by J. R. Trtek
“Why do you say that?” asked Ivery, again displaying a hint of anxiety, this time more pronounced than before. “And what do you mean by it?”
“I merely uttered a statement of understanding in support of your apology, Mr. Ivery,” said Holmes. “You were engaged in feverish letter writing upon a troubling matter which suddenly came to your attention just before leaving for Fosse Manor, one that no doubt still preys upon your mind. I am certain that it is a justifiable reason for your tardiness.”
“And how do you come to know of my recent experience?”
“By the testimony of your person,” replied Holmes. “Your right jacket sleeve is creased on its inner side, though the remainder of the garment is pristine, suggesting that your arm has recently been resting upon a surface for some time, as it would if the other hand were engaged in writing for several minutes. That would require you to be left-handed, which is a distinct possibility, since a moment ago you instinctively raised your left arm when surprised by my identifying you by name without benefit of introduction.
“One occasional, unfortunate consequence of writing with the left hand is the smearing of ink upon its fingers and edge, and indeed, your left wrist and little finger are so stained. There are, in fact, several such streaks that overlap, suggesting you spent some time in writing. In addition, the tips of your thumb and forefinger also bear marks that are of identical colour but in the form of blotches rather than streaks, artefacts likely due to a slowly leaking pen. Are you aware of that flaw in your writing instrument, Mr. Ivery?”
“Why, no.”
“It should be attended to. Meanwhile, there is no inky imprint upon your collar or left cuff, but I espy a small one upon your right cuff, which would have been fastened with the left hand. Thus, you were writing after you had almost completely prepared for dinner, having already donned your shirt and collar but not yet fastened your cuffs.139
“Apparently, the need to write came suddenly, just before or in the midst of dressing, and you debated whether or not to compose a letter then and there as you donned your attire, perhaps causing you to neglect to fasten your cuffs before putting on your jacket. The matter of concern is, as I suggested, a subject that likely still preys upon your mind, Mr. Ivery, for preoccupation with it has made you overlook those small ink stains on your cuff, despite the fact that you are clearly very fastidious in your dress and, I believe, would normally have closely scrutinised your appearance before leaving home.”
There was a moment of sepulchral silence after Holmes’s declamation, and then Ivery smiled broadly. “A bravura performance, Mr. Holmes. Quite perceptive, and quite correct, I must admit. I have a former colleague who is experiencing much family distress, you see,” he explained. “I felt compelled to write him as I prepared for this dinner, as you so correctly deduced.”
Giving my attention to the exchange between Holmes and Ivery, I had not noticed that the woman identified as Miss Cochrane had quietly made her way to my side and was staring intently at me.
“Vespera Cochrane,” she whispered demurely while extending a hand. As I took it lightly in my own, she looked about and lightly added, “I am not above introducing myself when others have neglect to fully do so at all.”
“Miss Cochrane is a renowned danseuse,” said Holmes, turning from Moxon Ivery to address me.
“Dancer, if you please, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “Men and women: we are all dancers alike.”
“Dancer,” my friend declared, correcting himself. “As I mentioned a moment ago, I attended your London premiere at the Royal Albert Hall and found its evocation of classic Hellenic aesthetics simply breathtaking.”
In one corner of the room, Doria Wymondham gently sighed.
“I thank you,” Miss Cochrane said to my friend. “But no one has yet told me what you are, Mr. Holmes,” she added. “Other than an amusing magician of observation.”
“He is Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” Launcelot Wake reminded her. “Surely you have heard of him: the famous consulting detective?” he added somewhat self-consciously.
“Now retired,” added Holmes.
“Truly?” said Ivery. “You do nothing more than tend bees these days, do you?”
Holmes raised a brow. “Now you make me ever so curious about your detailed knowledge of my recent experience, Mr. Ivery.”
“Oh, I am reading your book, sir,” explained the man. “I am not an apiarist myself, but I enjoy the study of nature and find your treatise most interesting and illuminating. I hope to finish it within the week.”
