"Get after him Holmes," I yelled, knowing that he had five rounds left in his chambers and Moriarty only one. "Bowler, you and I will get Smethwick!"
Chapter 11.
It should have been easy. Although the Captain was an expert horseman, he had the horrified Countess in tow who was clinging to the side saddle on her little roan mare for all she was worth whilst her bold lover set the pace. Through thickets and fir plantations he took us. Bowler and I bellowed for him to stop in concert – de Horsey’s language became less and less ladylike with every furlong we covered. She started with a well bred, ‘Oh you beast, you rogue, leave me alone, won't you?' but quickly gave way to a very passable imitation of a Turnpike Tanner using most disreputable Anglo-Saxon. She soon lost her hat and veil and from directly astern she looked like a cork bobbing on a rough sea as without reins in her hand she had no control over her mount at all.
"Why don't he ditch her, Doctor, we'd never catch him then?" gasped Bowler who – an even worse horseman than I was – had managed briefly to draw level with me.
"Damned if I know," I managed to reply as I caught a glimpse of Smethwick just beyond the bucking Countess. He was looking round at us, with something in his left hand. There was a single crack and a puff of smoke and the Countess suddenly shot over her mare's neck as the poor animal crumpled on the ground with a pistol ball between her ears. I have to admit, even as de Horsey fell and rolled, she did it daintily, showing just enough of the tight fitting breeches below her habit to distract me.
"No, Bowler, leave her!" My companion was about to rein in and help a lady in distress – exactly what Smethwick wanted. "Keep after him," and so on we ploughed, the pair of us putting Don Quixote and Sancho Panza to shame in our soiled finery and with our outlandish, clumsy lances.
My horse was a good one, but she didn't compare to Smethwick's hunter for strength and endurance and I knew that I had only one chance. My enemy had a disadvantage, of course, as he was leading. Any obstacle – gate, fence or ditch – he had to judge whilst those behind could afford to follow his lead and so I kicked on, hoping to find my chance before my nag was blown. He took one hedge without blinking, all I saw was the steel of his back horseshoes as he flew across, but at the next ditch he slowed. I caught up and as I heeled my horse as hard as I could we were suddenly level. With a snarl, Smethwick reached across himself and pointed his pistol (you know, that same, damned pistol that I'd first seen being pointed at Holmes in our sitting room) and almost touched me with its muzzle. That must have been what I needed, the last thing to shake me out of my night's torpor, for I ducked as the second barrel exploded and lent right low with my paling, sticking it between the rear legs of Smethwick's charger as I'm told the Ghazis had learnt to do to our cavalry. Well, he came a right pearler – as the troops might have said. I hadn't really expected it to work, but in the blink of an eye the good Captain was bundling onto the turf just as surely as his mistress had done a few moments before.
If I'd thought that such a fall would take the wind out of a bruiser like Smethwick's sails, though, I was horribly mistaken. I pulled my mare around expecting to find him insensible on the ground, for that's what such a fall would have done to me. But oh no, he was scrambling to his feet and at the same time puling at something from the saddle of his horse – whose off-side hind leg seemed to be broken. In a twinkling he was ready, mud clinging to his silly whiskers but a look of murder in his eyes and the Angel of Mercy in his hand. I was just assessing my own lack of weapons when something much more terrible arrived…
"Gerrout the way, Doctor," yelled Bowler as with one smooth movement he slid from his saddle, took a couple of paces to recover on the soft turf and then stood face to face with the very man who'd tried to feed him to the dogs.
What a sight. Smethwick still chipper in pink despite the great mud stain up his sleeve and face, crouched and deadly with his iron-shod cudgel in his hand – and Bowler. But Bowler as I'd seen him a couple of times before, and damn glad I'd been of it. Dishevelled didn't do him justice – he was an unkempt art-form, a paean to untidiness from his crazy collar through his blood-stained shirt (actually, my blood-stained shirt) to his mud-clagged boots. Yet there was something familiar about the pose, familiar and reassuring. In his hands was his stave, bluntly sharpened point towards his enemy, on the balls of his feet, brow lowered and louring, moustache bristling. I'd seen him like this before, too many times with his rifle and bayonet in Afghanistan and I'd learnt to bet my life on him.
