by J. R. Trtek
“No, it is an instance where I have been greatly remiss, for I have not sent a letter to him since last returning from France.”
“Nor heard from him?”
“No, but then I hardly expect him to have the time or inclination to write,” I said. “The life of a flyer seems glamourous to some, but it is hardly that.”
“Hannay’s Boer friend is an RFC pilot, you know.”
“The one he has mentioned now and then? The scout?”
“Yes,” said Holmes. “Peter Pienaar. He was with Hannay, Blenkiron, and Sandy Arbuthnot during the Erzerum business.”
“I know. I have read the book.”163
“I met Pienaar once,” said Holmes. “Hannay introduced us during one of his early leaves from duty on the Continent. The Boer is an interesting fellow. He volunteered for the Royal Flying Corps and became one of its best pilots, until he was shot down last year.”
“Did he—”
“He went down behind the German lines,” Holmes informed me. “The man is currently a prisoner of war, I believe.”
“Ah.”
“You must write your Captain Harper when we return to Biggleswick,” Holmes insisted.
“Yes,” I promised myself while gently urging on our horse.
At length, we reached the vicinity of the inn that Ewan Clark had tended in the company of his bedridden grandmother and the servant Margit. Before, I had approached the cottage along a footpath at night during the search for Richard Hannay; now, travelling by dogcart in the light of day, we followed a different route toward the place, along a road which passed the residence, the route I had taken in the sidecar of Clark’s motor bicycle to reach Sir Harry Christey’s manor.
As we left our carriage and walked toward the dwelling, a man emerged from the shed where Clark’s vehicle had been stored. I saw that the structure was now packed instead with boxes and tools.
“Halloa!” called the man, a bluff grey-haired fellow perhaps a decade younger than Holmes and myself. “Just passing through or needing a place for the night, sirs?”
“I am John Watson,” I said. “This is my friend, Sherlock Holmes.”
“A second greeting to both of you gentlemen. How may we assist you?”
“We have come to pay a call on Ewan Clark, if he is here,” I said.
The man stood still for several seconds, his expression changing to one of apprehension.
“You know him from the war?” he asked cautiously. “You both are roughly my age, and so—”
“I am with the Royal Army Medical Corps, in fact, but—”
“My understanding is that your kind have done all you can for him.”
“Yes, but what I meant to add is that I knew Mr. Clark briefly from before the war.”
“When he still ran the inn? Before he enlisted and his grandmother passed on?”
“That is correct,” I said. “He assisted me some three years ago in a matter of great importance by supplying me a ride in his—” I gestured toward the shed— “his motor bicycle.”
The man’s expression now changed to one of interest. “Might you be the one who had the aeroplane?”
“Well, I was a passenger in the aeroplane.”
“Yes, Ewan often talked about that ‘adventure’ of his. Before the current situation, of course. Do you know of his present condition?”
“One of his fellow soldiers from the Galloway Pals informed me.”
The man nodded thoughtfully and then stepped closer, extending his hand.
“I’m Malcom Paterson,” he said. “My wife Jean is Ewan’s cousin.”
Paterson then shook Holmes’s hand.
“We’ve been in charge of the inn since Ewan went off to France, and then following his return,” he said. “Come along with me, if you please,” Paterson added as he gestured toward the house itself.
“Mr. Clark—Ewan—still lives here, I was given to understand,” I said as we approached the door.
“Aye. He spent a good deal of time in hospital before being discharged to our care. He’s none the bother, of course. His appetite is still good, as odd as that may sound.”
“I am a doctor,” I gently reminded Paterson.
“Oh, then you’d have a very good understanding of it, then.”
“I do not know that any of us have a very good understanding of it,” I replied mournfully. “Other than those who endure it.”
“Aye,” said the man as he opened the door of the inn.
The sitting room was largely as I remembered it, with the great hearth dominating. Many of the furnishings had changed, however, and the wall had fewer adornments than before. Margit, the stern-faced servant, was still present, carrying a bowl from the room without looking in our direction as she disappeared round a corner. To the right of the hearth, a woman of late middle age did cast her eyes at us, and though her face bore a slight more charity than Margit’s, it was still the visage of a hard, practical person.
“Here, Jean,” said Mr. Paterson. “These are friends of Ewan. A doctor and a—well, this man here,” he said, indicating Holmes.
“Ye’re here as physician or as friend, sir?” said the woman. “Ye are…?”
“Doctor John Watson,” I said. “Well, these days, Colonel John Watson, RAMC. This is my friend, Sherlock Holmes.”