Holmes bowed his head slightly and smiled.
“The details about the queen are fascinating,” Ivery said.
“Thank you.”
“And the portion about dormancy is very intriguing.”
“Dormancy is a most incorrect term,” insisted Sherlock Holmes. “Rather, the practice of the honey bee is to—”
“May we not place people above insects?” asked Miss Cochrane boldly, her eyes once more focused upon me. “I introduced myself,” she said to me. “Perhaps you might do the same?”
“This is Dr. John H. Watson,” said Holmes before I could speak. “He is the author of those famous stories that you have never read. He is also now Colonel John H. Watson.”
“Oh,” said the dancer, now seemingly disappointed. “A military man? Here at Fosse Manor?” Miss Cochrane declared, looking at the Wymondham sisters.
“He is an officer in the Royal Army Medical Corps,” interjected Mary Lamington. “Indeed, Colonel Watson is our new head of Isham Hospital.”
“A healer,” Miss Cochrane intoned with a suddenly reinvigorated interest. “A modern Galen140 for a world in flames.” She waved an arm as she spoke and then audaciously hooked it round my own.
“To the table,” the woman commanded as she gently pulled at my elbow. “We must all hear of your ministrations, Colonel—when we are not being humoured by Mr. Holmes’s deductions.”
There was a cynical smile on the face of Letchford, while the others retained neutral expressions—other than the Wymondhams, who appeared completely at sea.
Miss Lamington rushed to add herself to my escort, and framed by both women, I joined the rest of the group in sorting ourselves into seats round the great table. I was placed at one end, with Miss Cochrane and Miss Lamington on either side of me. Launcelot Wake swiftly claimed the chair to the right of his cousin, denying that place to Moxon Ivery, who settled for the seat opposite her and beside Miss Cochrane. Aronson and Letchford took the next positions down the line on either side of the table, each followed in turn by a Wymondham sister, leaving Holmes to inhabit the portion farthest from me, Miss Claire and Miss Doria flanking him on either hand.
For the first time, I noticed a sickly sweet scent in the room, which I thought might be the remnant of incense. Very quickly, however, my attention shifted to the food that servants now brought in, and the meal turned out to be, by far, the best I had enjoyed in many months.
“Excellent,” said Letchford as he savoured his bowl of spinach soup. “It suffices in itself, I think. Even should we enjoy nothing else this evening, I will be sated. However,” he added with a sly smile, “I assume there will be one or more additional courses?”
“Certainly,” sniffed Miss Doria. “We are, however, attempting to observe the official guidelines—within reason.”
“Are you saying there will be no meat tonight?” asked Launcelot Wake with a sour smile.
“Oh dear boy,” replied Miss Claire. “Of course there will be…some meat.”
“And war bread, I see,” remarked Letchford. 141
“The shortages are far more acute in London,” said Aronson.
“I believe sugar will be the first commodity to be rationed,” suggested Ivery. “What is your opinion, Mr. Holmes?”
The detective shrugged. “Only time will tell,” he said. “I grant, however, that sugar rationing will undoubtedly come first.”
“I suppose that, in addition to aiding the war eff
ort, such restrictions might serve to enlighten some with respect to proper nutrition,” commented Letchford as he reached for another piece of bread. “There are so many lower-class mothers who believe their children will die if they do not eat sugar every day.”
Aronson looked up from his soup. “Do you mean that may not be true?” he asked.
Letchford raised his brows to the others sitting round the table before stuffing a piece of bread into his mouth.
“I don’t expect the men at the front enjoy a bounty such as this,” said Ivery as some empty bowls were removed from the table. “Is that not true, Colonel?”
“Yes,” I said. “There are shortages of many things.”
“Except ammunition, I should think,” said Aaronson with a chuckle.
“Do you ever read anything but your own work?” Letchford asked the novelist in a condescending tone. “The newspapers, for example?”
“You refer to the Shell Crisis?” Ivery asked.142
“Of course,” Letchford replied, again casting a sceptical eye at Aronson.