"On guard you bastard!" Bowler jabbed and feinted. "Think yourself better than me, don't you? But you're not better, you're just older," yelled Bowler as he lunged forward, was side-stepped by Smethwick and narrowly avoided the same fate as Stagg as the horseshoe sang through the air.
"Better than you, you arsebag?" growled Smethwick in response as they turned and faced each other again. "A better soldier 'n a better man," Smethwick swung his cosh. Bowler caught it on the wood of his staff and again they faced about.
"Peacock cavalry bugger. You might be alright in the saddle, but you lot know nothin’ about real scrapping," and with a yell, I saw the former Private Bowler fence with more athleticism than I thought possible. First he jabbed wide to Smethwick's left which brought the club in a curving parry right across his opponent's body. But the horseshoe was heavy – Bowler had seen that – and Smethwick over compensated, staggering slightly and giving my man the chance he needed.
"You wretch." My comrade thrust the stave hard into his enemy's gut – Birmingham steel would have finished the job, but the point of the timber just winded him and sent him staggering back. But Bowler didn't hesitate: with the agility of an acrobat he charged home, swinging the butt of his stick hard against Smethwick's left cheek, sending his foe onto the grass with a thump. "I'll show you soldiering, you barnshoot," he exclaimed as he brought the point high above his shoulder in a classic downward, killing stab.
Chapter 12.
I have put on plenty of bandages and dressings in my time and I've never considered them the least bit arousing. But when I met de Horsey with her arm in a sling, I saw things in a new light. No simple white gauze for her, a silk affair had been fashioned in Brudenell green set off with emeralds, her hair plaited and piled and her corset forcing her…well, just forcing her most charmingly. But it was a damned odd setting to see such a thing of beauty. Bowler and I had, at Holmes's suggestion, gone on ahead to watch the police and their technical people at work whilst Holmes had brought the Countess out by phaeton: we'd all tried to stop her, but she'd absolutely insisted, pointing out that it was her estate and that she would do as she pleased. So, Holmes had decided to make the best of it and as they stepped out of the carriage and came to join us it was clear that the questioning had already started, though who was getting the better of it was hard to gauge.
"Yes, My Lady, there can be little doubt. Even if he doesn't…what's that dreadful expression that the papers tell us we're meant to use in these circumstances?" asked Holmes as they strolled up.
"Cough, Mr Holmes," Bowler supplied the answer.
"Yes, cough, that's it. Even if he doesn't cough whilst in the gentle custody of the constabulary, I have no doubt that his bragging to these two…" Holmes favoured both Bowler and me with a nod, "…in the middle of a rain sodden night, as well as what we are about to witness, will convince any judge."
Have you ever seen an exhumation? I've been to a few, but it ain't a sport I can recommend. You never quite know what state the corpse is going to be in when you fish it out, for it all depends on the dampness of the ground, the composition of the soil and all manner of other things. Sometimes they're in surprisingly good shape and other times they're just a bundle of bones with boots, belts and other bits and pieces attached. At first I had thought that the police people would be very chary about having us around, but once I explained who we were and that I was a doctor they relaxed and got on with things. Bowler and I arrived just after they'd found the remains – that can't have
been much of a job for one poor soul had to drive a hollow rod into the ground until he found a soft bit and then sniff it for the tell-tale stink of putrefaction. The depth of the rod told them that he wasn't far under the surface and after about two feet of digging by a couple of burly lads in overalls, they made a find. Now the body was completely exposed and right on cue they lifted him just as de Horsey and Holmes arrived. Well, Peter Stagg seemed remarkably whole to me. The eyes, naturally, were gone and whatever clothes he had been wearing were faded and unrecognisable, but he still had flesh and his hair was a dirty shade of blonde – I could see all this despite the mud clinging to him. I watched and wondered how Holmes would approach this particular spectacle.
"Well, ma'am, do you recognise the remains?" asked Sherlock as blunt as you like as one of the forensic wallahs brushed a large clod off the cadaver's face.
