Disquiet at Albany

by N. M. Scott

  We came to a set of gateposts surmounted by a pair of winged gryphons and thus continued up the path until the venerable old clay-brick Norfolk mansion came into view. Foxbury Hall was, I was sure, in the sunlight of an autumn morning, an elegant home full of character and charm. Earlier I had judged the architecture to be of the Elizabethan period and the gables, diamond-pane windows and tall herringbone brick chimney stacks gave the house an air of imposing grandeur.

  Once inside the porch I tugged the bell-pull and, aware of the dripping, gurgling sound of rainwater pouring off the guttering, we waited expectantly beneath the hornbeam lantern for the front door to be opened.

  Soon after, a genial fellow in a frock coat, striped trousers and black tie greeted us. ‘My name is Garson, sirs. How can I help? The weather at this time of year is most uncongenial and bothersome. I used to always prepare my master’s hot toddy at this hour and make sure he was comfortably seated by the fire with a shawl wrapped round his shoulders.’

  ‘Is Mr Sands at home by any chance?’ asked my colleague. ‘I perceive you are his valet. We were just passing and wished to convey our good wishes. He is in, presumably?’

  ‘I regret to say, gentlemen, condolences are in order, for my master passed on at six of the clock this morning. The wasting illness from which he had suffered interminably for the last year finally claimed his life. He just had no energy left to fight it, sir. I trust you will respect the fact that the body of my master yet still resides in the house and we are all of us in a state of deep mourning. Goodnight, gentlemen, and Lord bless you for enquiring after Mr Sands at this sad time.’

  ‘That just won’t do,’ my colleague remarked, showing grim fortitude as we walked back down by the shrubbery, hastening to the rectory to keep our appointment. ‘A chronic invalid should not be subjected to a lengthy journey from the heart of Piccadilly to north Norfolk during autumn when the air is damp and chilly, the region steeped in marsh mist and prone to continuous drizzle. Switzerland or the Italian Alps are understandable, but East Anglia – really my dear fellow, as a doctor would you subject your patient to such unhealthy climes?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said I, in full agreement. ‘In summer the Broads offer sailing and boating to one’s heart’s content, genial hours spent at the tiller exploring the channels, but at this time of year bronchial infections, stiffening of the joints – a patient’s chest in particular should be most susceptible to pneumonia. If they are already weakened and not able to eat properly, such as Ethby Sands would be, no – the vaporous, tangy air of the wetlands for a long-term sufferer such as he, I should class as positively injurious to health.’

  11

  The Vicar Intervenes

  Having kept our appointment at the rectory, we were enjoying our evening meal. The Rev. Marsden-Lee had earlier invited us to share a repast of roast haunch of venison at the supper table in the oak-panelled dining room, prepared by his housekeeper. The candles, I confess, cast a somewhat eerie illumination on the portraits in oils of previous incumbents that were hung about the room.

  ‘Dead!’ The clergyman shrieked with laughter. ‘My dear Holmes, if only you had asked, I could have told you that much and saved you both a wasted journey. The matter of Tommy Weekes was of course uppermost in our conversation when we last spoke over sherry. I myself visited Foxbury Hall this afternoon after learning of our old Norwich M.P.’s passing. Most sad, but not entirely unexpected due to his chronic state of health. But, you know, it all went rather queer.’

  ‘What went rather queer?’ said I, sampling a glass of excellent French wine.

  ‘We heard a rumour, a death up at the big house, Mr Sands’s passing of course. Well, Mrs Lunn, our ministering angel, who does the flowers in my church, a woman of advanced years who whenever there is a death in the village takes it on herself, to prepare the deceased, washing, doing “the necessary”, sheeting the corpse, making everything presentable, by no means an interfering old busybody, came to see me in floods of tears. A man up at the manor house had apparently told her to get off the property. He called her a witch!’

  Holmes glanced up from his plate, his pale, sallow, aquiline features all aquiver from the wavering light of the candelabrum on our table which cast shadows about the room, making those dratted oil paintings of stern old country parsons seem alive and overly judgemental.

  ‘Yes, I think we catch your drift, padre,’ said he. ‘The old lady was naturally upset by this fellow’s uncouth attitude’.

  ‘I asked her if it was not Mr Garson the valet to whom she referred. “Oh no sir,” she insisted, “for he is a gentleman’s gentleman, a man of impeccable manners who should never dream of addressing a lady like that. This was a young man wearing red loafers claiming to be the son.”

