Doctor Watson's Casebook

by Patrick Mercer

  I'd have cleared this bugger's air if he'd given me half the chance. I'd managed to wriggle one of my hands partially free and the circulation was just coming back in that horrible, tingly way, not that Smethwick cared.

  "Well, I said Stagg was a hard-hearted wretch, no? What he told me left me horrified yet impressed with the gall of it, for he'd been trotting de Horsey for some months by the time I became a regular visitor to Deene and was amused to watch me and her wearing out the mattress. He, of course, had wasted no time and had been told across the pillow by the Countess where the Earl kept up to five hundred guineas in ready gold and silver to back horses, pay off his doxies and fork out for booze: any leftover he would squander foolishly – ha, excuse my little joke! Anyway, Stagg planned to make off with this lot; but before he did, he was going to stove his Lordship's swede in with the charming little device I showed you earlier."

  I could only imagine that Smethwick was waving the Angel of Mercy about in the dark.

  "But why bother to kill the old blackguard? Wouldn't the money have done on its own?"

  "A very fair question, Colonel." Smethwick was clearly enjoying himself; I imagined the far-away look in his eyes.

  "Whilst de Horsey knew about the money, only Brudenell knew how much was in the fund at any one time. It wouldn't have been unusual, Stagg said, for it to be either empty or brimming over and if its owner was dead, few enough people knew about it and those that did wouldn't challenge it. That was the first reason. Stagg's second reason was that he hated Cardigan from regimental time and wanted him dead: pure and simple, it was just malice. But, gentlemen, whilst Stagg had full measure of malice, he was short on shrewdness – but I'm not. The plan was good and my old comrade asked me to help him to finish the job, yet I saw that one coming. What Stagg really wanted was for me to be complicit in the crime so that he could continue to blackmail me from whatever roost he planned to occupy next. But I did help him, up to a point. We agreed that the Earl needed something urgent that would get him away from the house at a time that was convenient to us, so I shot the under-keeper with his own gun and made it look like an accident. Sure enough, the next morning out comes the old clown nice and early with only a groom for company to pay his condolences. I met the pair of them on the road to keep cave, or so Stagg thought, and just as they came up to the point in the beck that we'd agreed, I rode up to Stagg and asked him to let me do the deed. I can still see Stagg leering now as he passed that little beauty across to me; but he didn't leer for long. One crack sent him sprawling in the ditch – I finished him later – then I set about our lord and master."

  Even in the dark I knew that Smethwick was hacking and hewing the air just as he had with that fire-iron in Baker Street only a few days ago.

  "First blow he parried with his arm – though I heard his wrist break. Second cleared his saddle and the third – bang, crunch – opened up his head till all the brains oozed out: clean as you like…"

  "My, but you're a brute, Smethwick!"

  "An' where d'you think I learned that – off of you, Colonel! I don't remember you staying your hand in Ashanti, nor in Zululand neither – brute, why, they even gave you a medal to prove it! Anyway, there was bigger game to catch and the path was now clear. You see, gentlemen, the ladies seem to like what I've got to offer – leastways, the frisky ones do – and after the passing of the much lamented Earl of Cardigan, his grieving widow needed all the comforting she could get. Now, I'm not blind and the Countess's tricks with the late Peter Stagg showed me that I should be wary of the competition. But, as the months passed, it became clear to me that I really was her one and only rider and I made myself indispensable to her. She showered me with clothes, kit and horses, but she was also in danger of spending every red cent that the Brudenells had sweated out of their tenants since Doomsday, so I had to think of a plan that would get the notorious de Horsey back in the papers and back into the habit of attracting the geldt rather than just spending it. Now, everybody knows about her and Disraeli – at least they think they do: but what they don't know is all about his immoderate passion for her, a passion that might drive him to murder of a rival, perhaps? Now, with Lady Beaconsfield long gone and our esteemed former Prime Minister providing feed for the worms, who's going to gainsay the Countess's memoir? It'll be full of the most lurid stuff, not least the last chapter, the one in which Sherlock Holmes cracks open the mystery of the Hero of Balaklava's death – that should give it a bit push off the booksellers' shelves, don't you think my boys?"

