effects of reading other people’s private correspondence

  Harris and I did not return to our hastily-arranged but comfortable hotel in Maidenhead that evening. Instead, we found ourselves persuaded to try out the ‘holding cell’ at Maidenhead Police Station. Its name admirably indicates to prospective guests exactly what to expect, unlike those disappointing establishments around our coast which proclaim themselves to be ‘Grand’, ‘Imperial’, or having a ‘Marine View’, when they are, or have, no such thing. Built circa 1740, its architect decided to favour function over comfort. Beds were out. Benches—too much like beds. Chairs—merely a poor man’s bench, and so discarded at the planning stage. Nonetheless, the complete absence of clutter of any kind gave the cell a wonderful sense of space, which ordinarily would have done two bachelors, exhausted after sampling the myriad wonders of Maidenhead, very well indeed for an overnight stay. Unfortunately, on the night we chose to stay there had been a regrettable lapse of organization, and several party-bookings must have been made simultaneously.

  We could not see all the other guests in our room, but of those I could I counted thirty-two. Harris, with his slight advantage of height over me, claimed to see forty-seven. However many of us there were in total, the press of bodies kept us all upright, so the lack of furniture was not the problem it might otherwise have been.

  Organization is definitely not the station’s forte. They had evidently arranged for the entire staff to take the same night off, so that room service was non-existent. Moreover, the single, small bucket provided for the usual offices soon proved inadequate to the needs of so many guests; but for the sake of my more sensitive readers I shall say no more on that score.

  Our fellow-guests were, like us, all young men dressed in boating blazers, a few even managing to have retained their straw boaters this far into the proceedings. All bore upon their faces and knuckles the traces of one or more contretemps during the night, and the malty odour of beer and whisky ran the eviller smells of that cell a creditably close race. Spirits were nonetheless still high, and some of the disagreements of the earlier evening had still not been settled to universal satisfaction.

  ‘Mabel is mine, I tell you. And you keep your filthy paws off her.’

  ‘If I see you so much as look at Rachel again, I swear I’ll hang for you.’

  And so the gentle conversation rumbled on. Fortunately, there was no violence: no-one could take a swing at the lothario next to him because of the crush of bodies. The gathering, therefore, had all the outward appearance of a popular, if male-only, after-river party, which belied the inward reality of a frustrated and bad-tempered mob.

  In our corner we had the misfortune to be jambed up against our old friends Charles and Edgar. They had evidently fallen out.

  ‘Emily is mine, I tell you. And you keep your filthy paws off her.’

  ‘If I see you so much as look at Ethel again, I swear I’ll hang for you.’

  The antiphonal exchange was quite soothing, and reminded me of the times I have enjoyed the service of evening prayer in some quiet church on the river. Outside, the swallows swoop and climb, and the blackbird joins his sweet voice to ours. The low, bright sun fills the chancel with golden light, and all life renders praise to the Great Giver of Life. There are some that tell us that nature is red in tooth and claw. And she is. But they miss those occasions—which when they come are the more precious for being rare—when our Mother, Nature, says to us: ‘Children, now put away your weapons, sheathe your claws. Declare a truce awhile, and learn from me the deeper lesson of life. Know that the fundamental truth of our Creator’s will is—harmony.’

  ‘Oh. So it’s you again, is it?’ Charles had recognized me and had, having bored of sparring with Edgar, set his sights on a new target. ‘Rough up any more wounded old soldiers recently? Perhaps you have moved on to tougher opponents. See if you can go three rounds with a governess or a nursemaid, eh?’

  ‘I wouldn’t start, old boy. Not if I were you,’ cut in Harris. ‘The last man who offered violence to my friend here is now dead. And that was less than two hours ago.’

  ‘Dead?’ asked Charles, now considerably deflated. ‘How?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. My friend is highly trained and very resourceful, and can turn whatever comes to his hand into a deadly weapon. A trick he learned during his time at university in Germany, with the notori
ous Hamburgerverein, of which you have no doubt heard. Indeed, who has not?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Charles, his confidence ebbing further.

