Doctor Watson's Casebook

by Patrick Mercer

  "Abyssinia, Captain Smethwick?" asked Holmes whilst studying the visiting card.

  "Indeed, I flogged all the way to Magdala and back with Napier, Mr Holmes."

  "And did you, by any chance, ride at Balaklava, Sir?" I had to ask. I couldn't miss an opportunity to hear about the most celebrated nonsense in modern times from someone who had been there. Even now, thirty-odd years later; people were fascinated by the calamity that had overtaken the Light Cavalry Brigade whilst under Lord Cardigan's command. In fact, people were much more interested in the minor affair since Tennyson had penned his famous lines that quite eclipsed all of the more significant engagements at Alma, Inkermann and Sevastopol itself. In fact, in recent years, more men than had actually charged that day had been turning up for the annual dinner, despite droves of them falling to the effects of the bottle like old soldiers are wont to do.

  "Ha, I know what you're thinking," Smethwick's manner had changed entirely. Gone was the former officer of comfortable frame and deliberate manner and suddenly amongst us was a dashing hussar, whose eyes sparkled and who sat on the edge of his chair in the same way that he might once have stood in his stirrups. "I'm far too young to have been there all those years ago. That's what you're a-thinking, no?" he chortled, his voice just coarsening a little – or was I mistaken?

  "Well, if you insist, Captain Smethwick," answered Holmes, his voice low and persuasive as I had heard it before when he was gripped by something or someone.

  "I was only sixteen when the Brigade rode to glory and I delivered a few cuts that were destined to change my life…"

  I was gripped but wary all at once. I would have loved to have heard more from the guns' muzzle, but Captain Smethwick had that look I'd seen too many times in the 66th's wet canteen, the look of an old soldier too familiar with his stories and all too keen to elicit more drink to loosen his tongue. But, to my surprise, Holmes encouraged him.

  "Do continue, Sir."

  "Well, you know the background I'm sure. France, Russia, the Turks and Britain – all of us added fire to the powder keg. We were fighting for everything and nothing as usual. It was all damned puzzling for a kid like me. I'd only been in regimentals for a few months before we sailed and then there I was in some blackguard Russian's backyard listening to two of the noblest men to wear Victoria's cloth haggling with each other like fishwives," he paused and took a sip of tea.

  "What, you heard the most famous military debate since Harold lost Hastings?" asked Holmes.

  "I did, I did indeed, Mr Holmes. And damned flattered I was to have my opinion asked."

  Both Holmes and I glanced at each other when this bon mot slipped out. The debate of course revolved around the issue of which guns to attack in the drizzly valley of Balaklava on 25th October 1854. Every school-boy could tell you that Lord Raglan, the poor old duffer, had been sitting on the Sapoune Ridge far above Balaklava watching as the Russians took one redoubt after another on the low rise known as the Causeway Heights and manned by Turks but with British guns. In the shadow of the Old Duke, Raglan couldn't countenance such a loss and so ordered the Cavalry Division to attack, but his instructions were so chaotic and the exchanges so choleric between Lord Lucan, the Divisional commander and Lord Cardigan his subordinate and brother-in-law, that the wrong guns were attacked and the Brigade dashed to destruction. Everyone knew the story, but not the actual angry, intimate words of two men whom some regarded as beau sabreurs and others as blockheads.

  "Wait, Captain Smethwick, I'll get a map." I hungered to hear this. Some years ago the Illustrated had given away a printed supplement about the whole battle over which I had pored. It was just in the bookcase and I spread it out on the carpet as the flames of the afternoon fire played on it in a most dramatic way.

  "Yes, you see here," he traced a well-scrubbed finger over the cross-hatching that showed the contours on the ground. "It was clear to anyone with half a brain that we were meant to attack in South valley, not North. There we would have been under the cover of the Horse Gunners' and the Marines' pieces and the Heavy Cavalry would have been on hand to support us after their heroic efforts earlier that day…"

  I thought of Tennyson's later poem, 'The Charge of the Heavy Brigade', which commemorated a far more successful deed yet which had utterly failed to fire the public's imagination.

