Sherlock Holmes and the Chinese Junk Affair and Other Stories

by Roy Templeman

  On exchanging books with each other, Holmes remarked how fortunate he thought we were that Mrs Hudson had chosen Derbyshire for our holiday location.

  ‘Mind you, Watson, we must take some stout, but comfortable footwear, this appears to be hiking country par excellence.’ The more we read about the county, the more we realised two weeks would enable us to see and visit only a fraction of what the county had to offer. This proved to be the case and the reason why the visitors we met returned year after year.

  The Peak District around Bakewell appeared, we later found, to be misnamed. There were no peaks, but beautiful valleys, idyllic scenes, rugged moorlands, limestone crags and pretty villages. As Holmes was to remark, ‘It truly is a landscape artist’s paradise.’

  We spent the next few days in preparing for our holiday. Mrs Hudson provided us with spare clean linen, whilst Holmes and I tried to pack everything we might need, from a whistle to a penknife, a sketchbook to a small brass telescope.

  At last Saturday morning arrived and after an early breakfast, which Mrs Hudson insisted should be substantial, we awaited the arrival of the hansom cab we had arranged to pick us up. Before leaving, we wished the Hudsons a pleasant holiday, with Holmes reassuring them that the Baker Street Irregulars would keep a good eye on the place during our absence. Such was the holiday atmosphere amongst us that Holmes suggested we should all, as a group, have our photograph taken by a passing street photographer.

  Mrs Hudson felt honoured to be in the centre of the group and said so. But Holmes, in his most expansive mood, told her that it was not only right, she being a lady, but deserved, in recognition of how well she always looked after us.

  We bid our goodbyes and the hansom cab made good time because the early morning rush of traffic was over. We thus arrived at the Marylebone station early and were able to secure a first-class smoker.

  With our luggage safely secured on the roof rack above our seats, Holmes took out his pipe, stoked it up, and was soon filling the air with the acrid blue smoke as he read The Times.

  I decided to have a walk along the platform and look at the engine at the front of the train. Two small boys with their mother were there already, the boys transfixed by the maze of gleaming pipes and the glass-fronted dials in the cab. The driver with an oil-can in his hand was climbing along the side of the boiler oiling various parts. His fireman opened the furnace door to feed it with his long-handled shovel, the heat being felt even from where we stood. The beast sizzled; the smell of hot oil was wonderful.

  Wearing blue overalls and a shining black cap, the driver climbed back into the cab and, looking down from his god-like throne, invited the boys up onto the footplate. Seeing the look on the boys’ faces as they were shown around reminded me of my own boyhood, when a simple gesture such as this would be remembered all one’s life. They stepped down onto the platform and the driver received their thanks from mother and the boys. I hurried back to my carriage, and with a wave of the green flag from the guard the train slowly eased itself along the track. I stood by the door and lowered the window with the leather strap, waiting to see what I knew would happen; the two small boys running alongside the engine, looking with awe and admiration as the huge driving rods turned the giant driving wheels around.

  Now, whether the boys distracted the driver as he eased the regulator open, I don’t know, but suddenly the great wheels spun around out of control; the piston rods became for a few seconds a blur. If the wheel slip was allowed to continue, it could cause untold damage, bending the steel rods as if they were made of soft lead. The driver was quick to close the regulator, the spinning wheels slowed and the unholy noise was replaced by a steady chuff, chuff, chuff. All was well, the wheel slip was over.

  I returned to my seat to find we had another passenger. He was middle aged, dressed in tweeds and appeared every inch a country gentleman; but I was wrong. He was, we were to learn, an engineer.

  Holmes enjoyed listening to people; not the prattle about fashion or titillating scandal, but about the basics of life, employment, trade, science and the like. Soon the air was filled with smoke as our friend the engineer began puffing away too at his pipe, and in between puffs informed us why he was making his journey.

  Holmes was content to feed him with a question now and again to keep his verbal momentum flowing. It appeared he was the director of the firm Garrett who make, amongst other things, threshing machines. Last year, he informed us, they had had a number of breakdowns with their machines.