  God above, the bloody man saw us as his devoted followers now, judging by his jocular tone.

  "But there's one more bit that'll make the book just fly: the authoress don't know it, but her book's going to be published post mortem. Do you know, by some odd mischance, just as the tome's almost ready to go and her will's been nicely tied up in my favour, she's going to have the worst sort of hunting accident – 'cept this will be an accident, won't it Colonel, for there'll be witnesses to prove it! Cheer'o you clever chaps, we'll see you in the morning – though I doubt you'll see much of us!"

  "Yes, ha! My hounds will make short work of the pair of you…" Smethwick's companion moved straight in front of me, knelt down and despite the dark, I knew him, "…my hounds, Colonel James Moriarty's hounds, you uppity bloody quack!"

  Chapter 10.

  You know how it is when you are staked to the freezing ground on an April night expecting to die in a few hours, don't you? You don't? Then you are fortunate! I managed to loosen the cord a little further, but it was still agony and judging by Bowler's wriggling and struggling he was experiencing just the same. Now, as a medical man, I had an interested detachment in what was happening to us both. First, it was cold, only just above freezing by my estimate; second it started to rain shortly after our potential assassins had left us and we were soon quite wet, yet I was sweating due to my struggles and our promised end. Third, add to this all sorts of circulation problems and the result was the onset of hypothermia which quite quickly had us dozing. For the three, nearly four hours we lay trussed on the ground, I know that I wasn't fully conscious for much of it. Ghastly dreams overcame me: de Horsey was riding a slavering Moriarty with Smethwick bounding alongside her on all fours. Then I was aware that dawn had come and gone – with no hounds – and that the birds' dawn chorus was long over before, far in the distance, I heard the first baying – and that woke me up, no error.

  Now, I wasn't much of a horseman but I'd done my slightly reluctant share of hunting, first up on the hills of Derbyshire as a boy, a little around Netley, then out in Karachi – all good workmanlike stuff, but none of the highly technical and deeply fashionable approach to the slaughter of vermin that raged around this part of the Midlands. Soon I came to recognise the pattern of one, deep, incessant baying howl with a whole mob of other canine horrors giving voice in the background. This was the lead hound showing the rest of his mates the way to the quarry, I knew that. But what I didn't hear at first, until there came a series of nudges and incoherent, gagged mumbles from Bowler, were the short, blasting notes of a huntsman's horn – Smethwick and Moriarty were as good as their twisted word and the pack was closing in.

  Behind the horn and the howls I fancied that I could hear the drumming of hooves on the turf as our erstwhile guests at table bore down upon us. Even in my feeble state, I could see how ludicrous the whole thing was; if there hadn't been a stream of sweat pouring down my spine and more dripping off my nose, I could have laughed at the sight of us – well, almost. For here we were, still in our tailed coats and starched shirts, a little muddy and sopping with a mixture of drizzle and vixens' blood, perhaps, but still properly attired. I could just see over my shoulder that Bowler's collar was horribly awry whilst my own patent leather pumps were crusted in mud – but we were still more ready to dine than to die.