  ‘ “But, my dear lady,” I replied, “Mr Sands was a confirmed bachelor. He never married in his life and was, before his illness, fond of his clubs and fine dining. He was a fellow who as far as I know had no understanding whatsoever of the ways of a woman’s heart. Garson was his only constant companion over the years, in good times and bad. A son? Why, that’s absurd! I shall ask cook to make you a very hot gin and water while I meanwhile go and give this young bounder a good talking to!”’

  ‘Bravo! Most commendable.’

  ‘I was appalled by the insensitive treatment of this woman who, after all, only wanted to help lay out Mr Sands with all the dignity and care she could muster, so I went up to the hall, cutting through the walled kitchen garden, and saw the back door to the house had been left open. Well, I am acquainted with Lord Astor, who rents Foxbury Hall out in the winter, and know the layout of the rooms fairly well from previous visits, so I let myself in and – what a shock – there was a group of Chinamen, I ask you, bickering with one another, consulting a map that had been laid out flat on the kitchen table, a map depicting the naked human form, indecent and covered in heretical symbols and underlinings, the diagram countenanced by numerals and Chinese letters of the alphabet. The abhorrent scent of powerful joss alerted me to Oriental mischief, wholly un-Christian ethics.’

  ‘Practitioners of alternative medicine,’ corrected my companion good-naturedly. ‘They were merely discussing acupuncture, studying a chart, my dear Marsden-Lee. I have spent time in Tibet and China and can assure you there was nothing untoward regarding their activities. Do carry on. Your observations are first rate.’

  ‘Be that as it may, Mr Holmes, I demanded to see Mr Sands’s body there and then, to view the corpse.’

  ‘Ha ha, by Jove that’s good and pushy.’

  ‘To pray for the soul of the departed, to offer up a prayer for the dead in the Anglican faith. Well, my arrival was greeted with polite disapproval. I was bustled away by their leader, a tall, gangly Chinaman, austere to the extreme with a cruel mouth and menacing airs who went by the name of Wu. Doctor Wu Xing. He was evidently held in high esteem for the other Orientals would respectfully bow when referring to this chart of blasphemy.

  ‘I was evicted! Evicted from the hall as a trespasser. Me! The vicar of the parish and on friendly terms with Lord Astor. Well, I have not been back since.’

  ‘Did you perchance observe anything else of interest?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Now you come to mention it, I was passing round by the shrubbery and happened to peer into the billiard room. The windows look out onto the flower beds, and the lawn and tennis courts. Well, I chanced upon the strangest thing, for there on top of the green baize billiard table was a most peculiar receptacle. Not exactly a proper elm coffin, more of a wicker compostable shell, a lightweight coffin of basketwork favoured these days by faddish vegetarians and slavish pre-Raphaelite followers of William Morris who prefer to be buried beneath a flower bed in the garden.’

  ‘And of the young man calling himself the son?’

  ‘I saw nothing of him, Mr Holmes. He might well have been a complete stranger, an impostor for all we know.’

  12

  A Change of Plan

  Inspecto
r Wells called for us bright and early. We were ensconced in the snug of the Duck and Drake, eating our breakfast of ham and eggs, washed down by halves of warm beer, in front of a roaring log fire in the settle. One only had to glance out of the latticed window to confirm it was a misty, damp morning – grey and overcast.

  ‘An autopsy is to be performed over at Walpole St Thomas at nine of the clock, gentlemen. Doctor Clayborne is anxious we should start on time. I have the horse and trap waiting.’

  ‘Heaven forbid that we should delay proceedings, Inspector, but I fear we must return to London. There is at Albany in Piccadilly a mysterious disappearance which for now must take precedence over the Norfolk murders. After a brief walk to stretch the legs we will be departing for the station halt to catch the next London-bound train. My pocket Bradshaw indicates we shall be required to change at Cambridge.’

  ‘Well, I must say, isn’t that highly irregular, Mr Holmes? What can possibly take precedence over two horribly orchestrated murders?’

  ‘Finding the perpetrator, Inspector. What else have you to tell me?’

  ‘Well, sir, we found something interesting when we were dredging the channel at Potters Ditch – a muddied, stout ash stick, more of a cudgel – handle of carved antler.’