  ‘Now threshing time is one of the busiest times on any farm and breakdowns are drastic to the farmer, and of course to our reputation, which, I must say, is of the highest.’ He puffed away and continued, ‘The previous year we had redesigned a certain part of the machine and, of course, tested it to destruction, but were very concerned when we discovered it had a fault which only became evident later during the threshing season. So you see, my journey is to replace the part, which is in the guard’s van, and make sure everything is in order when the threshing season begins. This is the last one we have to modify.’

  He told us much interesting information about the threshing process.

  We sympathised with the thought of all the hard work the farmworkers endured.

  ‘Aye,’ he remarked, ‘They worked on sometimes into the dark by lantern lights to finish the work, the thresher being booked to go to another farm next day, see.’

  We ate our sandwiches, exchanged and read the papers, and all in all had a most enjoyable journey. We were sorry to say goodbye to our informative and interesting engineer on changing trains at Sheffield.

  Looking through the carriage window after securing seats on our train to Bakewell, I noticed on the platform among other miscellaneous goods, luggage addressed in large printing ‘Leen Mills School, Hucknall, Nottinghamshire’.

  I touched Holmes’s knee.

  ‘Isn’t that where Lord Byron, the poet, is buried; Hucknall?’

  ‘Yes, I believe it is, and his heart buried separately in Greece. It’s said, you know, Watson, that an old prophecy foretold that when a boat should sail across Sherwood Forest full of green, then the Byron family would be no more.

  ‘It happened, so the legend goes, a wicked member of the family had a boat made so he could sail it on the abbey lake, the same lake he had drowned his butler in. The forest people so hated the family, they threw bracken into the open boat as it journeyed through the forest, hoping to make the prophecy come true, and it did of course, the family is no more.’

  ‘So there could be a grain of truth in prophecy after all.’

  ‘Ah! Yes, Watson, and I prophesy the train will leave on time. The doors are crashing to, the green flag is raised and the whistle blown... and away we go.’

  Holmes was certainly in a humorous mood. The corridor door slid open and a very overweight gentleman in a loud checked suit and bowler hat, like a racecourse bookie, slumped down into a corner seat and, after acknowledging our presence, closed his eyes.

  As the train snaked its way over a multitude of points and crossovers, we were made aware of line-side factories and workshops producing the world-renowned Sheffield knives, forks, spoons and scissors. The huge satanic works and furnaces rose high, dwarfing everything around them. This was the life-blood, not only of Sheffield, but of England too. Dirty, grimy, black and likened to Bedlam, but without it where should we be?

  Looking still at the passing kaleidoscope, the scene changed; mean little terraced houses gave way on the outskirts to better and even grand houses.

  Yet it was strange, only minutes after changing trains and on our way into Derbyshire, we were travelling through isolated moors where the only visible form of life appeared to be sheep and the odd carrion crow. Strange indeed that in the valley where the River Don now flowed sluggish and dirty, a huge city should have arisen. Blast furnaces lit the sky at night, smoke blotted out the sun, noise shattered the air and it was here that thousands of people sweated and lived out their short lives. Yet ou
t on the moors only the click, click, click of the rail joints reminded us, it was those same rolling mills that made the rails which bore us swiftly on our way.

  The rest of the train journey to Bakewell was uneventful, except for the stout gentleman who snored loudly all the way. On arriving we booked into the Rutland Arms, before stretching our legs, looking around the old market town and walking by the river. We purchased a bakewell tart from the famous shop, shared the crumbs with a cheeky pied wagtail, and sat on a riverside seat watching a couple of anglers over the far side near the bridge, fishing for brown trout.

  The little town had been busy, but nothing like the hectic crowded streets of London. The stallholders, mainly farmers’ wives and daughters, were packing up their unsold eggs, cheeses and vegetables. An unsold live fowl in a cage lived to roost another night. Slowly we ambled back to our hotel, where we washed and changed.

