Sherlock Holmes and the Chinese Junk Affair and Other Stories

by Roy Templeman

  ‘Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. Kiefernzapfen, kiefern-zapfen, kiefernzapfen.’ The last words again ending in that same horrible haunting spine-chilling sound. Clearly, loudly, it was repeated over and over again. Slowly, Holmes and I stood up, turned around and walked backwards, whilst at the same time looking upwards to the roof of the inn.

  ‘Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. Kiefernzapfen, kiefern-zapfen, kiefernzapfen.’ There perched on the ridge tiles we were astonished to see a huge bird. This was no ordinary bird, but a huge raven. The iridescent beauty of its midnight plumage of purple, blue and green gloss, was breathtaking. A formidable beak, massive and hooked, opened and closed as it continued its litany of tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. Kiefernzapfen, kiefernzapfen, kiefernzapfen.

  ‘It’s a raven, isn’t it, Holmes?’ I whispered.

  He replied in like subdued tones. ‘Yes, one of the largest of the corvid tribe, has a wingspan of some four feet, and in flight is among our most skilled acrobatic birds.’

  The raven ceased its mimicry and preened itself. In a low voice Holmes continued, ‘It was once a common bird, but since the gentry’s gamekeepers have shot every other creature that might threaten their pheasants, their decline has been rapid.

  ‘Gamekeepers are the enemy of every other creature that walks or flies, excepting of course, their masters’ sacrificial pheasants, poor things, cosseted to die in a hail of lead shot.’

  ‘True, Holmes. I remember one gamekeeper who shot all the nightingales on his preserve, believing they kept his pheasants awake at night. On his gibbet he had cats, badgers, foxes, buzzards, hawks and owls, but no ravens, they were already rare by then.’

  ‘Quite right, sir.’ We turned to see the landlord standing in the doorway. ‘When I wore a lad, they wore seen around a lot, but you don’t see ’em anymore.’

  ‘Except now... here,’ retorted Holmes.

  I said, ‘But why this strange mimicry of a ticking clock ending with those horrible frightful guttural words... and where has it come from?’ The landlord came and sat on an empty barrel.

  ‘It’s a bit of a mystery really, gentlemen. Many years ago some children found it and thought it was a young jackdaw. When it wore discovered like, that it wore a raven, nobody wanted it. Ravens, you know, are supposed to be connected wi’ death, an’ they thought it might bring bad luck to the family.’

  Just then the raven gave a few more tick tocks and flew off crying out in a harsh voice, ‘Kwark, kwark, kwark,’ the raven’s natural cry finishing off with what could only be described as foreign guttural words, screaming those same words over and over again as it flew to another part of the village.

  Holmes whipped out his notebook, quickly wrote something, then snapped it shut.

  The landlord continued, ‘I suppose the superstition is true, ’cause the owd clockmaker, the Tick Tock Man who kept ’im as a pet, died three weeks ago. He wore found dead in ’is chair, the door open, the place in disarray, an’ the raven gone. The folks around ’ere reckon there wore more to his death though, not natural like.’

  Just then a shout calling him, came from inside the inn. ‘I’ll ’ave to go; wife’s dad wants ’elp getting up to privy.’

  A villager opposite the inn came to his cottage door and scraped the remains on his plate, onto the ground. The raven, which must now have returned and was close by, flew down, picked up the largest morsel and flew off with it.

  We should have liked to have heard more from the landlord, but decided not to wait, and instead looked around the nearby church. ‘I always think of churchyards as a record written on stone, of the past, you know, Watson.’

  I agreed. ‘Look at that headstone, nearly a hundred and eighty years old. Each generation adding their names, right up to the present decade.’

  ‘Each generation most likely being born, living and dying here. Incredible to believe that most never even went further than a few miles outside the village boundary. And those that did probably only ventured as far as the next village. But the bicycle will change all that, Watson.’

  ‘Do you think it will?’

  Holmes stopped in his stride. ‘The invention of the bicycle will change the way we live. It will enable ordinary people, those that can afford one, of course, to bicycle, five, ten times the distance they could have hoped to have walked. Work and jobs within ten or fifteen miles will be possible to travel to.’