  "…well, both of them were going at it hammer and tongs, Lord Lucan arguing that he had to act quickly backed up by that popinjay Nolan…"

  Poor Captain Nolan – I had always had a sneaking regard for the fellow. A dashing, hot-tempered horseman, he had been ordered to take the fatal instruction down from the Sapoune which explained little except the fact that haste was of the essence, and was easily blamed for the disaster that followed because the first round that the Russians fired killed him quite dead.

  "…and Lord Cardigan, cool-as-you-like, just asking for clear orders." I couldn't help but notice Smethwick's great, gold ring on his pinkie, cut deep with a family coat of arms: he tapped it on the map a lot to add authority to what he was saying. "Then he said to me, 'Smethwick, what's to be done?' So I answered up, 'There are your guns, My Lord, there is your enemy,' pointing over here," he tapped his ring again deliberately away from the valley that had a series of coloured arrows drawn on it and which showed the bit of ground that had actually been charged across and where so many had perished. "I said, ‘We need to cross the ridge, Sir, and bite off each redoubt piecemeal, rather than blunder down this ground in front of us. There are guns to the left and more to the right with a whole mob of Russian riflemen and another battery in front of us. To attack would be suicide, My Lord.’ Damn me, that stirred them up. Nolan called me a snivelling kid - 'blunder…blunder, how dare he?', whilst Lord Lucan gave me a frost and just told Cardigan to get on with things. So we turned our horses and Lord Cardigan didn't pause long with Lord George Paget, telling him in no uncertain terms that he expected his best support (there was no love lost there, you know). He then turned to me – and I can remember it as if it were yesterday – and said, 'Well, Smethwick, here goes the last of the Brudenells!'"

  Chapter 2.

  "Have you ever been fired at, Mr Holmes?" asked Captain Smethwick.

  "Well my colleague here has more than been fired at for he's actually been shot, haven't you Doctor?" Holmes replied, caring little for being questioned himself.

  "Have you indeed? Where and when?" asked Smethwick with what I took to be genuine interest.

  "At Maiwand, Smethwick. I was sawbones to the 66th and caught a jezail slug in the shoulder in the opening stages of the battle.”

  "Really," replied Smethwick. "Very nasty." But there his faux curiosity ended and I was caught between my own braggadocio of wanting to be recognised as a fellow brave (and probably wanting simply to establish a superiority over Holmes, if truth be known) and wanting to hear about a battle that fascinated me.

  Smethwick continued: "Well, the bugle sounded and we were soon off. I gripped my sword and dug my heels into my little mare, yet, tyro that I was, I soon realised that we were going to do the very thing that I knew we shouldn't and which, in my youthfulness, I assumed had been agreed by the commanders. The whole Brigade soon gathered pace, those wretched 17th with their great long lances pushing things on far too hard – greenhorns that they were – over on the left and I knew that unless someone acted soon, all would be lost. So I kicked on, attempting to wheel my mount across Lord Cardigan's front, desperately trying to get him to turn the Brigade to the right, away from disaster and into the safe South Valley. But, my word, no sooner had I started to move than swerving right up to me came that clown Nolan.

  "'What the devil d'you think you're doing, lad? Get back to your troop,' he said and he laid his sword across my breast like this," Smethwick reached for a poker and pushed it more firmly than I thought he needed to across my bosom, concentrating all his comments on Holmes, heeding me no more than he might a footman. "Well, that was too much and for a couple of hundred yards we sped along,
our horses pushing and snorting at each other, our knees colliding as the bugles shrieked and the brass-lunged sergeants and corporals tried to keep the men in some sort of order. And all this chaos started, of course, even before the guns opened fire.

  "Now look here," the Captain laid down his impromptu blade and pointed at some low hills on the map, "up here on the Fedoukine Hills Mr Russ had dragged some batteries that were staring down into the valley and they can't have been able to believe either their eyes or their luck. There in front of them was a gunner's dream, a full brigade – almost seven hundred horsemen – at full stretch just within their battle range. Ever heard a round shot, Mr Holmes? Ever damn nearly had your hair parted by a fast-moving lump of iron, Dr Watson?"

