Sherlock Holmes and the Chinese Junk Affair and Other Stories

by Roy Templeman

  As we returned down the garden path, myself leading, he kept the vicar back and talked in whispers to him. I stood out of sight behind the door listening. I could not hear all that was said, only the odd word or two, here and there. But from the tone of the doctor’s voice he appeared most agitated.

  The doctor strode in, the vicar followed. His voice was loud and said with great authority, ‘We should contact the police again and have this gypsy fellow tracked down.’ The doctor glared at me as he spoke.

  The vicar looked rather subdued. ‘I suppose we should. After all, the old clockmaker must have had some money, or why would he have talked of almshouses, and made a will?’

  The doctor, who was obviously the more dominant of the two, replied in a brisk tone, ‘Of course we should. We should have done it the day after we searched the place. The police were lax. They won’t be very pleased, but I will insist they find this gypsy fellow,’ scornfully adding, ‘that is if they can, the fellow will be miles away by now.’

  The vicar looked crestfallen. Although the doctor had not said so in as many words, it was plain the vicar had been the one who had stayed the hand of the doctor at the time.

  The voice of Holmes from the workshop called out, ‘I wouldn’t bother trying to track the gypsies down, they had nothing to do with it.’

  The doctor looked even more annoyed and we followed him into the workshop to find Holmes leaning back against the clockmaker’s workbench in a most casual manner. He said, ‘We observed them in a clearing near Eyam village yesterday and spoke with them. I assure you they are completely innocent.’

  The doctor I could see was quietly seething, but in a controlled voice asked, ‘What reasons substantiate your view that they had nothing to do with it?’

  Holmes smiled. ‘If they had, doctor, they would hardly have stayed in the area, but would have put as many miles between themselves and the scene of the crime as possible. Would have walked the horse to exhaustion to achieve it.’

  The doctor made no reply, no doubt inwardly agreeing with the very valid point Holmes had made. The vicar, I thought, looked relieved that the gypsy family had been exonerated.

  Holmes continued, ‘Shall I tell you what did happen here that night?’ He paused dramatically. ‘You, doctor, diagnosed death was caused by heart failure, and you were quite correct.’ I looked towards the doctor and his expression softened slightly. ‘The clockmaker had eaten his supper, evident from the crumbs on his plate and dregs of cocoa in his cup. Sitting in his chair, with the raven by his side, he felt the beginning of the heart attack. Within minutes he was suffering the most excruciating pains in his chest. They grew worse, too painful to bear. It was then he realised death had come to take him. In his agony, though still able to reason, he remembered that in all his talks with you, vicar, he had never hinted at where the means to carry out his last wishes, his wealth, was to be found.’ Holmes, who had been filling his pipe during this time and, striking a match on a nearby iron vice, continued:

  ‘Like most of us, the clockmaker thought he would die in bed with time in plenty to make his arrangements. Sadly this was not so. He staggered to the door to open it, hoping the fresh air would help him. But the pain increased, now like an iron band around his chest. Leaving the door wide open, he lurched backwards again inside and reverting to his mother tongue, German, began shouting out aloud the same word over and over again... kiefernzapfen, kiefernzapfen, kiefernzapfen... screaming it in a last frantic effort to alert someone, anyone, who might understand what he was saying.

  ‘He swayed and, with one hand held to his chest and the other supporting himself, went to the sideboard, picked up a pencil intending to scrawl a message on any piece of paper that came to hand, but the pencil point, under his claw-like grip, broke. He was desperate now. The last of his energy used up in ransacking the drawers you found open, in his desperate search for anything to write with, the stub of a pencil, a crayon or anything. He found nothing. Hardly now able to move, he lurched towards his chair still screaming, over and over again, the same German word, kiefernzapfen, kiefernzapfen, kiefernzapfen.

