Sherlock Holmes and the Chinese Junk Affair and Other Stories

by Roy Templeman

  ‘Can you feign a limp, Watson?’ I gave him a blank look, cudgelling my brain.

  ‘Perhaps not... put a pebble in your boot. You are going to limp over to the gypsies and ask if they have a bowl of water to soak your sprained ankle in.’

  I still could not understand what Holmes had in mind; realising this, he explained further.

  ‘It is a ploy, Watson. We ask for their help putting them in a dominant position and, hopefully, allaying any suspicion. It will give us an excuse to speak with them.’

  I now saw it all, and duly obliged. The pebble in my boot made it impossible to forget to limp, even for one moment. ‘And another thing, Watson, we must approach the site not from this direction, but from over there. We would hardly have limped through the village without taking advantage of the opportunity to get help from some cottager.’

  As we approached the camp, the children stopped their play, and the dogs barked. On arriving, two women came to the door of the caravan and down the steps. They both wore blouses and dark skirts, their shining black hair tied in a bun.

  Holmes introduced ourselves. ‘I wonder if we could elicit your help... my friend here has sprained his ankle, and we hoped you had a bowl of bowl in which he could bathe it?’ The young woman remained silent, but the older one smiled and nodded her head. ‘Certainly, sir, I will get you a stool each to sit on.’

  She spoke to the silent shy children and there was a rush into the tent to fetch them. I can’t remember all the conversation, as I was busy taking off my boot and sock, easing my foot into the cold water. But Holmes seemed to have charmed the women, even the young one smiled and flashed her large dark eyes at him. I heard her reply to Holmes, ‘Oh, we get by. The men are away cutting wood for the pegs just now.’

  ‘You know, it’s wonderful how you make these pegs out of... nothing really,’ said Holmes, picking up a clothes peg from a nearby basket full of them. The younger woman threw back her head and laughed with a touch of scorn I thought. ‘Hardly nothing. We choose the wood; it has to be supple, scrounge the tins and cut them into thin strips.’ She looked proud, her figure slim and lithe, going on to explain, ‘We bind the top of the peg with the thin strip of tin, like this, and tack through it like so.’ Wielding a small hammer, she drove the tack through the tin and into the wood with one swift blow. Then taking hold of a knife, she held the peg and pressing downwards against the top of a barrel, made a cut. The clothes peg was finished. Free wood, scrounged tin and a tack became a peg.

  Holmes took the peg from her and examined it. ‘As I said, hardly nothing, but a lot of skill involved.’ He turned to me, ‘Is it feeling any easier, Watson?’

  ‘Yes, Holmes, in fact the water feels so good I’m going to put my other foot in too.’ So saying I unlaced my other boot, took off my sock and immersed it.

  Holmes addressed the younger woman. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know the time, would you? My friend here forgot his watch in the rush to pack for our holiday, and I had the misfortune to drop mine. It hasn’t gone since.’ I nodded agreement, guessing the ploy.

  The older woman was busy taking down some of the dried washing off the clothes line. The children sat, wide eyed and fascinated by their unusual visitors. The young woman replied:

  ‘Of course I can tell you the time, sir; my husband got our clock repaired only a few weeks ago when we were camped outside Nether Froggatt.’ She looked inside the caravan and came back down the steps. ‘It’s nearly four o’clock. Ours had broken its spring, but it’s all right now. The old clockmaker made a good job of repairing it... he was a lovely man, my husband said, lived in a cottage with a raven for company of all things. Wouldn’t take a penny for repairing it either. When he learned we had three children, he gave my husband a sixpence to share between them. If you are walking near there, it would be worth your while to see if he could repair it.’

  ‘I’ll try to put my boot on, Holmes. It feels much better now.’ So saying, I dried my feet on a small hand towel from my rucksack and put my socks and boots back on, not forgetting to drop a pebble in one of them to make me limp away.

  We thanked the gypsies who refused our offered money, insisting it was the least they could do to help a fellow traveller. As we passed the children, still sitting on the ground, Holmes whispered into the ear of each one and slipped something under each little round bottom.

