"I do indeed, Bowler. His real name was Algernon Caulfield, won a DCM at Maiwand…"
"Yes," Bowler cut me off, "good bloke 'e was, an' Captain Smethwick's like that but other way about. Bet you anything that Smethwick was a batman or summat of the sort close to Cardigan in the Crimea. He then proved to be an 'andy lad and ended up being commissioned in the field somewhere like India or Africa into a native regiment. No disrespect to the man, but you saw 'ow the staff treated 'im at Deene, Doctor. No disobedience or owt, but none of that…that fawning that regular servants use with proper toffs. I believe all that he says about saving Cardigan at Balaklava though…"
"Hmmm, yes. That stick of his was some sort of thornwood that I've never seen and if he wielded a sabre anything like he did a poker back in Baker Street, I'm surprised any serfs survived at all. But do go on," Holmes cut in.
"An' that His Lordship promised 'im employment when 'e was time-expired, but I'm buggered if I can see 'ow he's managed a bunk-up with that bint, er, the Countess – nor the fact that she says he'll inherit the whole damn estate if she pegs it. But that's not likely, is it? She'll shag him to death, she will – you know that type, Doctor, don't you?"
But before I could confirm or deny any knowledge of such matters, Holmes said very gently, "Is that right? She's promised him the inheritance of Deene, has she?"
"Are you sure, Bowler? I heard that exchange back in the drawing room last week, too, but I didn't think she was serious. Why, such folk as Smethwick don't inherit the Deene Parks of this world…"
"Anymore than half-crown whores like de Horsey do, Doctor…"
"Ha, Bowler, you have a way of summing people up very succinctly, you do," laughed Holmes.
“But I just can't fathom the Stagg story, can you Doctor?" asked my former orderly.
Holmes had his fingers steepled and his chin sunk low in his collar. Clearly, he was just about to move on to this alleged murderous gentleman.
"Indeed, we've heard a lot of bad about Master Stagg but little of substance. It did strike me as odd that Smethwick said he'd been 'on good terms with him' in the Regiment, for officers and soldiers are not 'on good terms' – that's a phrase that equals use. No, we've heard nothing of the man for a decade and a half and no real link has been established between him and Disraeli's service – just supposition from de Horsey."
"'E's long gone, Doctor, I reckon, maybe even to the colonies," Bowler said, expressing just what I was thinking.
"Very well, gentlemen, here's what we shall do. I will concentrate on de Horsey…"
"Sure you wouldn't like the Doctor to do that, Sir?" Bowler chortled,
"Thank you, Bowler, but I think I can manage. Would you two find out as much as you can about the good Trumpeter Stagg, please? If we are eventually led to New Zealand or some such hell, then so be it, but I would be most intrigued to find the man. Now, I must have time for some research," and with that he reached for his tweed cap, settled it over his eyes and was soon fast asleep.
*
Whatever my petty jealousies, whatever my own frailties and ambitions, I had to hand it to Holmes – when he got something right he got it plumb right. Holmes’s acceptance of the case had been telegrammed to Deene with a reply coming almost immediately inviting Messrs Holmes, Watson and Bowler to stay in the house for as long as was convenient and asking us to dine formally with the Countess on the first night and to be ready, if we wished, to ride to hounds on the last hunt of the season. This had led to a cocked eyebrow from Holmes and then frantic plundering of both his and my wardrobes to find evening dress for Bowler who, quite clearly, was caught between the lure of such an occasion and the social disquiet that it was bound to cause him. Holmes had immediately decided to ride with the hunt; I was less certain, but packed my boots and the rest of my gear anyway. But more important than all this was Holmes's unfailing instincts about the Countess.
Train and carriage journeys done – and standard repartee about the Midlands between Bowler and myself completed to our mutual satisfaction – we were shown into the same morning room whilst our dunnage was whisked away to our rooms. The setting was similar: Smethwick and de Horsey with their backs to the late morning sunshine, but the clothes were entirely different. No armour this time, the Countess was all in pearl, a tight fitting dress that showed her figure most flatteringly and tier upon tier of translucent stones around her neck with her hair piled high. She was a picture and he looked the part too. Gone were the tweeds and riding gear and in its place a superbly cut dark suit with, to match his lover, a pearl stock pin the size of a grape. He looked almost like the part he was playing except for the pressed sleeves upon which Holmes had already dilated.