  ‘The raven by now was frantic with fear. Its beloved master’s behaviour was beyond its understanding. The old man reached his chair and, in doing so, pulled over the raven’s perch hitting his head on the sharp metal. In terror the horrified bird flew round and round the room as his master screamed out those strange words in a voice full of pain and suffering. Those were the last words the raven heard from its beloved master, before flying terrified through the open door into the night. The Grim Reaper had called and left. All was quiet now, the candle continued to flicker, keeping up its all-night vigil. Sometime during the night it went out. Like the old clockmaker, it had run its time.’

  We were all silent. The picture painted by Holmes had captured the imagination of us all then; as though it had been listening, the raven screamed out those words of its dying master several times, then all was silent again.

  ‘You see,’ said Holmes, ‘it still remembers those words screamed in those last terrifying moments, associating them with that awful night.’ Holmes reached up and took down from a hook in the ceiling, the remains of a side of bacon, smoked no doubt over the fire in the other room. He strode out and threw it onto the grass by the back door. The raven glided down and began tearing at it with its powerful beak. Holmes returned to us in the workshop. The doctor and the vicar said nothing, I think they were overcome not only with what Holmes had described, but the way Holmes had spoken, so sure of his facts, one never questioned them, as though he had been an unseen observer.

  Looking up at the low-beamed ceiling, Holmes puffed away at his pipe, then around at his audience and continued. ‘My colleague and I came across a secondhand bookshop in Tideswell and I took the opportunity to look up in a German dictionary the word the raven had called out so many times. I guessed it was Teutonic and that the clockmaker in his distress and pain had reverted back to his mother tongue. What that word had meant I had no idea, but I felt that it must be important, if a dying man used his last breath to utter it.’

  He paused and looked at us in turn. ‘However, I was puzzled. The translation I finally arrived at after much research was “The Pine Cones”.’

  We each in turn repeated the words as though, by doing so, we might solve the puzzle of why a dying man would utter such words. We repeated the words over and over again to ourselves and each other, before looking again towards Holmes, still leaning against the bench, his pipe clenched in his mouth, the picture of a man in complete control of the situation.

  ‘Yes, I too was as puzzled as you, until I happened to rummage about in this box of old clock weights. They are dusty, dirty and the paint is chipped on some. You see they are in all shapes and sizes.’ He pointed to them, ‘But it was on sorting through them I noticed that some of the weights were cast in the shape of fir tree cones, like the ones on the end of the chains hanging from the cuckoo clocks. The box contained ten such cones to be exact.’ Holmes moved aside to reveal, laid out on the bench, the ten cones arranged like an angler might display his fish, in a row.

  Each one shaped like a fir cone.

  He removed his pipe and placed it on the bench. ‘I found a strange thing about these weights... watch the weight of each one as I place it on this set of scales.’

  Holmes placed them one at a time on the scales, all of us peering intently as he did so. The first six cones were approximately the same weight, twelve ounces. The seventh cone caused the scale to bump down heavily, so did the remaining three.

  Holmes turned to us. ‘Why, when they are all identical in shape and size, should four be heavier than the other six?’

  We were silent, then the vicar said, ‘They must be made from different metal.’

  But the doctor brusquely remarked, ‘It is obvious the six are of cast-iron and the other four of lead.’

  Smiling, I thought deliberately, Holmes replied, ‘Almost right, but not quite. What metal is heavier than le
ad, in fact almost twice as heavy?’

  We were again silent, one could almost hear the concentration, whilst Holmes waited patiently like a schoolmaster for the correct answer.

  I said, ‘You don’t mean...’ I paused almost afraid to say it and raise false hopes, especially in the vicar. Holmes encouraged me, ‘Go on.’

  I gasped out, ‘They are gold... they are gold, aren’t they?’

  Holmes replied, ‘Top marks... under the grime and dust, they are solid gold. I have run a file down them and removed some of the paint; you can see the gold revealed.’

  We each in turn handled the heavy cone weights and observed the glint of bright gold. Each one made of solid gold, and worth a fortune. We seemed speechless at the turn of events. Holmes had sprung it upon us suddenly, like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat.