  At that moment who should be observed leaving the rectory and heading towards us was none other than the vicar. Holmes remarked, ‘I see the vicar has noticed our presence and is anxious to exchange a bit of conversation with strangers, as a change from the local worthies, no doubt.’

  As usual, Holmes was quite correct in his assumption. The vicar smiled and shook hands with us both, introducing himself as the Reverend Stevens. Holmes introduced me as Mr Moxon and himself as Soames. I never questioned this by even batting an eyelid, but assumed he had good reason.

  The vicar was eager to show us around the church and was a most pleasant, affable man. The inside of the church was cool and most welcome as a place to escape from the heat of the afternoon. After giving us a most interesting account of the church’s history, he took us out through the vestry and into the churchyard.

  Following him, we came upon a recent burial site. The grass sods upon it were uneven with the edges turning brown from the heat of the sun. A simple jam jar half buried at the head of the grave held some fresh wild flowers. The vicar indicating the flowers said, ‘The children put them there... called him the Tock Tock Man. They used to love to see the clocks ticking away on his workshop wall, and of course, the cuckoo clocks were a great novelty. He spoke with a foreign accent and the children thought this funny, but he didn’t mind. They found him kind and miss him very much.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Holmes. ‘He was German, wasn’t he?’

  Both the vicar and I stopped and stared at him. ‘Yes, he was.’ The vicar paused. ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Oh, no! I think the landlord mentioned it.’ I knew this to be untrue, but said nothing. The vicar looked up at the church clock which began to strike the hour of three. ‘Look, would you do me the honour of having afternoon tea with me? I’m afraid it will only be cake and scones, as my good wife is out visiting a sick woman in the village.’

  Holmes responded, ‘I assure you, the honour is ours and cake and scones will be more than adequate.’

  We followed him out of the churchyard, through a small gate and into the grounds of the rectory. A swing was tied up and a rabbit hutch empty, giving evidence that the vicar’s children had grown up, were at college, university, or making their own way in the world.

  A cook answered the bell, still wiping her wet hands on her apron. A few whispered words and he replied, ‘Cake and scones will be fine. I know the mistress has taken the ham with her.’ She withdrew from the large cool drawing-room.

  I was surprised to observe all the walls were covered with tapestries from ceiling to floor. In winter no doubt, making the room snug and warm and in summer cool. ‘What a sensible idea we have let go out of fashion,’ I remarked.

  Our conversation went back and forth, the vicar obviously greatly interested in our London gossip, and the description we gave him of the political scene, especially when we dropped prominent names. This wasn’t to impress him with the reflected glory it gave us, but we felt it was a reward for his kindness. It would give endless pleasure in the weeks ahead when, for the umpteenth time, he would recount how the two gentlemen from London, had spoken of Lord So-and-So, and Mr So-and-So of the Home Office, and lots of other important people.

  It was after a little rosy-cheeked maid had brought in a further pot of hot water that Holmes remarked, ‘Whilst we were refreshing ourselves at lunchtime with a glass of the landlord’s excellent brew, we were entertained by the now departed clockmaker’s raven.’

  The vicar smiled, ‘You were, were you? Yes, it’s a remarkable bird, reared it from a squab he did. The village boys tho
ught it was a young jackdaw, but when Jimmy Fletcher’s mother discovered it was a raven, a harbinger of death they believe, she told him to get rid of it. Of course the mothers of all the other children would not have it either.’ He offered us another scone, but we declined.

  ‘Well, the Tick Tock Man felt sorry for the poor thing, neglected and starving. It opened its beak to every passing villager, begging for food. No one would take it for fear of the reputation ravens have, being afraid it might invite death into the family if they harmed it. There is an old myth you know among country people, that if its cry is heard near a sick person, for instance, then death would soon follow. Its awesome sepulchral eerie cry, of course, adds to its macabre reputation.’

  Holmes finished the story, ‘So the Tick Tock Man took it in and it became his pet, and a mimic into the bargain.’

  I put my tea cup down. ‘Until I heard the raven mimic the sound of a ticking clock, I had no idea they were mimics. Jackdaws, magpies and starlings, yes, but not ravens.’