"I do, of course I do. It's Stagg, dear Cardigan's under-groom. They'd served together, you know." Now, if Holmes was blunt de Horsey was cool, cool as ice, for I'd have expected any lady who was confronted with a half-rotted stiff to at least blanche a little. And if that same stiff had once been her lover, I would have expected some sign of remorse. But no, not a bit of it; it was as if Stagg was a dog who'd outlived his usefulness and been put down. A shiver ran over me.
"There, My Lady, is Smethwick's handy work. I fancy that a post mortem will show a traumatic blow to the head and this will leave the Captain very little room for manoeuvre. I know it must be hard for you, ma'am, but he will hang for sure."
"Hard for me? Why should it be hard for me? Why, the rascal used me most dreadfully for more than a decade, bled the estate dry and to think of some of the wanton things I let him…let him…" she didn't quite finish the sentence but there was no need to. My mind had already been conjuring with some of the wanton things that she'd let him…let him…
"I'm sure that's all very painful. However, I was intrigued by the way that you seemed to have the total co-operation of Captain Smethwick in your attempts to tell the public the background to Lord Cardigan's murder. Do you still think it wise to publish your autobiography? Do you not think that Lord Beaconsfield's lawyers might take a slightly unhealthy interest in some of its assertions?" Holmes asked rather more gently.
"Oh that tiresome book! How I let Captain Smethwick pressurise me into agreeing to his writing it on my behalf I shall never know." We all glanced at one another. "Anyway, it's a very long way from being complete and with what's happened now I think it will be some time before it sees the light of day."
I was half expecting Holmes to press the point, to ask about the whole fabricated nonsense with Disraeli, about exactly how tempestuous her relationship had been with Cardigan, about why there was no proper investigation into his death and that of the under-keeper, about her knowledge of Peter Stagg and his blackmailing of Smethwick – and a host of other questions. But no; I think that Sherlock Holmes had come to the same conclusions that I had, that no-one was going to show the slightest appetite for the destruction of one of society's favourite femme fatales. She was already emerging as the heroine of the day – she been posing for every paper and penny dreadful's photographer for at least the last day and a half and to puncture her would be more likely to harm Holmes than to help him. So, he just kept silent and treated her to one of his stares. Not that she noticed, for she hardly blinked before continuing.
"And you mean, Mr Bowler, that you had the chance of ridding us all of that blackguard, that you had the point of your…your spear at his throat but you paused?"
"Aye, aye, I did ma'am. I'd just got me stave ready to give the bast…er… the Captain, the finisher when the Doctor here yells, 'no, Bowler, that would mek us as bad as 'im' and I did as I were told, ma'am." Then he added softly and looked towards me. "Never saw him being fussy like that when we 'ad dozens of yelling 'eathens after us, mind."
"Well, Doctor, I'm so impressed to discover such humanity in one of my friends." She lowered her lashes over her great, cat-like eyes which caused Holmes to mutter almost audibly.
"But I have another terribly pressing question, may I?"
"Please do, My Lady," said Holmes.
"Well, we all saw Mrs Sanders making great cow eyes at the Doctor here over dinner." Did we? I'd noticed her bovine qualities, for sure, but that hadn't extended to her eyes. "And when Mr Bowler and he failed to join the ladies after the port, she was almost inconsolable. You made some excuse for them, Mr Holmes, something about pressing business upon which you'd had to despatch them." Bowler looked at me and raised an eyebrow. "But you seemed very relaxed and gave us all a most entertaining hour or so more of your adventures. How did you know they were in such peril? How did you find them all that way out in the coverts?"
"Well, My Lady, let me start from the beginning. You see, the great value for me in working with such enthusiasts as Bowler and the Doctor here is that they make a perfect anvil upon which I can forge my theories. I tend to notice apparently unconnected things immediately and it's immensely instructive watching my colleagues cast about until they reach similar conclusions – it helps me to clear my mind. I was immediately on my guard with Smethwick when I realised that he was concealing his true past, posing as a gentleman when it was obvious to all of us from his accent, his clothes and his mannerisms that he'd started life in the ranks. The cut of your cloth matters not a damn if you insist on having creases pressed into the sleeves of your coat – that just shouts of the barrack room. Then there was his obvious penchant for violence. You don't know this, My Lady, but we had a little misunderstanding in my lodgings when dear, loyal Watson here thought that Smethwick was about to do away with me. I watched as our friend moved out of the way of Watson's onslaught with a practised ease that made my hackles rise – just like the account he gave us of Balaklava. He demonstrated to us with a poker how he'd cut down several serfs, but I was studying his face, he had clearly enjoyed the whole experience."