But the thing that impressed me even more than his assessment of Smethwick was the way that Holmes smoked out de Horsey within minutes of our arrival. With the exception of a pretty perfunctory thank-you for making Deene Park available to us, Holmes launched into practicalities: "Countess, I'm pleased to accept the case, as you know, but I'm also impatient to start my investigations. Is tonight's dinner germane to the case?"
"Why, of course, Mr Holmes. We have Admiral and Lady Strutt coming, our vicar and his wife, the Sanders and…"
"Delightful as they all sound, madam, can any of them throw light on Benjamin Disraeli's character or might they lead me to Peter Stagg?" Holmes could be very brusque when he chose to be.
"Well, no, Mr Holmes but they're great admirers of you and your colleagues and it would be such a shame not to let them meet such august gentlemen." All of this was accompanied by much batting of eyelids, jutting her embonpoint and general feline antics before she added very quietly, "Oh, and Mr Rogerson, of course."
"Mr Rogerson?" Holmes knew there was something afoot.
"Yes, Mr Rogerson," she demurred.
"And he is?"
"He is….most interested in you."
"I have no doubt, Countess, but is he just another collector of sleuths, or might I learn something from him?" Holmes persisted.
"Oh, I've no doubt you'll learn a great deal, he's a very clever fellow," she sidestepped.
"Ma'am, it is no business of mine to criticise your guest list, but who is this gentlemen?" Smethwick's jaw was working hard I noticed. He clearly did not like Holmes's manner.
"A friend...a writer." De Horsey suddenly seemed like a little girl who'd been found with sweets sticking to the lining of her reticule.
"A journalist?"
"Mmmm…"
"Oh, Countess, really! How am I and my people supposed to conduct our affairs with the glare of publicity upon us?" But I could see that Sherlock was not as displeased as he was pretending. In the past I had seen him fly into towering rages with clients who mislead him: it would not have surprised me in the least if he'd ordered all of us to pack and leave. Instead, he continued his scolding; could he, I wondered, be falling under the de Horsey spell like so many others before him?
Chuckling to myself, I interrupted them: "Madam, Smethwick, I can see that Holmes has much to discuss with you. Would it be impolite if Bowler and I withdrew, we have a great deal of planning to do if we are to follow Holmes's directions over the next few days." We'd been given no directions at all, but I wanted to make the use of the daylight before dinner to have another look around. With a Patrician nod from Sherlock and, I swear, a coquettish little wink from Herself, the pair of us left the others to their squabbles.
Chapter 7.
It was gone three o'clock by the time I got to my room. It was a lovely space with double windows that looked out over the lake which, my research told me, had been dug and filled for the 4th Earl. I'd intended just to prowl about, to get a feel for the place; I was even minded to ask the staff to find me a bicycle, although I wondered if armour was obligatory at Deene. However, I was robbed of my chance to find out, for there was a sharp rap at my door which I knew at once was Bowler – who had been billeted between Holmes and myself.
"Oh bloody hell Doctor," he stumbled in, face cont
orted, holding something stiff and white in his hands. "Look at me shirt: I can't wear that. Whatever am I goin' to do?" Indeed, he couldn't wear it. It was one of mine and had just come back from the laundry where it had been starched stiff as a day old corpse, with a couple of collars to match. I thought it might be a little tight for Bowler but it was all we could find and the poor fellow, who was in paroxysms of self-doubt, thanked me and had borne shirt, collars and studs off to pack them like particularly holy talismans. What, of course, I had failed to tell the fellow was how to pack it all. Now the stiff material had a crease in it and, worse still, that crease had rubbed against something and inherited a large black line right across the front.
"Did you not think to pack the thing against the stiff outer part of your suitcase, Bowler?"
"No, sir…see, it was too big so I folded it round my towel so it wouldn't crease and wrapped it in newspaper and…"
"And that's why you've got half the racing results from Haydock Park printed back to front on my best shirt, you clod!"
"What's to be done, Doctor?" I had seen him less concerned by an empty ammunition pouch as the Ghazis closed in.
"You will have to go and speak to one of the valets. They'll either rig you a new sail or they'll have some patent method for sorting just this type of thing out, see if they don't. Here, I'll ring for a footman."