  As I limped away, Holmes hissed, ‘You’re limping with the wrong foot.’

  I replied in some agitation, ‘I know, but I only realised my mistake when I stood up to move off... perhaps they won’t notice. By the way, Holmes, what did you whisper to the children?’

  Holmes turned around and waved to them. ‘I told them to sit tight until we were out of sight and then discover what they were sitting upon.’

  ‘And what are they sitting upon?’

  ‘A florin each, Watson,’ and with that we turned around once more to wave our last farewells, the children waving back, wide eyed and smiling until we were out of sight.

  I quickly found somewhere to sit and removed the offending pebble.

  ‘Well, Watson, we can discount the gypsies as having anything to do with the old watchmaker’s death... agreed?’

  ‘Absolutely. Ah! That’s better,’ as I stood up and made a few short strides.

  ‘’Pon my word,’ remarked Holmes, ‘I was impressed by the women’s speech. Each spoke well, but moving around the countryside, and never staying long enough to be influenced by any local dialect, may be the reason.’ I agreed and could not help thinking that in any situation, these women were more than capable of holding their own. The young one certainly impressed Holmes, I could tell. As we walked along, I pondered on the way Holmes had obtained his information, admiring the simple ploy which had achieved a perfect result.

  Our faithful Jim was waiting for us at the appointed time and place to take us back to the George, tired but pleasantly so.

  It was later that evening when I thought to ask Holmes why he had become Soames and I, Moxon. He puffed at his pipe and leaned back against the rough wood of the garden seat we both sat on. Above us the swifts kept up their wheeling and diving, in a constant search of the skies for insects.

  ‘As I see it, Watson, we are on holiday and if we are to benefit from it, we must be seen as just two gentlemen taking a rambling holiday. Yet when we spoke to the vicar yesterday, I felt he was uneasy about something, and out of habit, fell into my line of questioning, which I admit went beyond ordinary casual interest, so much so, he suspected we were policemen, correct?’ I nodded. ‘I didn’t want to reveal our true identities, so I became Soames and you became Moxon... you didn’t mind, did you, Watson?’ He looked at me with genuine concern.

  ‘Of course not, Holmes, but you surprise me by sensing there is a mystery connected with the old clockmaker’s death. It all seemed to begin when we heard that raven, tick tocking.’

  Holmes did not reply but continued puffing away, then asked, ‘Watson, describe to me the symptoms of a heart attack.’

  I deduced it was in connection with the clockmaker’s death.

  ‘Well, Holmes, sometimes there are no warnings and the victim is struck down and within seconds is dead. At other times, the victim has many small attacks over as many months, culminating with a massive attack which causes death.’

  ‘Capital, Watson... they agree with my own layman’s knowledge. Now describe to me the symptoms experienced by the victim of a massive heart attack, just prior to death.’ I thought for a moment before replying.

  ‘The victim sweats and then feels pain in the region of the chest. The pains become worse, it is as though a steel band is tightening around it. This can last for minutes or in some cases an hour or so. The pain becomes excruciating, unbearable... then it is all over.’ Holmes made no remark, but just puffed at his pipe, the blue smoke keeping the evening midges at bay. I couldn’t help wondering what the morrow would bring, what game was afoot, or would it all turn out to be a mare’s nest?

  T
here was something magical about lying down to sleep that summer night. The windows were wide open wafting in the smells of new mown hay, the sounds of the church bells striking the hour and the lowing of a cow in a distant field. All so different from London and Baker Street.

  I heard Holmes bid goodnight to mine host, having had a further late-night walk around the village. His door closed and I soon fell asleep.

  In the morning, Holmes was up before me, but only just. Our breakfast seemed enormous compared with Mrs Hudson’s, and it was only the country air and exercise that enabled me to clear my plate. Afterwards we packed our rucksacks, thanked our host and paid our dues. We smoked a pipe and waited for Jim to take us to Nether Froggatt to view the clockmaker’s cottage, the sun already promising a good day.

