Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Pigtail Twist

by M J H Simmonds

  “‘It was while I had been examining the swinging censer and its guiding ropes that I realised that I was not alone in the church. The inimitable Mrs Branch, here, was by the altar replacing the wilting flowers. She was most keen to aid me in my investigations and indeed volunteered to be my assistant in the demonstration that we have just witnessed.’”

  “‘So, you are saying that when Coverdale roared into the church, Arthurs released the swinging censer, which struck him with a lethal blow?’ asked the Inspector, still struggling with the concept.”

  “‘Yes, Inspector, and if you care to examine the censer you will find dried blood and hair coating one side, there is no doubt that this is the instrument that caused the death of Mr Coverdale,’” I concluded.”

  Holmes sat back, contentedly, and took a deep draw upon his pipe.

  “Wait a minute, Holmes,” I declared. “This all seems rather unlikely, old chap. Arthurs somehow set up this killing machine in advance of being caught out? It is just not possible, he would have had to have worked out the swing, the height and all of the other variables, just the timing itself would have been horrendously difficult to calculate. What if Coverdale had been two feet to the left or the right? The censer would have passed harmlessly by. Moreover, how did he even know when Coverdale was approaching? No, Holmes, I am sorry but this just does not make any sense.”

  “Well I am glad to see that your sense of reason is still functioning Watson,” Holmes replied, with a smile. “I promise you that everything happened exactly as I have stated, but you are quite right. There is still more to be revealed. Pray, let me continue.”

  “We were in the priest’s home. I poured a large brandy and placed it into Arthurs’ quivering hands. The more I examined this case and the deeper I probed, the less straightforward it had become. But I now believed that I had a theory which explained all of the facts.”

  “‘Father Jeremiah had replaced a much loved and respected priest, one who had served the parish for many years and was considered to be more akin to family than pastor for most of his flock. Arthurs lacked the charm and personality of his predecessor and was struggling to be accepted. Then he had an idea. He had seen, and been mesmerised by, the legendary swinging thurible of Santiago de Compostela. He determined to recreate the spectacle in Cambridgeshire, thus endearing himself to his own parishioners and maybe also to those further away. He meant to make St Sebastian’s a place of pilgrimage.’”

  “‘But to achieve this goal, first he needed money. A two hundred pound brass censer was well beyond his financial means, so he resorted to taking from the parish funds. I am certain that he believed that he would soon be able replace the stolen money once the flying censer was up and running.’”

  “‘When he heard Coverdale screaming and shouting, as he rushed into the church, Arthurs panicked and released the rope. Did he mean to kill Coverdale, or just slow him down? That will be for a jury to decide. But either way, a man was killed and justice must be done.’”

  Holmes sat back having finished his account of the case and took a long draw upon his pipe.

  “So, what happened to Arthurs?” I asked. “He was clearly misguided in taking the money and the attack upon Coverdale was, at best, reckless, and at worst? Well, he must have known that had the censer hit its intended target, there was a very good chance Coverdale would have been killed. Still, I am not convinced that he deserved the rope.”

  “You are quite right, Watson,” Holmes replied after taking an unexpected bite from his almost intact sandwich. “He did not deserve a capital sentence. He was found guilty of manslaughter, as it could not be proved that he had intended to kill his victim. The charge of theft was dropped for lack of evidence. He received ten years hard labour but, sadly, this turned out to be a life sentence, after all. He had a weak constitution and conditions in the prison were extremely poor. He was dead within three years of entering Bedford Prison.”

  “But the case did confirm an essential tenet of detection as well as deduction. Always examine, thoroughly, the entire scene of the crime and its surroundings, and never, ever, forget to look up, Watson!” He exclaimed. “It is the one place that is almost always overlooked. Not one member of the police took the trouble to tilt their heads backwards - if they had, they would have seen the unusually large censer hanging in a most unexpected place.”

  “If they had simply lowered the censer, and examined it, they would have seen the gore and surely solved the case themselves from there.”

  I sighed. Holmes’ criticism of the regular police was often harsh but in many cases entirely justified. I looked at my watch and saw that it was approaching midnight.

  “Nearly twelve,” I said, gesturing with my watch towards the bunks. “Time for me, at least, to get some sleep.”

  “Of course, old chap, please excuse me,” Holmes said as he rose from the bunk to allow me access to the berth directly above. I lay back and only briefly saw Holmes sit back down and continue to smoke before, exhausted and rather full of wine, I drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter Thirteen - Adventure at Sea

  Friday 13th June 1884

  The gentle rocking of the calm early summer seas ensured that I slept long and deeply. I eventually stirred, to see Holmes pacing up and down the small cabin, still dressed and showing no signs of having taken any rest, whatsoever. I climbed down, filled a bowl with water and washed my face and hands as best I could. My head was still dull from the previous night’s indulgence and I was in no mood for any strenuous activity - at least not until I had eaten whatever I could find leftover from yesterday. A quick breakfast of bread, salted ham and cheese, though becoming unwelcomely familiar, gave me energy enough to face the day and, after filling and lighting my morning pipe, I began to feel much more my usual self.