  ‘Let’s just say that the coroner’s verdict will read “Death by otter”, and leave it at that, shall we?’

  ‘“Death by otter”?’ asked Charles blankly, drawing no doubt on all his medical knowledge to consider the myriad ways—none of them pleasant—by which this could occur. Then he looked me up and down, searching for any item which, in the hands of an expert, might be lethal. He caught sight of the straw boater I carried. He swallowed hard, and the colour drained from his face. After a pause, he addressed me.

  ‘Look, old chap, I can see now that I was a bit hasty back at the pub. I’m sure you had your reasons for doing what you did. It’s all otter—it’s all water—under the bridge now. Let bygones be bygones, eh? That’s my motter—er, motto.’

  Before I could reply, there was a jangle of keys in the lock and the duty sergeant called out our names while three constables held back the press of bodies from the cell door. We were led back into the interrogation room where we had previously been questioned. Statements had been prepared for us to sign. They contained the same names we had been asked about again and again: the agent of a foreign power known only as ‘Jan’; Miss Irene Adler, also known as ‘The Woman’, also known as Mrs Godfrey Norton; Mr Godfrey Norton; the King of Bohemia. And it contained our most solemn disavowals that any of these persons or names meant anything to us.

  I was relieved to see that Harris’s sole confession under questioning had been struck from the official record, namely that he ‘was sure he had visited the King of Bohemia down Putney way once, and that J. had definitely been with me. Or was it the King William IV? Or perhaps it was the Rose and Crown after all?’

  We were happy to sign.

  When the forms were returned to the superintendent and he had checked our signatures to his satisfaction, he motioned to a constable who opened the door. A distinguished-looking gentleman of a professional mien and a vaguely military bearing entered and spoke.

  ‘Yes, superintendent. These are the men!’

  * * *

  I flatter myself that, in the hands of a lesser writer, the arrival of Dr John H. Watson upon the scene of our incarceration could have been played for sheer melodrama. But it is my task merely to relate the facts, and let the reader supply the colour. The reader must imagine, from my bare testimony, both the depths of the despair to which our plight had brought us, and the ecstatic heights of relief that the good doctor’s intervention occasioned. The reader must picture the pallor and helplessness that darkened our countenances as we stood in our cell, and then the smiles that wreathed our faces as we greeted our familiar neighbour and wept—yea, wept!—hot tears of joy upon his collar. But of such emotions I myself, the mere messenger of stern Fact alone, must needs be silent.

  ‘Good evening, Dr Watson, you are most welcome,’ said the superintendent. ‘Is it true that you know these men and can vouch for their bona fides?’

  ‘I do know them, superintendent. They are in effect both neighbours of mine. Jerome here rents the rooms above my friend Holmes’s set. Harris here, and their friend Wingrave, spend most of their leisure hours with Jerome. They have a dog too, who rejoices in the name of Montmorency. Wingrave is a banker, Harris a legal man, and Jerome is between jobs, pretending to be a writer. They are all three harmless, and under the circumstances I am sure they will forgive me for saying that in my professional opinion they are all too feeble-minded to have taken any culpable part in the delicate matters now afoot.’

  Harris and I stood open-mouthed. We had hardly exchanged so much as a ‘Good evening’ with Watson as we passed on the stair. And yet he had deduced, from such fleeting encounters alone, so much about us. Had Watson been knocking around in the Middle Ages, he would certainly have been burnt at the stake for sorcery.

  Then the good doctor withdrew from his breast pocket a letter, and addressed the superintendent once more.

  ‘In addition to my own testimony (which I hope is not negligible), I have written proof of these men’s collective innocence. It is a letter addressed to them from the aforementioned George Wingrave, which arrived at Maidenhead post office by the evening post from London. It reads as follows:

  “Dear Harris and J.,

  It’s a bit awkward back here, I’m afraid. Today I punched a clergyman and burnt down someone’s house. But the bad news is Briony. She doesn’t exist! At least, she does exist, but as a building, not a person. It’s all a bit confusing, and I’m not sure I completely understand it all, but ‘Briony Lodge’ turns out to be a villa in Serpentine Avenue. It’s the one I set fire to, but it was an accident and I did raise the alarm. So who was the Briony Lodge who came to see us, then? She seemed genuine enough, from what I remember. And what about those two German brutes who came looking for her? They were real enough. Well, they weren’t real, they were imposters. But at least they were flesh and blood, not brick and tile like Briony. I think you should both come home at once and see what you can make of it. Gosh, this is more confusing than a Gilbert and Sullivan, isn’t it?