  But death seemed inevitable. The horn shrieked, the hounds bayed and the hooves thumped an ever closer tattoo on the ground when suddenly, not three feet in front of
my nose, the nettles parted and there was my pal from above the door in Baker Street – old Foxy. Now, I grant you, I wasn't in the most rational frame of mind, but I swear that he stood stock still just inches from me, smiled his vulpine smile and then winked as he trotted past me. He seemed to have grown a new body, mark you, and a fine brush that streamed out behind him, the white tip of which I just saw as it disappeared down a hole in the ground, but it was Foxy alright. And I much preferred his friendly presence to the howling sod who turned up next. You know how a young dog who's full of spunk chucks his head back and barks from the base of his tail to the wet on the end of his nose, his paws lifting with the sheer energy of the whole thing? Well, that's what I now beheld. He was probably no bigger than any other of his chums, but from where I was pinned, I swear it was bloody Cerberus. The dog yapped and howled like a thing possessed and with the stink of us and the scent of our recent companion, I suppose he was. Yet he wasn't bold enough to attack on his own, he was summoning reinforcements and, despite my usually optimistic outlook, I had no doubt what would happen. But it would only be a matter of minutes now for I could hear the rest of the hounds baying in demented delight, their paws now close enough to make a sound like a torrent of rain falling on leaves.

  Then another sound joined the cacophony – several horsemen close and at the canter: it was Smethwick and Moriarty leading the rest of the pack – it had to be. So, to my shame, I did what I'd seen too many men do in Afghanistan in their last few seconds on earth, I shut my eyes tight and tried to huddle into a foetal ball. I didn't pray, but I did call for my mother. As the wretched things seemed to be about to burst upon us like a wave and I fancied that I could feel the first sharp fangs tearing at my flesh, there was the bang of a pistol, damn close. I still couldn't open my eyes – had Smethwick had a last minute rush of blood to the head and put a ball through Bowler in order to spare him? Was I next? My eyes wouldn't open as the barking of the pack reached a frenzy and I was conscious first of legs, jaws and tails, snapping and tearing all around me and the musky smell of dog and then strong hands were pulling at my bonds, ripping the stake from the ground and jerking me to my unfeeling feet.

  "Come on you two, for pity's sake buck your ideas up!" My eyes opened and I wished they hadn't. Some fellow I'd never seen before was grabbing the stop from my mouth; we stood amongst a sea of black and tan forms who were snarling and yapping at a horrid, bloody torn thing on the ground; Bowler was hopping on one cramped leg next to me, rubbing his wrists with his gag still very much in place; and sitting above us on a splendid chestnut gelding, pink coat perfect, stock tied just so, top hat tipped as it should be and a smoking revolver in his hand, was Sherlock Holmes.

  "You look like a dog's dinner, the pair of you. Now Bowler, have a care with those trousers of mine, you've got them awfully grimy you know." Distracted as I was, I wondered just how long Holmes had been polishing that jest, yet it was immediately clear that he had done exactly the right thing – he'd shot the leading hound at the critical moment and the pack, crazed with the scent of blood, had fallen upon their leader rather than upon us.

  "Thank you Holmes…" I could scarcely stand; my limbs were worse than numb and my head was swimming – but I was alive, "…and who are you?"

  An unshaven, tousled headed man of about 40 was attending to Bowler. He smelt of drink.

  "Kelly, Sir. It was me who told your man here about Stagg's gear in the kennel block…"

  He was cut off short by Bowler: "Thank God it’s Mr Holmes and not them bleedin' savages!" He lent against Kelly for support and massaged his soaking limbs.

  "Smethwick and Moriarty," I said.

  "Moriarty? What, that cavalryman who gave you such a walloping during the Ezekial Shaw case? What in the blue blazes is he doing here?" Holmes interrupted.

  "It doesn't matter, I'll explain later. There's not a minute to be lost, they're going to murder the Countess – but how did you know we were here?"

  "It doesn't matter, I'll explain later." Holmes echoed me, "I knew Smethwick had plans beyond your and Bowler's disappearance; that's why I told Kelly to bring spare horses. Come on, mount up – you've got your pistols, haven't you?" Bowler and I both shook our heads. I'd not even brought my Enfield to Deene whilst Bowler hated to carry such a thing. "No? Why not – you should always be armed in such circumstances – didn't the Army teach you that."

  I wasn't going to argue. Where on earth would I have concealed a heavy, six shot service revolver in evening dress?