  ‘What better way to hide away his wealth than disguised as old dusty clock weights in an open wooden box which once contained soap? We must remember, as the vicar mentioned only the other day, he was German and over many hundreds of years invading armies have fought back and forth across Europe. It has been the practice for people to hide away their valuables, jewellery, silver plate and gold, by burying it under the ground. Later, when the looting armies had passed and the war was over, they would unearth it again.’

  He pointed to the cones, ‘The old clockmaker cast these weights from the mould he made from the lead cones and cast these four of solid gold. Afterwards, he painted them and allowed dust and dirt to gather, so as to appear and look just like the others in the box. He didn’t need to bury them in the ground; what thief would carry away a heavy box of clock weights of minimum value when he could so easily lift off the wall a valuable cuckoo clock?

  ‘My colleague will confirm that one of my many interests over the years has been gold. The history of gold and the crimes and murder committed to possess this international currency. Gold has a specific gravity of 19.3 and is nearly twice as heavy as lead which has a specific gravity of only 11.34. Lode gold is mined whereas alluvial is panned from streams and rivers and it is all initially cast into ingots or bars. It can be cast in any shape or form, hence our gold cones.

  ‘Gold never tarnishes it is malleable making it an ideal dental filling, for those that can afford it, of course. Gentlemen, I could talk for hours about gold, but, suffice to say, your humble, kind benefactor has left you more, much more, than your trust will need to build its almshouses and keep them maintained.’

  All of us were so overcome by events that we were seemingly, at first, left speechless and listening to Holmes trotting out his facts in such a matter-of-fact way had completely mesmerised us. But after getting over the welcome shock and having a little time to digest the situation, we all began congratulating him on his brilliant detective work. The vicar left the room and returned a moment later holding up a pencil and an envelope. ‘Look, it’s as you described the events of that night, here is an envelope and the pencil with a broken point.’ They looked towards Holmes with awe and admiration.

  The doctor’s attitude towards Holmes was now not only civil but contrite, asking him, as a means of conveying his change of opinion, if he thought the clockmaker’s injury had been caused when he struck his head on the raven’s perch?

  ‘Yes,’ replied Holmes. ‘If some time before then, we would have expected to find blood all over the room. On striking and upsetting the perch he gashed his head and it bled all over his neck, collar and shoulder until, a few minutes later, his heart stopped and so, of course, the bleeding.’

  It was decided that the doctor and the vicar would take the gold straight away to the bank in Bakewell for safe keeping. The cottage was locked up again and we all stood around saying our goodbyes. The vicar, especially, was overjoyed and confessed that without Soames’s help, the mystery would never have been solved and the village deprived of the old people’s almshouses. ‘The village can never thank you enough and I am sure the clockmaker is looking down upon us at this very moment, satisfied that his wishes will be carried out.’

  Holmes thanked them in return and, addressing the vicar, remarked, ‘I hope in your sermon next Sunday, vicar, you will mention who is the real person to thank, the fellow in the shining black coat up there in the tree. He provided the real clue. I feel everyone in the village will see he gets the very best of the table scraps as his reward.’

  The doctor took up the reins and with the vicar beside him reached over and shook our hands, saying, ‘Thank you once again, gentlemen, it has been an honour and a pleasure to have met you both. You have proved the truth in the old saying “Every man to his job”. I sincerely apologise for doubting your abilities. Left to me, I would have had the police searching for the gypsy family and we would never have discovered the gold.’

  ‘You are quite right, doctor, every man to his trade; this is how civilisation has reached the zenith it has today. Every trade and profession improves upon the last. It was just fortunate my colleague and I were around to help, that’s all. Our reward is knowing that many old residents of the village will end their lives together here in the almshouses, instead of in some unknown town workhouse, with husband and wife separated and miserable.’

  The doctor looked pleased and replied, ‘Perhaps we could call the almshouses after you gentlemen, as a means of remembering your services?’

  Holmes raised his hand. ‘No, no. But perhaps they could be named “Ravensdale Almshouses” in memory of the little fellow in the black coat.’