  ‘Then I suggest you check locally who might own it! Landlord, a fill of your most excellent tobacco from the jar. Please prepare our bill, for we shall be leaving presently.’

  I can report, upon our return journey to Norwich, our two-coach train propelled along the branch by a light engine, both of us were avidly reading the first editions of the daily papers, the pages of which were spread over the cloth-covered seats, and little was said.

  My dear friend, his charred old briar-root pipe clenched between his teeth, was smoking contentedly, filling our compartment with the reek of coarse country inn tobacco. I tamped down strands of my own preferred Arcadia mixture into the bowl of my pipe and struck a match, glad to be leaving behind the dreary scene of the Broads and returning home to Baker Street.

  We caught an express at Cambridge and as we rattled along, Holmes, as he was wont to do, while scowling at the obituary notices, proceeded to underline a section of print with his propelling pencil and passed me the folded newspaper. I was thus able to become further acquainted with the life and times of Ethby Sands, once an M.P. for Norwich, who owned a fabulous collection of rare, stuffed birds of paradise and had also, it seemed, notably composed a best-selling hymn tune. There was the proper mention of his final days, the enduring struggle he put up against the virulent form of wasting disease, and the correspondent ended with ‘Died peacefully in the early hours with his beloved valet Mr Henry Garson by his bedside at the country seat of Lord Astor in the county of Norfolk.’

  ‘A complete and utter fabrication, my dear Watson, cleverly placed in this morning’s edition of the Telegraph. No doubt all the broadsheets bear testimony to his life ... and death. His admirers shall genuinely mourn his passing. His detractors wholly welcome it.’

  ‘Detractors – who are they?’ I asked.

  ‘At present I am not at liberty to say. Once we have returned to the capital, might I bother you to accompany me to the Royal Geographical Society in Exhibition Road?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said I, continuing to stare out of the compartment window.

  13

  The Royal Geographical Society

  The fog lay thick and dun-coloured, blanketing the metropolis, making visibility poor and our journey across London from the station slow as to be almost futile. East of the Albert Hall it took us over an hour to reach the Royal Geographical Society. We were stuck in a jam, with carriage, omnibus and dray traffic virtually at a standstill.

  ‘Why on earth are we visiting the R.G.S.?’ said I, while our cab rattled up Exhibition Road and our goal was at last in sight, the familiar red-brick Queen Ann façade coming up on our right. ‘I have seen no lectures advertised. Drat it old man, I should have preferred to spend my time as an idler perusing my latest edition of the British Medical Journal before the homely hearth. Have we not had enough action for one week? Those infernal Broads of north Norfolk – two unsolved murders – no, I am annoyed my familiar bachelor routine should be disrupted like this.’

  ‘Fear not old man. I have in my mind a rather pressing matter concerning old maps and logbooks that needs attending to.’

  ‘Old maps, logbooks? I don’t follow.’

  ‘I am merely curious to delve more fully into the matter of the island of Sumatra.’

  ‘Not those blasted stuffed birds of paradise again! Really Holmes, you are the limit!’

  Cedric Bitten, the long-serving secretary and senior librarian, an epitome of jolly eccentricity, brimming with fascinating information, led us into the map room. He proved most courteous and civil and knew both Holmes and myself by sight, for we had attended various exhibitions and lectures over the years, including those of David Livingstone and Fridtjof Nansen, the Norwegian Arctic explorer.

  Stooping over, the frock-coated gentleman, half blind from years of study as an Oxbridge don, wore the thickest-lensed spectacles I ever saw. He beckoned us to a table and awaited Holmes’s request with great patience and dignity.

  ‘My dear Bitten, I am indebted to your unsurpassed knowledge of travel books and maps. This sounds trite to the extreme and I must profusely apologise in advance for such a nonsensical waste of your valuable scholarship – but have you in your long experience as R.G.S. librarian ever come across the image mark of a rat?’

  ‘Gabriel Doppelmayer’s celestial chart of 1742 shows a curious rat and we do possess an early sixteenth-century Portuguese map which depicts a caricature, a replication of a giant rodent positioned above one of the remote Indonesian islands, or Muluccas, as is their proper title.’

  ‘Sumatra,’ said I, hardly believing my ears. ‘Sixteenth century you say?’