  "Well grab a paling apiece, they're better than nothing – and for God's sake get a move on!" There was a pile of those long, beech staves that you don't see anymore left there by a forester probably with a view to fencing off the earth. Unwieldy as a four and a half foot, rough cut stick was, it was better than nothing and I threw one to Bowler who caught it rather more elegantly than he had mounted the mare Kelly had brought for him. Both his and my mounts were fine animals, quickly mustered from the Countess's own stable, I imagined, both responding very readily to our heels as Holmes set off at a smart canter, the three of us in his wake.

  We swept past the Admiral and Lady Strutt, Mrs Sanders and the Vicar (who got a 'morning Bishop!' from a fast recovering Bowler) all of whom positively gawped at the odd little cavalcade, one in pink, two in black and the last in bottle green livery, throwing up clods of earth as we cut right across the front of the field. There was plenty of 'damn your eyes,' 'isn't that Holmes – outrageous behaviour,' and other, assorted choler as we pelted along with Sherlock bellowing to anyone who would listen, "where's the Countess?", only to be met with wide-eyed stares or further abuse. Finally, as we thundered along, one of the kennel boys understood the question and pointed over his shoulder.

  "She back there, Sir. 'Er nag's gone lame an' Cap'n Smethwick an' t'other gennleman's tekin' care on 'er."

  "Thank you, my man!" Holmes bellowed and I could see that he was about to set off pell mell without any thought of tactics.

  "No, Holmes, wait. We're after two very nasty and highly trained devils; this needs an officer in charge." Do you know, I surprised myself: I suddenly sounded all Sandhurst. Even more surprising was Holmes's response.

  "Er…yes…er, I suppose you're right, Watson." If I'd thought about it at all, I'd have expected a proper argument, but he lay down meek as a lamb.

  "Right, come on, form into extended line and be ready!" I almost convinced myself and the others needed no further encouragement. Bowler went to my right, Holmes to my left and to his left again was Kelly who, I noticed, pulled an old fashioned Navy Colt from his belt. You'd recognise the type: powder and shot revolver, a bit unwieldy but not the sort of thing that you wanted to have pushed in your gizzard.

  "Anyone see anything?" I demanded. We'd slowed to a trot to save the horses and at first I thought that we would miss our man – and woman. But Bowler spotted something in a little stand of trees not seventy yards to our half left.

  "There, Doctor, there, look yonder, that's that villain Smethick's horse, ain't it?" he pointed and the line swung automatically to the left.

  "Well seen, Bowler, it is indeed and there are figures beyond, look!" I gasped.

  Now I could see what Bowler had noticed. A sleek grey was standing rump towards us and head down, clearly being held by its bridle whilst deeper in the shadow I could make out another mounted figure and jerky movement by at least two other folk on foot. I even fancied I heard a lady's voice – a very frightened lady's voice, but they hadn't heard us.

  "Steady, steady now." I marshalled my troops with all the skill of a Murat, "Kelly, Holmes get up on the left…" they obeyed instantly, "…trot march." If only I'd had a trumpeter. "Now, get into a canter my lads," my innards were tightening – my very own Balaklava. "Steady, wait for my word," but as our pace increased, a bullet whipped out of the brush, another sang past my ear and straight in front of us Smethwick vaulted into his saddle. He dragged the reins of another horse with him upon which sat a clearly terrified Countess.


  Now was the moment, I stood in my stirrups and bellowed, "Charge!" We all kicked hard, Bowler and I brandishing our sticks, yelling like dervishes forgetting fear yet remembering hate.

  "Move, Smethwick, I'll hold 'em," Moriarty was using cover well – I still couldn't see him properly, but Kelly wheeled his horse like the trained skirmisher he must have been, fired two quick rounds and got two in reply, the latter one of which hit his prad and sent the pair of them crashing to the ground. That was the space Colonel Moriarty needed: he came ricocheting out of cover, sliding neatly over his horse's flank like the professional he was and snapped off another round from under its throat which kicked up the dirt just inches in front of Holmes.