  I hope you are both well. I am quite well.

  Mrs H. and Montmorency send their regards. The weather here is fine. How is it there?

  Yours affectionately,

  George.”

  Knowing that the police are not empowered to open private correspondence, I took it upon myself to open it, thinking that it might shed light upon what these men were doing here. I think, Superintendent, that it does: it shows them to be absolutely ignorant of all the relevant facts. I also hope, gentlemen, that in view of the generally corroborative nature of this letter with regard to your innocence, you will not press charges against me for this intrusion.’

  ‘Not at all,’ we said in unison.

  ‌

  ‌Chapter Sixteen

  The unaccountable rudeness of a mother and her offspring—The train lavatory not a dressing room

  Friday 14 June

  The next morning we boarded the first train to town. Our compartment was shared with a mother and her two young sons. A few minutes after the train left Maidenhead, the mother went over to the window between us and lowered it with such force that we feared it might shatter in its frame. We also noticed that there was a grimace upon her face that had not been there when we first entered the compartment. However, the grimace was evidently a congenital condition, for I now noticed it upon her sons as well. A few minutes later, the mother stood again, gathered up her children and luggage, muttered something about the sort of people allowed to travel on the railways nowadays, and stormed out of the compartment. We were puzzled by this behaviour.

  ‘Upset the lady, J.?’ asked Harris, his eyes shut against the morning sun and his legs stretched out.

  ‘Never so much as spoke a dickie bird. You?’

  ‘No. Didn’t seem to take to us, though, did she?’

  ‘The boys were a bit put out too.’

  ‘Strange that. Still, can’t expect to conquer hearts wherever we go, can we? Each to his taste, and all that.’

  ‘S’pose,’ I replied, just before we both drifted off into a blissful sleep.

  We were nearing Paddington when we both awoke, and realized from the awful smell that pervaded the compartment that we were wearing the same gear in which we had spent half the night in the holding cell. The odiferousness of our clothing had insured for us an empty compartment for the whole journey, but we had no wish to be detained for vagrancy upon our arrival in the Metropolis.

  It is extraordinarily difficult to get dressed in the lavatory of a moving train, especially when time is against you. There is not enough space to hang the clothes you wish to get into, or to remove the clothes you wish to get out of. An item placed in an apparently secure location will be thrust without warning upon the floor, or in the basin, or worse. The movement of the train itself, which seems so regular and predictable when one is safely seated, s
uddenly becomes irregular and violent. You put your leg to a pair of trousers and you are thrown against a wall. You put your arm in a sleeve and the movement of the train dashes you against the towel rail, and you cut your head. There is not enough light to see by, even in broad daylight, and the mirror provided reflects only the smallest part of one’s face, and one has no idea of the overall effect of one’s new ensemble until you leave the lavatory compartment. Then young ladies faint while older ones go to fetch the guard.

  It is as if the train lavatory has had enough and, like Spartacus of old, is in high revolt. I am of a proud and noble race, it seems to proclaim. I have a function, but the public abuses it. I shall teach them therefore that they may not oppress me any longer. If they wish to attend to their coiffeur or to shave, let them visit a barber’s. Do they wish to change their clothes? Let them do so at home, and not be so fickle as to alter their dress during the day. If they try to do so against my stern command, then let them emerge from my gloomy portals with cut heads, nicked faces, dishevelled hair, and clothes awry. I have had enough of being used as a convenience.

  It was a good thing I had brought so many clothes with me on this trip, as I may have remarked once or twice to Harris. Going up river, even by train, is a rum thing: you never know what to expect.