The woman cocked her head slightly, giving her attention to my friend. “Ye are the Mr. Holmes?” she asked. “The consulting detective?”
“That I am, madam,” said my friend with a gentle smile. “Though I am not personally acquainted with your cousin, as the colonel is.”
“Yes,” she said as if reciting well-known facts. Her eyes looked me over again. “He spoke often about both of ye before he left. Ye’ll be wanting to see him, then?”
“If we may,” I replied.
“Take them out back,” she told her husband before looking me in the eye again. “He’s out by the stream. Just beyond the bridge, in the place he always goes.”
Holmes and I followed Malcom Paterson from the house, down the path that I recalled traversing in the middle of a night some three years before. Beyond, we saw the small stone bridge that crossed the stream and there, on its other side, I espied a lone figure kneeling, staring down at the ground.
We approached, but though our heels loudly scraped the rough surface of the bridge, the young man ahead did not lift his head. Ewan Clark seemed neither leaner nor stouter than I remembered him, yet a sense of spiritual emaciation hung about his figure, and when at last he did cast eyes in our direction, I saw that the sparkle they had once possessed was entirely absent.
“Ewan, look who has come visiting!” declared Paterson. “Friends!”
Still on his knees, Clark stared at me and Holmes in turn, and then back to me. He studied my face intently and then nodded slowly.
“Doctor Watson,” he whispered. “Halloa.”
“How has it been out here today, Ewan?” said Paterson with encouragement. “Would you like to tell us? He’s a fortunate one,” the man said, putting his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “A lucky laddie he is. Off to war and comes back with nary a scratch on him. How wonderful is that, eh? You’re the lucky laddie, indeed,” repeated Paterson.
Clark did not appear to react, but merely returned his attention to the ground, where he resumed pulling grass from the soil in a listless manner.
“Ewan?” said Paterson with mild urgency. “Ewan, have you no bit of news to tell the gentlemen?”
Clark did not respond. Instead, he kept pulling back the clusters of blades, as if trying to roll them over to expose the roots beneath. Paterson stepped back, eyes silently pleading to us for assistance.
“I have brought Sherlock Holmes with me,” I said. Bending slightly, I repeated myself by adding, “Mr. Clark—Ewan?—here is Sherlock Holmes. Do you not remember?” I said. “Sherlock Holmes, the detective? The stories you read?”
For a moment, the young man ceased his efforts at overturning sod and looked up at my
companion.
“Holmes,” he said evenly, as if trying to remember. He frowned and looked me in the eye. “Stories by Doyle.”
“Yes,” I said gently. “The stories by Doyle. Do you recall them?”
Ewan Clark stared into empty space for a moment and then shook his head ever so faintly before gripping the partially upturned blades again in order to pull on them.
“He has been like this since they discharged him from the army,” Paterson said in a whisper. “Actually, he was worse when he first got out. Couldn’t dress himself then, but the boy has made progress. I said his appetite is not bad. And he has good colour, eh? There has been progress, has there not?”
“I am certain there has been,” I replied. “I have seen many cases like his. Patience is the key.”
“Mud,” said Ewan Clark as he kept feverishly pulling at the grass. “Mud!”
Paterson shrugged. “That is what the boy says, over and over.”
He and I stared at one another as young man uttered the one syllable again and then once more.
“Yes, mud,” chimed in Sherlock Holmes suddenly. He knelt beside Clark. “Mud,” he repeated. “There is only mud underneath, is there not?”
Ewan Clark stopped digging at the earth with his fingernails and turned toward the detective, his eyes wide. He said nothing, but his mouth opened slightly, and there seemed once more a glimmer of introspection in his expression.
“Yes,” the young man said, nodding sharply at Holmes. “Mud.”
“Nothing but mud,” whispered Holmes. “As deep as it goes.”
Clark nodded again. He smiled, but it was a smile that conveyed not an ounce of happiness. “Mud!” he repeated in a high voice as his eyes filled.
“All mud,” my friend agreed in a plaintive voice, eliciting a now more vigorous assent from the young man, his eyes closing as his mouth curled once more into a hopeless smile.
“You know, too,” Clark stammered as he leaned toward the detective, whose arms enfolded him.
I stood there and watched a gentle spectacle the like of which I had never before witnessed and was never to see again, for while Sherlock Holmes had, on innumerable occasions, counselled and consoled many—including myself—with his rational words, on this occasion my friend gave solace through silent touch alone rather than reasoned speech, and as Ewan Clark quietly wept in Holmes’s steady arms, I could not help but sense that this act of comfort was, in some way I would never fully appreciate, mutual.