  Dinner consisted of vegetable soup, beef, boiled potatoes, vegetables and slices of a sort of heavy suet roll. It was rounded off with a cold summer pudding and coffee. In spite of the warm evening, we found it a most satisfying meal.

  After the long but enjoyable day we slept well, sleeping until I was woken by a chambermaid knocking on Holmes’s door to rouse him. ‘Mr Holmes, sir, it’s eight o’clock.’ I called out that I was already awake before she tapped on my own.

  We breakfasted early, and afterwards joined the Sunday morning church worshippers. The congregation comprised local gentry, farmers, tradespeople, shopkeepers and farm labourers, their wives and children. The farm labourers had had their weekly shave and looked uncomfortable in their Sunday-best clothes. All the children wore neat clean attire and needed no reminders to behave. They would rather have died than have drawn attention to themselves.

  We sat at the back and drew some furtive glances from the regular worshippers nearby. It was a joy to sing so many of the old hymns, even Holmes singing with gusto.

  As the congregation filed out, we were given a further glance. We decided to stay awhile and look around the church for a few minutes, remaining unnoticed as the vicar and one of his sidesmen came back inside, down the aisle and into the vestry.

  Deciding to leave without verbally agreeing, telepathic communication I suppose, we quietly passed the half-closed vestry door and heard the vicar remark, ‘I was speaking to the Reverend Stevens a few days ago and he mentioned the case of the Tick Tock Man.. he told me the village people are adamant, even if the police are not... that it is murder... However, let us get on with counting the collection, shall we?’

  We almost tiptoed out of the church.

  ‘Most interesting, Watson.’

  ‘Very, Holmes.’

  The rest of the day we spent lazily wandering around the town and surrounding walks. Both during the afternoon and evening, we came across families walking to attend church or chapel and observed that it is usual in the country to attend at least one act of worship once, most twice, and chapel folk sometimes thrice, on a Sunday.

  The hotel was able to arrange transport for us in the morning to Tideswell, a large-sized village within easy reach of some spectacular walks. After a further good night’s sleep, which Holmes attributed to the good country air, and before the sun had warmed the day, we and our luggage were making our way by pony and trap to Tideswell.

  The driver was a cheerful young man who seemed to be acknowledged by everyone, waving and passing the time of day to various shopkeepers who were just opening their doors for the day’s business.

  The town was soon left behind and we were to enjoy the unspoilt countryside as, at each turn of the road, views of woods, dells and crags appeared. The driver drew to the side of the road as a flock of sheep flowed past. The shepherd said something to his dog, which immediately jumped over the wall, ran along behind it and back over again, now standing in front of the sheep, preventing them going any further. The sheep soon took advantage of the situation to crop the lush roadside herbage.

  Our driver discussed something with the shepherd for a minute or so about a country matter, and then with a word to the dog from the shepherd, the sheep moved on and we were once again on our way.

  Holmes remarked to the driver how the fields around Bakewell were enclosed by wooden fences, yet here the fields were divided by walls of stone. ‘Ah! Well, sirs,’ the driver replied, ‘round Bakewell it’s different land; there ain’t no stones to talk of. Now up ’ere there’s plenty, and stone costs nowt. The farmers clears them from the fields an’ wallers just builds walls with ’em.’

  ‘Without mortar?’ queried Holmes.

  ‘Aye, without mortar... in a minute just round this next turn of road, you’ll find ol’ Tom Jackson building one.’ A few minutes later the waller could be seen in the distance, sorting out a suitable piece of stone to place in the wall.

  Drawing to a halt, it was fascinating to learn how, when building a wall, first a shallow trench was dug. Large stones were then laid in it, and the wall built up gradually, with each stone carefully selected and placed so as to sit nicely on another. Small pieces of stone were used to fill in any gaps. It was a slow craftsmanlike job, but would stand for a hundred years or more.

  The old waller laughed, his brown wrinkled face a picture of a contented man. ‘Aye, I’ll ’ave been planted many a long year afore this falls down’ and he pointed to our young driver, ‘an’ thee an’ all, young Jim.’