“When I was there as an observer, it seemed that many things were scarce in France,” I reiterated.
“What deficiency did you find most compelling, Mr. Watson?” asked Vespera Cochrane.
“Oh, I do not know,” I said humbly. “There were so many. If we consider just the medical realm, I suppose stretchers are a plausible answer.”
“Not enough of them, eh?” asked Letchford with mild interest. The Wymondham sisters looked at one another with apprehension.
“Their number hardly matches that of the wounded, certainly,” I said.
“What do the men do when all the stretchers are full, then?” asked Ivery. “Take off a greatcoat, say, and use it instead to carry a man?”
“Inexperienced bearers will try that at first,” I replied. “But it is a mistake to attempt it.”
“Why?” asked Launcelot Wake, his eyes suddenly more intense than usual.
“Well,” I explained, “a man will roll about if borne upon a coat, perhaps making his injuries worse.”
“And so, if there aren’t enough stretchers,” Wake said, “what do the bearers do?”
Miss Doria made as if to speak but then remained silent.
“They carry the wounded upon their backs,” I said.
“Truly?” the young man asked. “How is that possible?”
“It just is, Mr. Wake. For hours—or days on end.”
Aronson whistled under his breath.
“Really?” said Letchford, with a hint of interest unleavened by his usual cynicism. “People actually accomplish such things? It seems rather difficult to believe.”
“The capacity of the human organism to surprise is rather well documented, Mr. Letchford,” declared Sherlock Holmes, who had been quiet for several minutes. “If you simply read accounts in the newspapers, as you recommended to Mr. Aronson a moment ago, I believe your incredulity will rapidly fade. Or perhaps,” he amended, “it will intensify.”
“Do you read the newspapers regularly, Mr. Holmes?” asked Ivery.
“Yes. It is a habit retained from the days when it was vital to my work.”
“Ah, of course,” said the retired don. “Agony columns and the like. I suppose they would be important to a consulting detective. I ask about the newspapers only because I was wondering if you read the political articles. Do you follow expressions of opinion regarding this war?”
“I browse them on occasion.”
“Please,” begged Miss Claire. “Remember, all of you, that the principal rule of this table is that discussion of war is out of bounds.”
“But we have heard just a little of Colonel Watson’s experiences in the medical corps, and I should like to hear more,” said Wake.
“Yes,” said Vespera Cochrane, leaning toward me. “Let us have some additional recollections.”
Letchford and Aronson good-naturedly struck the table with their palms, joining in the demand that I convey the gist of my past two and a half years of service to all round the table. And so, despite the discomfort of my two hosts, I did so on through the next course, which was a delightful if slightly meat-deficient toad in the hole143 served with asparagus and onion gravy.
I did not mention in detail any specific horrors which I had witnessed or been told of during my more than two years of recent military service, alluding instead to the RAMC’s general approach in comforting those afflicted. In time, however, as we were given the main course of rabbit and turnips—with no evidence of bacon, to my disappointment—matters of art, music, and literature returned to the fore, and I gladly let those subjects dominate the conversation thereafter.
“I have reviewed a most fascinating new novel,” said Letchford as dessert was about to be served. “Forgive me, Aronson, but it isn’t one of yours, I fear. No, this is a marvellously crafted Russian work, wonderfully translated, entitled Leprous Souls. Have you read it?” he asked of all round the table. “It was published by Mr. Shaw’s firm. It’s a pity the man isn’t here to discuss it.”
“He was invited to this dinner,” sighed Miss Claire Wymondham.
“But he declined,” added her sister. “As he always does.”
“Mr. Shaw is a very reticent fellow,” noted Miss Lamington, her eyes fixed upon Sherlock Holmes.
“And a Colonial,” observed Miss Claire primly. “A native of Canada.”
“He does not socialise much beyond his rounds of golf with visitors to Biggleswick,” Letchford added. “Of course, it wasn’t always that way. Moot Hall was built with his money, and at first, he regularly attended the meetings there.”