  Clearly I hadn't, but I wanted to ask him if he'd ever seen three hundred bhang-crazed Ghazis bent upon skewering him in a sandpit; I wanted to ask him if he knew what it was like when one of those Johnnies actually shot him – and to have the scar leave a mark on mind and body forever. But in response to Holmes's gentle shake of the head I didn't; I just kept quiet and let him rattle on.

  "Well, the first nine-pounder shell of the whole, wretched action, came whistling over my head – I was at the centre of the thing as it exploded. A great, jagged splinter caught my antagonist squarely in the neck." It was odd. Smethwick was back in the valley, I swear, his eyes hundreds of miles away, his left hand clutching an imaginary rein and the poker lying comfortably at the 'shoulder'.

  "Blood all over me, covered my horse's neck and saddle cloth. An artery must have been hit and he shrieked like a woman, didn't seem to want to get a grip of himself at all; set a dreadful example to the men," Smethwick continued, his voice clipped smooth again, all the roughness lost.

  "That was the fastest steeple chase I've ever been in, let me tell you Mr Holmes. It showed everyone's lack of experience, I suppose, but once the guns got going properly and we followed the bend of the valley down that slight hill, all the regiments lost control and there wasn't a blind thing anyone could do about it, for the men and the horses were in a frenzy. And that was even before we saw those goddamned Cossack artillery at the bottom of the valley. Now, you know, everyone thinks Tennyson knew what he was talking about and that we quite clearly understood that there was another bloody great battery in front of us, but that's nonsense. Why, I was the first to see the things and that was a good few minutes after the beggars on the hillsides either side had been peppering away. No, we were suddenly upon this next lot, the slope had hidden them from us and they looked almost as surprised to see us as were horrified to see them.

  "I cried out, 'My Lord, have a care, more guns ahead,' but the brave old file just went at them pell mell. And we were soon amongst them, nag’s jumping guns and limbers even as the crews got the last load of canister away at us, serfs seeking cover under their pieces whilst the lads and I did our best to winkle them out. At first, I got distracted, far too interested in drawing blood until I looked up in the smoke and gore to see His Lordship at bay with two uhlans poking about at him with their great long poles and he – what a man – just twitching his reins and getting Ronald to dodge and jib rather than giving them a length of steel. Well, thought I to myself…" I noticed how his words had lost their plumpness again, "…this'll never do and I knocked the first fellow's lance out of the way and unsaddled him with 'cut 2' before standing in my irons and hewing the next fellow from scalp to ear." The poker was going like a piston in the Captain's hands, I quite feared for Mrs Hudson's potted plants. "There was blood all over the place, some of it splashed on His Lordship's overalls and I swear he pulled a face before collecting himself and saying, 'Well done, Smethwick, I owe you my all!’"

  Suddenly, the room was quiet, Smethwick was spent and back in our world. Carefully he put the poker back in the fireplace, pulled his waistcoat down as if to demonstrate that the show was over and the flood of words turned tightly off.

  "And that was pretty much it, gentlemen. I don't give a damn what the papers might say and how they might try to slight the fellow, but he bore himself right manfully that day and for the rest of his service he never let me leave his side."

  "But you served on after he'd left active command, I perceive, Captain Smethwick," asked Holmes, quite civil.

  "I did, Mr Holmes, but on the clear understanding that at a time that was mutually convenient, I would join him at Deene Park and serve him there as loyally as when we'd both been comrades in arms. But I failed him…." his voice trailed away.

  "How so?" I asked. "You certainly didn't fail the sternest test."

  "I had been a frequent visitor to Deene for almost two years before I listened to the Earl's er, blandishments. I only took up my post just days before my old chief died. I had hardly spoken to the great man, hardly had a chance to share a pipe before the poor old hero was lost to us all. I was out and about when it happened; I could scarcely believe what my eyes were telling me for there was a man who lived life to the full – and he was now stretched before me with his head stoved in."

  "You saw Lord Cardigan die, did you Captain Smethwick?" asked Holmes, his voice low and enquiring once more.

  "I did, I was first on the scene, I cradled him as the life flowed out of him and I don't mind telling you, I wept like a spout when his soul fled from his body."