"Blimey, Sir, don't do that – that's all manner of trouble that is." I noted that Bowler hadn't yet quite grasped the principal of domestic staff. "No, I'll go and find someone myself."
"Very well, Bowler, but if I'm going to shoe-horn you into evening dress, you must be back by five and twenty past six at the latest – I'm sure they can launder something in that time."
"All right, Sir. Thank you," and off he set in a terrible bother.
*
I had missed my chance to do anything really useful after tinkering about with Bowler, so I settled for a steady walk through the grounds of Deene and a good, old fashioned ponder. I couldn't really see any holes in the case that Holmes was putting forward, whilst I could see nothing but film-flam in what de Horsey and Smethwick were suggesting. After all this time, we weren't going to be allowed to exhume poor Cardigan to get a proper assessment of his fatal injuries. Disraeli could no longer help us and Stagg had disappeared: what was to be proved? Where was the crime? It wasn't as if anything had been alleged back in 1868, it was only now, more than a decade later with Dizzy dead that the whole affair was being puffed up to look sensational. I had to agree, it was what the Americans would call a 'stunt' and Holmes was allowing himself not only to be drawn into it but to provide the only credibility for the whole, damn thing. I began to get slightly annoyed. Sherlock pretended to hate publicity but, in reality, loved it. It had been quite a time since he'd enjoyed any particular success or generated substantial headlines and now he seemed to be playing along with de Horsey's nonsensical story simply on a whim; why else would he tolerate this wretched scribbler at tonight's dinner unless he was looking for a dramatic article involving controversial dead heroes and equally controversial dead prime ministers? And where would it lead? It was just a piece of nonsense that might bolster his sense of self-worth but would do nothing for Bowler or me save make us poorer.
It was almost completely dark when I got back to the house - almost as dark as my mood. I was more than half an hour late for the curfew I'd imposed on Bowler – deliberately late for I hoped his discomfiture would in some way deaden my irritation with Holmes. But when I got to my room, fully expecting to find the poor man flapping about desperately with shirts, studs, tails and bow ties, there was not a sign of him – and that was damned odd, I thought. So, I started my own preparations and had just strapped myself into trousers and cuff links, when there was an unmistakable tread outside, the door next to mine banged open and for a few minutes there were the clear sounds of a man casting about in a panic. I was still cross; a kinder soul would have gone in to help Bowler gather up his clothes, but I was testy. Testier still when there was a rap on my door and I opened it to find my erstwhile orderly swaying about, hair anyhow, boots muddy and the vestiges of evening dress thrown over his arm in disarray.
"Shur…shur…I've made such a discovery…"
"You're tight, Bowler! God's teeth, how did you get into such a state? I only left you a few minutes…" but then I remembered it was at least two hours ago and forgot the capacity of the sons of Albion for rapid and deep intoxication.
"Doc…" he knew that 'Doc' was forbidden: he must be well away, I thought. "Doc, Kelly took me to the storeroom up near the kennels…"
"Look, Bowler, I am sure this is crucial stuff – who's Kelly? No, that can wait, we must get you ready." I manhandled Bowler into my room hating the thought that Holmes would see him like this. You know how much I owed the man and it had taken me an age to insinuate him into Holmes's glacial company on anything like terms of mutual respect. If Sherlock saw him like this it would confirm all his unspoken prejudices and…oh, just ruin all the careful work I'd done with Bowler and dash any attempts of mine to repay my debts…oh, damn it why had Bowler… "Just get over to the sink and throw a pint of cold water down you – be quick and start getting those clothes off as well."
"Yes, shur…do I 'ave to go to this bloody dinner?" he slurred as he first stripped off jacket and waistcoat – turning the sleeves inside out as he did so – then unbuttoned his good worsted trousers, the cuffs of which were speckled in mud.
I won't bother to describe the next few minutes in detail, but Bowler guzzled water, I jammed him into too tight trousers, fought with studs on the shirt which someone had, indeed, laundered for him, lassoe'd him with his bow tie, poured him into his tail coat and had him standing four-square in short order, with one exception.
"Where are your shoes, Bowler?"
"'Ere, Doc…tor," – the water was having some effect then.