“Truly?” said Moxon Ivery.
“Indeed,” said Letchford. “You wouldn’t remember—and neither would you, Aronson—because neither of you lived here before the war, but I recall Mr. Shaw being an almost compulsive member of our discussion groups.”
“And when did that change?” asked Sherlock Holmes in an abstracted tone.
Letchford thought for a moment and then answered.
“It was during the first month or two of the war—come to think of it, it was late September. I remember now because the Germans had just been stopped at the Marne, and our Moot Hall committee had decided to stage a series of lectures on the consequences of an indefinite stalemate—how was that for prescience, eh?” he said with a bit of self-satisfaction. “Well, Shaw was to deliver one of those lectures, but he rather suddenly declined. And, indeed, his entire involvement with Moot Hall ceased from that moment on.”
The man paused and then added, “Soon thereafter, he seemed to withdraw from Biggleswick society altogether.”
“His legacy remains, however,” said Moxon Ivery. “To Moot Hall,” he added, raising his glass. “Built with the money of Frederick Shaw, noble Canadian turned Englishman.”
“Here’s to that,” said Letchford, lifting his glass as well.
Aronson joined them in the impromptu toast, as did we all.
“And here’s to the hope that someday Mr. Shaw will deign to accept a work of mine,” intoned the young author. No one followed his lead in that sentiment, however, and so he emptied his glass alone.
“Your time will come, my lad,” said Letchford with gentle amusement before taking his first bite of dessert, a delicious rhubarb crumble. He spent several minutes expressing pride in his two children, at which point our general discussion broke into several smaller ones that ebbed and flowed round the table.
Not quite two hours later, beneath a starry, moonless sky spotted with windswept clouds, Holmes and I approached Biggleswick on foot.
“The walk has proved good for my stomach,” said my friend. “Our dinner was most filling, despite the influence of the war on its content.”
“Has the stroll helped your mind as well?” I asked. “Those whom Miss Lamington believes you should principally consider as candidates for the Black Stone were at that table.”
“All save Frederick Shaw, the publisher,” Holmes said. “B
ut, as mentioned, the man keeps largely to himself these days.”
“But he is not alone in being alone.”
My friend smiled. “It occurs to me, Watson, that you might be able to approach Mr. Shaw and thus make it possible for me to observe him at close hand.”
“Oh? How might that be done?”
“Are you not the accomplished author?” said Holmes in a taunting voice. “Might you not have another fantasy to pawn off upon an unsuspecting publisher—this time, Mr. Shaw?”
“I have had no time to write, Holmes.”
“I am aware of that, old fellow, but Shaw is not so informed. Can you not go to him with at least a proposal of some sort? Another collection of stories? A novel, perhaps?”
“A novel would better serve, if I am to bring him merely the suggestion for a book, but I should have to choose a case the public have not yet been informed of. Which should it be? I have always meant to document the Hoxton beggar case but have never found the right moment for it.”
“I do not have the fondness for that affair that you have displayed through the years, and why you should have kept the fellow’s aluminium crutch as a souvenir is quite beyond my understanding. Moreover, the matter, though singular, is really worth no more than a few pages. No, I believe that it should be the Abernetty matter.”
“Must you again bring up that dreadful business? For the past twenty years, it has ruined my enjoyment of parsley.”
“Well then, I suggest you come up with something in the next few days. Recall that we leave for Scotland on Wednesday.”
“Yes, I will do my best. And did you reach any understanding of our fellow diners this evening? I did not realise that Miss Cochrane, your renowned dancer, was among the suspects.”
“She is not,” said Holmes. “According to Miss Lamington, she was included among the guests only after Mr. Shaw declined his invitation. But no, Watson—sadly, nothing of immediate relevance to our quest here presented itself during the evening,” the detective replied. “There was one comment by Mr. Ivery, however, that has somewhat altered my perspective on another matter.”
“Oh?” I said. “And which remark was that?”