"Yes, Mr Holmes, he had a most horrible temper. I thought I'd seen tantrums with dear Cardigan, but he was a lamb compared with the Captain," de Horsey interrupted.
"Indeed, ma'am." We all flinched as the exhumation party started trying to prize the corpse from its grave; I could have told them that the leg and foot bones would probably detach as soon as they tried to handle them. "Er, where was I? Oh yes," Holmes continued, "I expect a soldier to be used to such things, to be inured to them, perhaps, but not to enjoy them. Anyway, all this was visceral, it signified nothing more than a hunch – it was the same with his walking stick, it spoke volumes for his self-regard and his good fortune in terms of being friendly with someone who was prepared to flatter him with engravings in pure gold. No, what really told me that Smethwick was a…a…"
"A bad bastard," Bowler offered.
"No, no, well yes, Bowler, but what I was going to say was, a wrong 'un. What really made my hair stand on end was his claim to have been in Abyssinia. That shocking little carte de visite of his showed him as a captain of dragoons, in full fig. It's the sort of thing that a certain class of officer has done within their last few weeks in the Service in order to show off their achievements. Why then was he not wearing his Abyssinia medal? He had both Crimea medals, the one for the Mutiny and another for New Zealand, but no sign of the Abyssinia ribbon. Where was he in late sixty-seven and early sixty-eight, ma'am?”
"He said that he was at Horse Guards on some remount post, I never really asked. But he was never very far from Deene when I needed…er… when the Earl invited him, though." I thought de Horsey had the good grace to look slightly embarrassed at her slip of the tongue.
"Exactly. He was murdering the under-keeper, Stagg and Lord Cardigan in March sixty-eight when the campaign didn't end until May. He was shooting a line, bluffing in order to impress and it was this more than anything that made me take the case." Holmes went quiet as two men tried to lift Stagg's decaying trunk from the ground without the head falling off.
I had to hand it to Holmes, I'd looked at th
e card and admired the martial figure in scarlet coat and gauntlets with a brass helmet tucked under his arm, despite the damn stupid beard affair. I hadn't noticed the absence of the medal, though. I had thought that what had really piqued Holmes's interest was the full knowledge that he was being hauled back into the limelight by de Horsey's crazy plan to make her husband's perfectly explainable death look suspicious as well as all the sensational malarkey with Disraeli. Yet, I hadn't begun to be really uneasy about things until Bowler had found that wretched spur whilst we were mucking about in the beck. You know I've had my frustrations with Holmes, but I do wish that he would tell us about his suspicions as soon as he has them, it would make life so much easier.
"I'd rather that you had told me about these reservations of yours, Mr Holmes." Exactly, even de Horsey agreed with me. "I could have had done with the rogue weeks ago and saved us all so much unpleasantness." We all went quiet again as the shroud was finally tied over the body's worm-eaten face.
"And Peter Stagg, My Lady?" asked Holmes, looking away from the white clad form that was now being lifted away from its grave.
"What of him, Sir? I've told you all I know," she answered without a flicker. I shivered again and waited for Holmes to press further, but he didn't. He kept his own council. "But do go on Mr Holmes. You've answered the first part of my question, but how did you know that the Captain and Colonel Moriarty intended to kill not only your friends but me as well?"
"I'll answer that question with pleasure, ma'am, when you tell me a rather more about Colonel Moriarty. This officer seems to be cropping up in our lives a little too much, recently," Holmes remarked.
Cropping up was an understatement. Bowler and I had first experienced the cad outside Kandahar when he'd left us to die of thirst. Next, many thought that he'd murdered the sometime bare-knuckle champion of all England – and I still had the scars to prove it. And now he'd turned up in the middle of a Northamptonshire night in the odious company of James Smethwick and it appeared that they were well known to each other. A better suited pair of blackguards I couldn't imagine.
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