  Sherlock Holmes and the Trophy Room

  My friend, Sherlock Holmes, was in a good mood. Mrs Hudson, our landlady, had cooked us her usual excellent breakfast, the papers had been read and the sun was already up and shining through the windows. The promise of another perfect day.

  ‘You know, Watson, I feel it in my bones that this glorious morning will bring us forth an interesting case.’

  I looked across at Holmes and nodded. ‘Shall we delay our walk through the park a while then, say half an hour, in case this interesting case should come to our door?’

  Holmes went to the window and looked down into Baker Street, busy already with people coming and going. He stroked his long chin and his eyes reminded me as always of a hawk, bright and missing nothing. A few moments later he turned to me.

  ‘If I’m not mistaken, Watson, from the coat of arms I observe on the coach door stopping outside our humble abode, our problem comes hotfoot in the form of a peer of the realm.’

  There were voices outside the door. One was of Mrs Hudson, the other deep and booming. A moment later a knock at the door and Holmes went to answer it. Mrs Hudson stood there, and then stepped backwards, to allow the stranger to come forward.

  ‘A gentleman to see you, Mr Holmes.’

  The stranger was a huge mountain of a man, in his middle thirties, with a military bearing. His chest massive, his face rugged. He thrust out his hand and said, ‘Viscount Siddems... I have the pleasure, I believe, of addressing Mr Sherlock Holmes and,’ he looked across the room to where I was standing, still holding a morning paper, ‘Dr Watson.’

  Holmes, although this was hardly necessary, our visitor being far from the timid sort, ushered him in and, as was usual, put his visitor at ease. The viscount was clearly not a troubled man. He smiled and appeared happy and relaxed. Holmes said, ‘Well, sir, it is obvious that the problem you have is not a serious one. Perhaps intriguing more than sinister.’ The face of our visitor creased into a further smile.

  ‘Then you have heard all about the thefts from my trophy room?’

  ‘No,’ said Holmes, ‘but you appear in such good humour that it could not be sinister, or you would not smile so freely. Believe me, many who consult my good friend and I come with worried faces, and often are on the point of despair.’

  The visitor smiled again. ‘No, indeed. My problem is not one of despair or serious really. Perplexing, intriguing, yes.’

  Holmes settled back into his chair. ‘That is good to hear. On a fine morning
like this, we should be involved in a puzzle to excite our minds, not depressed, with the worried face of a client at his wits’ end. Please speak freely. I shall interrupt you only if necessary to clear up any point I need to clarify.’

  Against the background sounds of the street vendors, a rather raucous oyster seller and the clip-clop noise of a dozen horses, the noble viscount unfolded his story.

  ‘I was with my regiment many years in India, and whilst out there I became a fair player of polo. I not only collected a large number of shields, but won some of the finest trophies a man could wish to compete for. I might say, I was proud to come back to the old country with such a collection.

  ‘My father died soon after my return, and it was then I decided to build a trophy room-cum-armour museum, to display the Japanese and oriental body armour I had collected over the years out there.

  ‘It was the type of place, you know, where a man can retire to with his cronies, away from the womenfolk, if you gather what I mean. It was whilst I was wondering about where to build the trophy house that I was burgled.

  ‘A couple of trophies were taken, but the police soon arrested the scoundrel and the property was recovered. However, it did make me think, if my collection attracted thieves, then I should make it thief-proof.

  ‘The top and bottom of the matter was, I had the trophy house built a few hundred yards away from the Hall, and surrounded it with man-traps, trip-wires to set off shot guns, and a flock of geese. I don’t do things by halves.’

  I looked a little surprised at the mention of a flock of geese. Holmes saw the look of surprise on my face and leaning forward, remarked, ‘The geese are to warn of undesirable intruders. The Romans, two thousand years ago, used them as watchdogs. The slightest unusual sound will set them off honking.’ I was aware of this, but surprised all the same.

  I nodded my head to signify I understood and the viscount continued.

  ‘I spent a fortune in time and money both on the trophy room and on making it secure from burglars. You see, during daylight hours it was safe; any intruder would have been seen, but at night without the trip-wires, man-traps and geese, I couldn’t be sure.