  Holmes replied, ‘It is not common knowledge, but ravens are among the best mimics in the avian world, and with it is said, some understanding. While in the case of the parrot, it is rare that it advances beyond a few set phrases.’

  The vicar made a point, ‘Few people realise that the parrot was with us in the Dark Ages. Priests used them to delude the weak and superstitious minds of the people. One cardinal it is reputed, paid a hundred gold pieces, an astronomical fortune in those days, for a parrot that could, without pause or hesitation, repeat the whole of the Apostle’s Creed.’

  ‘Most interesting,’ replied Holmes. ‘It is without doubt, the sailor, who on his long sea journeys taught the young parrots, bought for pence in faraway ports, to talk and made them so popular. It earned Jack Tar extra funds to swell his drinking money upon reaching his home port.’ Holmes nodded across to me, ‘I think I remember you once retailing to me a very interesting story about a parrot, Moxon.’

  ‘Quite right, Soames,’ said I, enjoying using his new name. ‘It concerned a parrot who was kept outside a quayside public house, in good weather of course. Now this parrot picked up the lingo of the drivers giving orders to their horses when positioning them, loading or unloading cargo.

  ‘One day a horse and cart were left unattended near the water’s edge, and were spied by the mischievous parrot, who mimicked the gruff voice of a driver, “Wo! back, back, Whoa!, back, back, back.” The unsuspicious horse obliged and obliged time after time, as the delighted bird repeated the command, till horse and cart tipped over the edge of the harbour, and the poor animal was drowned.’ Both Holmes and the vicar expressed admiration for the account, but we all felt sorry for the horse.

  The vicar asked if we wished for further tea and obliged us, the little maid bringing in more hot water. Sitting down again he regaled us with a further anecdote about the ways of the parrot family.

  ‘This story was told to me by a parishioner who had lived most of his life in London, but on retiring and being a widower, came to live with his sister. I have no doubt the story is true; the teller was not one to invent or exaggerate. He had kept a shop opposite the inn where the incident happened.

  ‘The parrot in question was kept by the inn-keeper to amuse his patrons and was a capital talker. Everyone knew the parrot in Kensington because its cage was hung out of an upper window and it would amuse itself from morning to night chattering away hailing every fruit-vendor and itinerant merchant who passed below.

  ‘One day a highly respectable old gentleman in brown gaiters, top hat and carrying an umbrella was stopped in his tracks as the parrot, in a state of high hilarity, screamed out at the top of its voice, “Cod, oh! cod oh! plaice and eels alive oh!” He peered up, as the parrot in a highly excited state still repeated over and over again the cry “Cod, oh! cod oh! plaice and eels alive oh!” causing the old gentleman to lean against the wall, and laugh until the tears rolled down his cheeks. The reason for his hilarity was explained to the gathering crowd, when he related that the bird must have the memory of a tax collector. He remembers me, despite my fine clothes. Twenty years ago he told the crowd, when I was a poor struggling fishmonger, I drove my fish cart every day along this street calling out, “Cod, oh! cod, oh! plaice and eels alive oh!” Admonishing the bird with a wagging finger, he warned, “I mustn’t come through Kensington again if I wish to forget I was once a poor fishmonger”.’

  We all laughed, even the little housemaid tittered, whom I observed listening behind the open drawing-room door.

  Although we all found the subject of mimicry fascinating, Holmes decided to change the subject when he remarked:

  ‘I understand from the landlord, that the old clockmaker was found dead in his chair, and the door open, through which the raven escaped.’

  The vicar looked slightly uneasy when he replied, ‘Yes, that is true, but to say the raven escaped is incorrect. You see, it had been his companion and pet for many, many years. It was like a dog or cat, it came and went whenever it pleased, flying all over the village, a regular sight. It would perch by the clockmaker’s chair and there they would sit together by the fireside, like true companions.

  ‘It was the frantic unusual behaviour of the raven that caused the village folk to suspect there was something amiss. The bird appeared agitated and flew about the village, seeming not to settle for any length of time in any one place. Instead of its usual mimicry of tick tock, tick tock, it screamed them aloud in a most dreadful way, but now ended with the same foreign word kiefernzapfen, repeating it over and over again. The whole village was mystified. On investigation, they found the old clockmaker was dead.’