  “So, what now, Holmes?” I asked. “I do not look forward to spending the day stuck down here, it is already getting warm and I fear that in a few hours the heat will become unbearable.”

  “Fear not, Watson,” he replied, enthusiastically. “I believe that our little spell of confinement is shortly to end.” He checked his watch. “We should expect a sign at any moment.”

  No sooner had I pulled on my boots, than there was a loud rapping at the door. Two sharp knocks, a pause and then a further three in quick succession.

  “The signal?” I asked, quite unnecessarily.

  Holmes quickly opened the door, to reveal a scrawny man with skin as hard and brown as a walnut. He turned without a word and scampered back up the corridor. Holmes quickly and silently followed, and I tried my best to keep up. We emerged upon deck, where both Holmes and I squinted in the bright sunshine for several minutes until our eyes had become more accustomed to the morning sun.

  The ship was in full sail, a white arrow speeding through the deep blue ocean. A few hardy seagulls still sat upon the masts or circled close by. All around was the usual bustle of sailors going about their work, constantly moving, pulling at ropes, adjusting the trim of the sails, shinning up and down the rigging.

  Then I spotted a lone figure who was clearly not involved with the working of the ship. He stood motionless, his back turned to us, staring out to sea. A large man, broad shouldered and tall, his enormous hands resting upon the ship’s railings. There could be no mistaking the giant silhouette. Standing just ten yards before us was the man we had sprinted across half of Europe to intercept. Somehow sensing that he was being watched, he slowly turned to face us.

  “Mr Thomas Shiner. How delightful to see you again,” announced Holmes, with exaggerated politeness.

  “You!” he cried.

  Shiner lurched forward, his fists tightening into massive balls of flesh and bone. He looked as if he were about to strike, when he suddenly stopped and took a step back. A smile appeared upon his crackled brown face.

  “Well, if it isn’t my old friends Sherlock
Holmes and Doctor, I am sorry, your name has slipped my mind.” His grin was perhaps more menacing than the snarl it had replaced.

  “Watson,” I replied, automatically.

  Holmes ignored me and waded straight in.

  “Thomas Shiner, I believe you to be directly responsible for the death of Mr James Harrison, late of Bedhurst Hall. Can you venture any mitigating circumstances that we are unaware of, or was it murder, plain and simple?”

  “Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson,” he replied. “We are on board a ship heading to Borundia. You have no jurisdiction here. Come to think of it, you have no jurisdiction anywhere,” he laughed. “Even if you had a dozen constables hidden in the bows of this ship, they could do nothing. We are far away from England and its pathetic rules and social graces. No, Mr Holmes, I am, and shall remain, a free man, never to see England’s cold and dull shores ever again.”

  He produced a battered and scratched pewter flask from his jacket, twisted open the bayonet cap, raised it in salute and took a long swig.

  “God bless the Hêtre Pourpre!” he shouted. “And all who sail home on her,” he added with a snarl.

  I noticed that several of the crew had stopped working and were quietly moving to surround the three of us. Two men approached slowly from somewhere towards the front of the ship, they both wore caps and had an air of authority about them. In his state of gloating mirth, Shiner noticed nothing and continued to goad Holmes and myself.

  “But no hard feelings, chums, I promise that I will to show you around Argentville when we arrive. It is a quiet sort of place but I know where we can find some, entertainment,” he bellowed with laughter.

  Holmes then spoke. Quietly and precisely. “And what exactly is it that makes you think that you are on board the Hêtre Pourpre?”

  Shiner stopped, confusion spreading across his large face. “Of course I am, don’t be stupid. I boarded last night, met the captain and spent the evening here, drinking with the crew. The name is painted on the stern, clear as day. Ha! Your silly games will not work on me Holmes,” he snapped, regaining his composure.

  “Let me introduce you to the captain of this vessel.” Holmes gestured towards the two men wearing caps. The older of the two stepped forward. “This is Captain Robert Irons, commander of the British merchant ship RMS Ania.”

  “Thomas Shiner,” The bearded captain began. “I have received information that you are a dangerous man and wanted for serious crimes back in England. As captain of this vessel, my word is law and for the safety of my crew, I order you to be kept locked in a secure cabin, below decks, until we arrive at our destination. There, I shall hand you over to the appropriate authorities.” The captain made a gesture and four large sailors approached Shiner.

  “Alright, I want no trouble, but I do need answers,” he stammered. “What is going on? How have I come to be aboard this ship? Where then are we headed? Kidnap is illegal and will not be easily explained away when we reach port.”

  “There was no kidnap or coercion involved, because none was necessary,” explained Holmes.

  Shiner’s shocked and confused expression closely matched my own. I craved answers every bit as much as did Shiner.

  “Explain yourself, stop talking in circles, man,” growled Shiner.

  “You were not taken from the Hêtre Pourpre. You never even stepped foot aboard that ship.”

  “But I saw the ship’s name, I spoke to her French captain on board!” Shiner cried.

  “It is amazing what one can accomplish by telegraph, with the aid of the local police, a sign painter along with two vessels and their crews,” Holmes replied.