  "What killed him, Smethwick?" I asked.

  "What killed him indeed, Dr Watson? The death certificate said 'lacerations to the head caused by a horse's kick'. The papers said a heart attack killed him and a hoof caught him on the way down, but from the depth and nature of the impact on His Lordship's skull, I'd say it was a damned determined horse that kicked him several times in the same part of the brain. No, gentlemen, I believe it was no accident. It was cold blooded murder…."

  Holmes and I looked at each other over our tea cups.

  "It was murder, on the orders of our last Prime Minister, the late Benjamin Disraeli."

  Chapter 3.

  "Bloody 'ell, Sir, I thought it was permanently under snow at this time of the year this far north," Bowler said as he stared out of the cab window at the countryside as we approached Deene Park.

  "You're a shocking southerner, Bowler, full of prejudice and narrow mindedness. What would you say if every time I bumped into you around King's Cross I asked you for some jellied eels or took you to task for having forsaken your Pearly King outfit?" This was pretty standard banter between the two of us. Coming from the North Country I had been the subject of much ribaldry when serving with the 66th, most of whom were recruited from Berkshire. Once the men had got to know about my origins, mindless hours were passed as they twitted me about greyhound racing, clog-dancing, mushy peas and other harvests of humour, foremost amongst my persecutors being Private Bowler, my orderly in the medical centre. After Afghanistan he'd followed me into civilian life and appointed himself my companion and fellow sleuth. As a soldier I had found him brave, determined and extremely tiresome, but as a civilian the two of us had become quite close – well as close as the divide of class and education would allow, of course.

  "I'd say, 'cor blimey, gov’nor, 'ave you got tuppence for yer old china plate, broken down ole soljer that 'e is'. Somethink like that, Doctor…" he blathered on, chuckling at all our old favourites.

  We got off the train at Corby, both of us muffled far too well for what was turning out to be a lovely, early spring day, and found a cab for Deene Park without any difficulty. Now we sped along the tar macadam road at a fair pace – I'd quiet forgotten how lovely this corner of the world could be in spring. As we came through the lodge gate Bowler caught sight of the grandeur of the old house and whistled one of his low, vulgar little whistles.

  "Strap back, Sir, old Cardigan did himself right proud, no? And tell me again about this bint we're going to see an' 'er fancy man."

  "If you're referring to the Dowager Countess of Cardigan and Lancastre as a 'bint', Bowler, you're probably right, but may I suggest that you don't say so to her face?"

 
; "Yes, alright, Doctor, point taken, but they're all the same with their drawers off, you know. Why, in Karachi…"

  "Yes, fine, Bowler I'm sure you will find time to discuss the niceties of the Countess's nether garments with her, but until you do just remember these salient points…" and I ran through all the background that Holmes and I had pieced together after our interview with Captain Smethwick.

  "An' tell me again about this officer bloke, will you?" asked Bowler as I could just make out domestic staff apparently coming to meet us in front of the great house.

  "I'll tell you more about him later, Bowler. He asked Mr Holmes to take the case of the suspected murder of Lord Cardigan at the Countess's behest, but Mr Holmes was far too busy for such trivia…" Bowler looked at me sideways, "…and has left it to us. Just you concentrate on the good Captain, will you, Bowler? Run an eye over him and tell me what you think." We had no more time for discussion as the cab drew up and a footman in the deep green of the Brudenell's livery whisked open the door for me and presented a white gloved hand to help me down.

  *

  "Bowler, d'you say?" Smethwick was being decidedly heavy handed with him. I wasn't going to leave the poor fellow in the servants' quarters – this was the 1880s, for heaven's sake – and I needed his view on things if we were going to make any progress at all.

  "Mister Bowler, Sir," he said, his indignation spoilt by the way that he drew himself up to attention, open hands down the seam of his trousers and chin well tucked in.

  "Hmmm…" Smethwick was inspecting him as we stood in the great morning room where the footman had ushered us. "You was in Afghanistan with the Doctor here, I gather, Mister Bowler?" Smethwick continued but with such a note of distaste in his voice that I could quite see why Bowler was so uncomfortable.