"No, your evening pumps, not those great things." Bowler was putting on his normal boots, once well-polished for sure, but now scuffed and crusted in mud.
"S'all I brought, Sir. Didn't know I needed…" – and then I remembered the fruitless search we'd had for evening shoes to fit him back in Baker Street and my mental note – quite forgotten – quietly to ask the staff at Deene to find something suitable.
"Here, for God's sake stand still," and I scuffed with my polish brush as well as I could around his mired welts. I'd not made much impression, however, before the door to my room swung open to reveal Holmes, exquisitely starched and pressed, a tailor's plate in black and dazzling white.
"Ah, gentlemen, I see you are almost ready," he said, but even with those few words I could tell that Holmes had detected that all was not as it should be. "You look a… credit, Bowler. Perhaps it might be a gesture to tie your boot laces but… you look a credit. Don't you think, Watson?"
This was odd, I thought, as Bowler stooped and knotted and I prayed that he didn't wheeze beery fumes too obviously – Holmes was being kind. He was clearly trying to bolster the fellow who, if you ignored the florid skin, the drops of sweat on his moustache and the footwear, passed muster…well, almost.
"Come along, both of you, we mustn't keep our hostess waiting," and off he swept, immediately swamping me with questions about what I'd discovered, trailing Bowler in our wake.
Chapter 8.
It was ghastly. I'm not trying to sound petted, but the assembled company had eyes and ears only for Sherlock Holmes Esq for hardly a word was addressed either to Bowler or to myself which, in view of the Ezekial Shaw case, was very disappointing. Holmes, on the other hand, held court expanding on his successes, very modestly presented but all of the utmost interest to Mr Rogerson who was scribbling reams and asking questions fit to bust. Interestingly, though, when the Vicar started to ask about our…I mean Holmes's… present case and why we…I mean he… was at Deene Park at all, the Countess shushed him, telling the divine that we hadn't got time now as we all had to be up early for tomorrow's hunt. The cunning minx was c
learly just whetting the press's appetite and I was trying to think what her next piece of self-publicity would be when my eye was drawn back once again to Bowler's travails.
He was sitting opposite me between Lady Strutt and a Mrs Sanders – a hunting friend of the Countess. Neither held any interest for me and clearly less for Bowler. Both were those type of women that we all know: kind enough, obsessed with children, innately superior and achingly in thrall to their husbands. I guessed at once that neither had an ounce of spark and whilst Mrs Sanders was still young enough to dent a charpoy, there seemed to be no light beneath her petticoats. I saw my man tip his soup plate in quite the wrong direction – so did his escorts. Then the pen-like grasp of his knife was noted. All of this was accompanied by profuse sweating and his running a none-too-clean finger around his collar whilst, sensibly, he downed glass after glass of water. I caught a snatch of Lady Strutt asking Bowler if he shot at all and who made his guns, to be told, '…Martini-'Enry made the last iron I fired – an' it kicked like a bitch,' and that appeared to put a stop to any more small talk. But, whenever there was a lull in the conversation or when Holmes fell mercifully quiet, he would try to catch my attention and then make arch signs with his chin suggesting that he needed to speak to me outside. These I ignored as sorbet followed meat, as savoury followed pudding and a most impressive series of wines surrendered to port. I just managed to get Bowler not to follow the ladies as they withdrew and I moved myself next to him.
"What's wrong, Bowler?" I mumbled as the men settled themselves with a view, I knew, to another diatribe by Holmes.
"Doctor, I gotter tell you what Kelly told me, but can I go for a piss first, I'm bustin'?" he said out of the side of his mouth.
"No, of course you can't, that's quite impossible," I growled back.
Well, worse for wear or not, what I saw next was one of the neatest bits of leger de main I've ever witnessed. Holmes was in full flow and Bowler obviously wished he could be too. I saw Bowler's hand sneak forward, smart as you like, grab a neat, silver fruit dish and spirit the whole thing away under the table cloth. What happened to the apples, peaches and grapes I couldn't say, but after the briefest bit of fumbling, both of my man's hands appeared back on the table just in time to pass the decanter the correct way, thank God, to the Vicar with a courteous, 'd'you fancy some port, Bishop?' whilst a beatific smile spread across his face. I've often wondered what the footman who later picked up the brimming dish below the table must have thought.
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