  ‘Just so, Doctor Watson. Be good enough to wait here. I shall ask young Credon, our junior clerk, to fetch the appropriate folder from the rack. Would either of you perchance like a cup of coffee? It is devilishly foggy and your journey over here from the station terminus must have been fraught with delays at every turn.’

  ‘Most kind,’ replied Holmes. He warmed his hands in front of the vast ornamental mantelpiece, a crackling fire in the grate. Paintings in oil of famous explorers and past presidents of the Society graced the oak-panelled room.

  Our genial librarian shuffled off to fetch coffee and biscuits.

  ‘You know, my dear Watson, Bitten is really a most amazing fellow. His brain is quite the finest storage facility for facts concerning geography and antiquated travel books, logs and documents I have yet to come across. I am not saying he is on a par with brother Mycroft, who possesses the most retentive brain attic in all England, able to simultaneously analyse and store myriad facts and figures and details of minutiae – but Bitten is close, damn close. Ah, thank you, Credon. Here Watson, our map has arrived, neatly bound in tooled green Morocco, I perceive.’

  Holmes raised his magnifying lens and together we leant over and carefully studied this very old and rare coloured map of the tropics.

  ‘We have it Watson, we have it!’ my colleague said at length, excitedly seizing my arm. He was jubilant, for there, drawn across one of the beautifully colour-tinted islands was clearly a ferocious looking rodent of massive proportions – a terrified native Sumatran clamped between its bloody jaws, filthy, sharp incisors buried into the poor fellow’s neck. He was about to be devoured while other natives looked on, surrounding the giant rat and brandishing primitive spears and a net.

  Bitten returned with our refreshments. ‘Might I just mention in passing, gentlemen, the word “giant” is but a loose generalisation. The proper translation is “great and munificent”. Thus you can infer from this illustration that the native population not only hunted this rodent but also revered it.’

  Bitten indicated a plate of biscuits and passed us each a cup of coffee from the tray. Thereafte
r, craning his neck and refocusing those pebbly lenses of his on the map he commented with obvious disdain, ‘Peculiar creature – represented as a carnivore, a man-eater. Tut tut, really, that is taking liberties!’

  ‘The ears are certainly longer and hairier than the common black rat that so infests our London sewers,’ I remarked, sipping my coffee.

  ‘Yellow, gingery fur, mottled to form patches of white, Watson!’ said my colleague enthusiastically.

  ‘Now, now gentlemen,’ warned Bitten, ‘you must proceed delicately. You, Mr Holmes, are speaking as though “Ratty” here were real, that the species actually exists. This just won’t do. The trained cartographer would regard this caricature with justified scepticism.’ He paused to take a sip of coffee. ‘Map artists in the sixteenth century were notoriously inaccurate and took untold liberties. The rat is probably nothing like depicted here.’

  ‘In this instance I’m not sure the illustrator did not get it exactly right,’ said Holmes, a worried expression surfacing on his hawk-like features. ‘Now, on to the printed word, Mr Bitten.’

  ‘Mr Holmes, I have already instructed young Credon to extract from the library shelves a number of suitable volumes – naval documents recording early voyages to the spice islands – copies of course, the originals being way too fragile to handle.’

  Credon duly provided us with copies of the aforementioned documentation. One extract from a logbook belonging to a Captain Dreyfuss Malmby R.N., particularly caught our interest. Written in brown, watery ink with a quill pen, each page meticulously recorded an expedition by a group of officers and ratings who first came ashore to the island of Sumatra in a row-boat armed with pistols and muskets, evidently fearing the worst. But those fears proved ungrounded.

  Our vessel Bulldog safely anchored in the bay. Upon landing on the island named Sumatra I am thus pleased and gratified to report no hostility did we encounter, rather the natives appeared both friendly and industrious, eager to trade for a variety of fish, fruit and much-prized spices, in exchange for tobacco and iron cooking utensils. A peculiarity upon which we all remarked was the fact that on our trip not one old or ailing person did we encounter. Even in the village of palm huts it appeared age and infirmity had been banished for no old people were to be seen, neither sleeping, cooking nor going about their business. Village elders, so much a part of Indonesian culture, the mainstay of a community, were entirely absent. I thus congratulated the chief amongst this tribe of young men and women through a translator, and heartily commended the health and wellbeing thereof. Grinning, he pointed to a cooking pot and flayed animal skins drying out, hung from poles. These rough, hairy hides were evidently precious to them.