  The village was awake, the milkmaids had already milked the cows which even now were sidling down the street, returning to their pastures. A young boy with a dog brought up the rear. At the smithy, the blacksmith was pumping up and down his bellows to heat the first iron of the day and a horse was tied up and waiting to be shod. As the clock struck the hour of nine o’clock our faithful carrier and guide, Jim, brought the trap to a halt and bid us good morning. Holmes threw his rucksack into the trap and clambered aboard. I followed but not as spritely.

  I noticed Holmes looked ahead, but without seeing. His mind, I knew, was on other things, I recognised the signs. When Jim and I conversed, Holmes remained silent. I knew he could not wait to arrive at the cottage and get to grips with the case of the clockmaker’s death. It had been a pleasant drive, Jim setting us down on time outside the church. We gave him a generous tip and were genuinely sorry to bid him farewell. He turned the trap around, and waving goodbye was away at a good trot. We waited no more than a few minutes before the vicar could be seen walking through the churchyard towards us. ‘A fine morning, gentlemen. I see you have your rucksacks packed, ready to continue your holiday after viewing the cottage.’

  Holmes eased his straps. ‘Yes, it is indeed a fine morning, vicar; the village is a hive of activity, I see.’

  ‘Yes, they believe in the old adage of making hay whilst the sun shines. This way then, gentlemen.’ We did not arouse much curiosity as we strolled with the vicar through the village. Attired in our rambling clothes and rucksacks we were just two more visitors, enjoying the views and fresh air, conversing with their vicar. The clockmaker’s cottage was on the periphery of the village, off the main road and by the side of a wood.

  It was a very small cottage, just two rooms and no upstairs. Stone built and roofed with pantiles which had at some time replaced the thatch, it sat squat and solid. A single chimney and one door; the basic requirements, but several small windows on three sides, and ivy grew up the walls onto the roof giving it a pleasant rustic attraction. A privy stood at the end of the garden under the trees.

  As we reached the door, the sound of ‘kwark, kwark’ was heard in the upper branches of the closest tree. ‘Kwark, kwark,’ cried the raven, followed by ‘tick tock, tick tock, tick tock’ and again that harsh guttural foreign word ‘Kiefernzapfen, kiefernzapfen, kiefernzapfen.’

  Holmes slipped the rucksack off his back, placed it on the ground, opened it and took out a small parcel, the remains of his enormous breakfast we had been served. Sausage, liver, kidney and half a slice of bread. These he threw onto the ground under the tree. The raven who had been watching us with beady eyes, cocked its head on one side and flew down, walked with a sailor’s gait and began eating the scraps. It appeared even larger on the ground and that huge beak looked most formidable.

  The vicar watched the scene with us and then turned to unlock the door, saying, ‘That bird has never once returned to the cottage. During all the time the doctor and I searched the cottage, we left the door ajar, but it never once came over the doorstep. Almost as though it knew its master was no longer here.’ He swung the door back and we followed him in.

  The room appeared even smaller than I had expected. Perhaps it was the low ceiling and the crowded-in furniture which made it seem so. On the whitewashed walls a few religious pictures hung, the text beneath in German. A small table was pushed up against the wall, a sideboard of pine wood and a huge Windsor chair by the fire side completed the furnishings. Oh, yes, the stand which the raven used to perch upon was beside the chair, also a padded small box used no doubt as a foot rest.

  A door led into the other room partitioned off into a bedroom and kitchen-cum-workshop. The bedroom area was tiny, a single bed allowed just sufficient space to get in and out of it. A chest of drawers at the foot was the only other furniture.

  However, it was the kitchen-cum-workshop that was a complete contrast. The workshop was a mass of shelves holding innumerable boxes of every size, wooden and cardboard. The contents of each box was written in German in thick black crayon on the outside. The lower shelves held open boxes of springs, cogs and screws of every description. A lathe and racks of tools stood on a workbench under a north-facing window to benefit from the light. Every inch of wall space was used. Several Black Forest cuckoo clocks were now mute and forlorn. From nails in the wall hung various clock faces, pendulums and still more hand tools.