  Arriving at Tideswell, we found it to be a large village with a wide main street and lots of cottages and houses built in random fashion off it. A small stream trickled around some of the cottages, a water vole swimming and nearby a blackbird bathing and splashing, added to the peaceful scene.

  The George Hotel was large and was an ideal base for providing good clean beds, first-class meals and good ale. The landlord was most particular about his cellar, and volunteered a village worthy.

  The rest of the day was spent walking around the village and surroundings.

  ‘We mustn’t overdo the walking, you know, Watson; we don’t want that leg of yours playing you up.’ This was true, but I couldn’t help feeling Holmes, although fit and a boxer to boot, was aware that walking up hills and down again placed unusual strain on the leg muscles, not only mine, but his own.

  In the evening, after dinner, we walked out of the hotel and into the churchyard next door. Above us screamed black swifts eager to collect the insects of the air for their hungry nestlings. The church was large and had many old gravestones dating back many years. Coming towards us along the path was a lady, with whom we passed the time of the day. She was dressed in good clothes and was obviously a person of means; the gold rings on her fingers and the pearls around her neck gave every indication of this. During our conversation she said, ‘I try to put flowers every week over the children’s graves.’ Our questioning looks elicited from her an explanation.

  ‘You see the mills around here, at Cromford, Carver and the rest, used to employ the orphan children from London and, I suppose, other large cities. They were brought here to the mills and terribly used, beatings and worse. They worked from early morn to late, cleaning under moving machinery the cotton dross. No wonder there were so many accidents. They wore clothes little more than rags, feeding on the poorest of food, sleeping crowded together, poor mites; although I suppose this did help keep them warm during the cold winter months.’ She continued, as though driven to unburden herself.

  ‘When they died, as so many did, some of the poor little things were brought here to be buried in unmarked pauper graves. But I know where they are buried... you see my great great grandfather was a mill owner.’ She looked at us through tearful eyes. ‘I bring flowers to put on those little children’s graves... I can give charity to the living, but I can do nothing for those poor dead children. I try to think it helps in some small way to make amends for my family’s misdeeds.’ She turned away without another word, dabbing the tears from her eyes.

  We watched her walk out of the gates. ‘The human soul has infinite
facets, Watson. But to bear the guilt of our forebears is one I have never encountered before. Now I understand what prompted the words, “those dark satanic mills”.’

  ‘“And did those feet in ancient times, walk upon England’s mountains green”.’

  ‘Exactly, Watson.’

  We returned to the George for a nightcap before retiring, noting how, as we walked out into the street, small bats flittered around now, replacing the daytime hunting swifts.

  The following morning we set out to begin our holiday proper. Dressed in breeches, stout boots and carrying knapsacks containing maps, compass and telescope, to name just a few of the items we felt we might need, we set forth. Climbing up hill and down dale, we realised why the Peak District is called England’s Switzerland.

  Resting at times just to admire the views and at others to watch and listen to birds like the nuthatch, chiff-chaff, jay and both the green and the great-spotted woodpeckers, we walked in a different world, a world we had forgotten existed.

  Holmes took out his gold hunter. ‘It’s after eleven, I fancy, Watson we should head for this village “Nether Froggatt” here.’ He pointed to it on the map. A quick calculation made it less than three miles away. Three miles on pavements can be walked in less than an hour easily, but along narrow wooded paths, uphill and down, took considerably longer.

  Pleased at last to arrive, we sought out the one and only place in the village where we could rest outside, obtain a drink and eat our sandwiches. It was hardly an inn, but the ale was cool and thirst quenching. We ordered a second round in quick time congratulating the landlord on his brew.

  The sandwiches the George Hotel had packed up for us were good, and we enjoyed sitting outside in the sunshine just resting. Nothing stirred, a more peaceful place would have been hard to find.

  ‘Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. Kiefernzapfen, kiefern-zapfen, kiefernzapfen.’ The voice was clear, loud and unmistakable. The last words were guttural, haunting and spine-chilling. We listened without moving, then slowly turned and looked at each other.