  Holmes surprised me by bluntly stating, ‘But the villagers suspect it was an unnatural death. What reason leads them to think so, not just the bird’s unusual behaviour surely?’

  The vicar was taken aback, not sure how to reply, but decided it was better to admit his fears, perhaps beginning to suspect we were plain-clothes policemen.

  ‘You are quite correct. My friend, Dr Draycott from Bakewell, examined him and found a wound above his right ear. There was blood from it all over his right shoulder and neck. However, according to him, it would not have been of sufficient injury to have caused his death. Dr Draycott considered he may have died from heart failure.’

  He said no more, wondering no doubt if we would be satisfied with the amount of information he had disclosed. Holmes was not, and gently prodded him further.

  ‘What else besides the wound, and the blood, makes them uneasy about his death?’

  I think the vicar now felt it was useless to withhold any information further, despite he and the doctor having agreed to keep their fears to themselves. They both apparently felt nothing would be served by upsetting the villagers with suspicions of a murder having been committed, without more real evidence.

  ‘You ask what else made them uneasy? Well, there were several drawers in his sideboard pulled out as though they had been searched, a stool and the raven’s perch were knocked over, the whole room was in disarray, and of course, the door was left wide open.’ He paused for a few moments, ‘I should tell you too, the clockmaker had always said that when he died, everything he owned would be left in trust to build a row of alms-houses for the poor. Any money left over, should be used to keep them in good repair. This, of course, was common knowledge in the village.

  ‘Although he lived a rather frugal life and to the casual observer appeared as if he was worth nothing, I always suspected he had money hidden away...’

  ‘Why?’ asked Holmes with a questioning look.

  The vicar appeared rather uneasy, but continued.

  ‘I understand it is common to bury or hide wealth in Europe. Invading armies would plunder and pass on. When a war was over, the wealth would be unearthed again. He was, as you said, German. I think he buried or hid his money, using this old and tried habit, rather than a bank.’

  ‘Do you know anything more about him?’ asked Holmes. I was sure now the
vicar suspected we were police. Holmes’s form of questioning went beyond ordinary casual interest.

  ‘His name was Hans Reitsch and he was middle aged when he arrived here thirty-odd years ago. Why he came here to this particular village we never knew. It was many, many years before his English was sufficiently good enough to hold a conversation with him, and by that time, the villagers had lost their curiosity and just accepted him as a nice old man with a foreign accent.’

  Holmes pressed on, terse and to the point. ‘So you are saying, you and the doctor found no money in the cottage?’

  ‘That is so. We searched the cottage thoroughly both before and after the old man was buried, but found nothing...’ He paused, then uneasily I thought, continued, ‘I am not happy to disclose this, because it is casting a shadow of suspicion on a man who could be perfectly innocent, but I would be failing in my duty if I withheld this additional information. A gypsy family stayed for several weeks on the outskirts of the village, making pegs and weaving baskets. They moved on a few days before the old clockmaker died. Now, one of the gypsies was seen leaving the clockmaker’s cottage with a clock under his arm, a day or so before they upped and left. So you see, he would have talked with the clockmaker and would know the layout of the cottage. There, then, is the sum total of my suspicions, and I must stress, that is all they are, suspicions.’

  Before either Holmes or I could reply to his disclosures, he looked at us both in turn and said, ‘Talking of suspicions... my own are that you two gentlemen are not ramblers on holiday, but policemen?’

  Holmes spoke out in a clear, precise, but friendly voice. ‘I feel we should offer you an apology... we are not policemen, we are private detectives. We work for the government from time to time.’ Holmes and I exchanged significant glances. ‘We hold no official position and as such are free of restraints which exist in the constabulary... and of course, vice versa, the government are free of any embarrassment connecting us with Whitehall, should we... what shall I say... slip up.’ He laughed and continued, ‘It is said that fact is stranger than fiction... we are in fact, on holiday away from our London office, and really are rambling, enjoying the wonderful scenery of your county.’