  We stood and stared for a while, taking in the scene. But before we began discussing the situation, the sound of a horse and trap could be heard. It halted outside and a few moments later through the doorway came a bewhiskered middle-aged man: top hat and gloves and of very smart appearance. The vicar greeted him.

  ‘Good morning, Charles. Pleased to see you have not been delayed by some emergency or other.’ The vicar turned to us. ‘Let me introduce you, gentlemen. This is my friend and the local practitioner, Dr Charles Draycott, and this is Mr Soames and Mr Moxon.’ We all shook hands and stood around for a few minutes discussing the poor clockmaker’s demise, also the fact that no money of any great amount had been found. No bank account book, nothing.

  The doctor placed his top hat carefully on a clear part of the work bench, saying, ‘We spent the whole of one day systematically going through box after box, shelf after shelf; very unpleasant work indeed, but not a thing of real value did we discover, correct, vicar?’

  The vicar agreed and added, ‘We did find of course a few sovereigns in a box under the bench, and a few coins in his trouser pockets. But of the money he talked of, to build a row of almshouses and enough to keep them in repair in perpetuity, I am afraid there was none.’

  There was silence whilst we all contemplated this.

  I asked if he left a will.

  The doctor answered. ‘Yes, he did, just a simple sheet of paper affair, written by the schoolmaster and witnessed by him and a local farmer. The schoolmaster died some ten years ago, if my memory serves me right.’ The vicar agreed.

  I asked about the instructions in the will. Again the doctor replied. ‘Oh! He appointed whoever was the vicar at the time of his death, to set up a trust to oversee the building of the almshouses, and sanction future repairs as necessary.’

  The vicar added his voice. ‘You see, this is why we wonder if he was robbed, bearing in mind the upset state of the living-room and of course the injury, although not serious, could have been caused when he tried to defend himself.’

  I said, ‘That is why you wondered if the gypsy had suspected the old man had money, and had come back some days later to rob him?’

  The doctor took up the point. ‘You see, he could have walked here from wherever they are encamped, done the deed, and made off, no one the wiser.’

  We remained silent considering the theory. Meanwhile, during our conversation, Holmes had been prowling around, examining first the living-room, then the bedroom. Lastly of course, examining the black crayon writing indicating the contents in the boxes. One contained hundreds of cogs of all sizes. Another steel springs, an old shoe box was full of lengths of string for re-use: waste not want not.

  He crouched down and examined a box full of clock weights he had pulled out from under the workbench. They were heavy weigh
ts, the type that hang on the chains of long-case clocks and cuckoo clocks. The weights were assorted shapes and sizes, dusty and dirty. He stood up and dusted his hands, pulled out a drawer and began examining the end, then reached inside the cavity, in case a note or something had been hidden.

  Suddenly the vicar exclaimed aloud, ‘I know of a place we have not looked... the chimney.’ We followed him into the living-room. The grate was full of dead ashes. We stood around and watched as the vicar bent forward and peered upwards. Being very careful not to touch the encrusted soot of many years, he looked around, then withdrew his head. ‘It’s really difficult to examine it properly... it should be swept first. I think we should get old Ted to come and sweep it. We shall have to be present of course. If there’s anything up there, Ted will find it.’

  Just then I looked out of the window and caught sight at the end of the garden of the privy and garden shed. ‘I suppose they have been searched?’ They followed my gaze and the vicar replied slowly, ‘No!’ The doctor adding in a patronising tone, ‘I can hardly imagine any sane person hiding anything of great value in a privy or garden shed.’

  ‘Still we ought to look, I suppose,’ persisted the vicar.

  The three of us went up the path and examined the privy, which was of the two sitting side-by-side arrangement. The second seat contained a bucket of torn-up newspaper, ready for use. We removed both buckets and looked beneath, then replaced them. The garden hut was a small affair almost covered with ivy. A barrow, seed boxes, spade, fork, rake, a ball of twine, together with other small gardening paraphernalia completed the inventory. The doctor appeared more and more frustrated by the whole affair.