  It began to dawn on me what Holmes had achieved. All of those scribbled messages sent back and forth from telegraph offices throughout the length of our journey from London to Marseilles. What he had contrived and produced was spectacular.

  “I have a few contacts in the south of France, some of whom are in the local police force. I imposed upon these to aid me in my plans. They arranged for a sign painter to come to the dockside and temporarily cover up the name Hêtre Pourpre upon the back and sides of the ship. This name was instead to be painted upon another vessel, one berthed close beside it. It took a little persuasion, but we eventually managed to arrange for a suitable ship to be moved into position, directly behind the now anonymous, Hêtre Pourpre. Upon this second vessel was painted the name, Hêtre Pourpre. This is the ship that you boarded. It was relatively easy to arrange for the French captain to greet you here and show you to a cabin filled with hospitable sailors, before returning to his real ship for her voyage to Africa. I take it that you enjoyed the evening and forgot all of your troubles in good company and free flowing rum.”

  “So here we are,” Holmes was now in full flow, “upon the barque RMS Ania, heading for Southampton. No laws have been broken, you stepped aboard this ship of you own free will. We should arrive home in ten days, all being well. There you will be handed over to the authorities.”

  “Well played, Mr Holmes,” Shiner sighed, pragmatically. “Well played, indeed. Except for one thing. You still have absolutely no proof against me. If you had, I would have been arrested long before I left the village. I shall serve my time quietly in the brig but I will be a free man in ten days, mark my words.”

  Shiner was led, uncomplaining, below decks and Holmes and I joined the captain in his quarters.

  “I apologise, Watson, I haven’t officially introduced you to our host. Captain Irons, this is my colleague, and confidant, Doctor John Watson,” introduced Holmes.

  I shook Irons preferred hand, warmly. “Honoured to meet you, sir. I am only beginning to understand the complexities of Holmes’ plan but I can already clearly see that you have been a major part in bringing it to fruition. I must thank you for all of this hard work, your officers and crew, also. It was surely a herculean task that you performed in transforming this ship to a passable facsimile of the Hêtre Pourpre.”

  “Our part was fairly straightforward, to tell you the truth,” replied Irons, handing a tot of rum to each of us. We were now sat at a well-worn, but freshly scrubbed, wooden table in Irons’ cabin. It was light and airy, the panelled walls covered with prints and photographs of ships and seascapes from around the world. It was a welcome change from the bowels of the ship where we had spent the previous night.

  “An officer of the local police approached us yesterday asking if we were prepared to be a part of a plan to capture a dangerous criminal and bring him back to England. I immediately agreed to cooperate of course, partly out of a sense of duty, but also, I have to admit, because it sounded like a real adventure, something we are all too lacking in, these days, on our travails across the oceans,” Irons smiled, widely.

  “All of the hard work and preparation had already been taken care of,” continued Captain Irons, “A couple of locals quickly repainted the ship’s name, and the real captain of the Hêtre Pourpre had already agreed to come aboard to play his part. After that, all I had to do was to provide a few crewmen and a large quantity of rum to keep Shiner occupied for the evening. Once again, this was not my idea but came directly from Mr Holmes, here. His eye for detail is really quite incredible, he even stipulated that the cabin where Shiner was to be entertained should face the sea rather than the dockside so there was less chance of him observing any activity which may have raised suspicion. Of course, after an hour or so of drinking with my men, he was quite oblivious to any comings or goings so it was perfectly safe for you both to come aboard.”

  “Well I never, Holmes. This is still a remarkable achievement, all arranged by telegraph and whilst on the move between towns and, indeed, countries,” I added, with huge admiration.

  “It was not a complicated scheme, really. I deliberately kept it as simple as possible, as I had to be able to communicate the plan quickly and accurately over a long distance,” explained Holmes, as Irons of
fered us his oilskin pouch and we gratefully filled our pipes.

  “Firstly, I contacted Gregson and asked him to wire the police in Marseilles to explain the situation and to introduce myself officially. I then sent word to my contacts in the city, who located the Hêtre Pourpre and arranged the sign painters.”

  Holmes paused as he tamped down the broken flake into his pipe and lit it with a long cedar wood cigar match.

  “My contacts then joined forces with the local police to find a suitable vessel heading for England that would cooperate with my scheme. Here, we were extremely fortunate. We found, in Captain Irons, both a patriotic champion of justice and a willing collaborator, one prepared to go as far as to relocate his vessel directly adjacent to the Hêtre Pourpre; a generous act which increased our chances of success, exponentially.”

  Holmes toasted the captain with his glass of rum. I then raised my own and was joined by Irons, grinning as he held the orange mouthpiece of his brown-stained meerschaum between his teeth.

  We spent the next few hours in pleasant conversation before partaking of a light lunch. Irons then excused himself and returned to his duties, while a crewman showed us to the cabin where we would be spending the remainder of the journey. While not quite as fine as the Captain’s berth, it was infinitely better than our previous billet. Our belongings were already there waiting for us, so I took the opportunity to retrieve my notebook with the intention of writing up the case so far.