* * *
147 The X-shaped cross of the patron saint of Scotland forms the flag of Scotland and part of the flag of the United Kingdom.
148 Whitechapel is a district in East London. For much of its history a poor, working-class neighborhood, the area is perhaps best known as the stomping ground of Jack the Ripper.
149 Amos may be referring to the Radical War, also known as the Scottish Insurrection of 1820. This was a week of strikes and unrest in Glasgow and central Scotland that climaxed in demands for labor, economic, and electoral reform within the United Kingdom. The insurrection was put down, and almost ninety individuals were arrested and accused of treason. While some of those charged were acquitted, others were executed or transported to penal colonies in New South Wales and Tasmania.
150 “Empty boaster”
151 This is another instance where some explicit elements within the text cast doubt on its authenticity, for this is not the type of language one finds in any authenticated narrative by Watson.
152 Though already in use during the nineteenth century, “Tommy” or “Tommy Atkins” as slang for a British soldier is especially associated with the First World War. “Thomas Atkins” was used as a generic name by the British War Office in an 1815 publication explaining how to complete military forms, and that may be the origin of the term.
153 “Damp” is a euphemism for “damn,” and “Bolshie” is slang, now dated, for communist or socialist. A shortened form of “Bolshevik,” its first documented use was in 1918, a year after the events of this chapter.
154 The Stockholm Conference of 1917 was the last of three international gatherings of socialists opposed to the First World War.
155 Built in 1896, the Glasgow Subway is the third-oldest underground metro system in the world.
156 Among other actions, the wartime Defense of the Realm Act that was passed in August 1914 allowed pub hours to be restricted, and within a year, most were limited to two sessions: from noon to 2:40 p.m. and from 6:30 to 9:30 p.m. This change was prompted by the belief that workers in vital industries would demonstrate greater sobriety as a result. On the same grounds, it was also made illegal for anyone to buy drinks for others.
157 Taylor is almost certainly referring to the First Battle of the Somme, which took place during the second half of 1916. In the end, although French and British units forced the German army to retreat six miles, the cost of the offensive was over one million dead and wounded on both sides.
158 British soldiers in the First World War often picked up French expressions and converted them into phrases that sounded English. One of these was ça ne fait rien, French for “It does not matter,” which became “san fairy ann.”
159 Pals battalions were units of the British Army in the First World War made up of men who had enlisted together from the same locality, with the understanding that they would serve together rather than be arbitrarily assigned to other units. A consequence of this policy was that, when such battalions suffered casualties, individual towns or neighborhoods at home experienced disproportionate losses. After the introduction of conscription in 1916, no more such groups were raised, and those still existing, most of them now greatly reduced in strength, were eventually absorbed into other units.
160 “The morning hate” was slang for “Stand-To,” which itself is a shortened form of “Stand-to-Arms.” The Stand-To occurred at dawn and evening. Each man was to stand on the trench fire step with rifle loaded and bayonet fixed. This was a precaution against enemy raids that might be mounted under cover of darkness. It usually lasted thirty to sixty minutes.
161 Duckboard—a platform made of wooden slats—was used to line the bottom of trenches, which regularly filled with mud and standing water.
162 “Dos-à-dos” means that the two seats were arranged back to back. From the text, it appears that on the trip out, Watson drove while Holmes sat behind him, facing toward the rear.
163 This would be John Buchan’s Greenmantle, previously mentioned, which was published in 1916.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: ENLIGHTENING EXCHANGES
Holmes and I left Dumfries three days later than we had originally planned, after spending the time alternatively with Ewan Clark and the Taylors before concluding our stay with a subdued yet warm reunion uniting us with both parties at the inn now managed by the Patersons.
Charlie Taylor, Ewan Clark, and I spent much time together while Holmes regaled the Patersons and Mrs. Taylor with his own versions of many past exploits, and by the time we left the inn, Taylor was in good spirits and Clark had, for one afternoon, found it within himself to almost hold his own in conversation, with less impulse to upend the ground, though his mood remained fragile.
On the morning of our departure, Averil Taylor provided us with yet another of her fine breakfasts as well as some small treats for the train, and at last we bade farewell to Scotland, boarding our carriage to return to the Cotswolds.
My friend remained quiet during the journey south; the customary impromptu discourses on passing local flora, fauna, and geology were absent, for Holmes’s mind was obviously preoccupied.
I chose not to intrude upon his thoughts as he silently stared out the carriage window, instead entertaining myself with a book given me by Charlie Taylor. We ate our sweets from his wife, accompanied by almost no conversation. At length, however, as the rails took us past the village of Bledwell, short of Biggleswick, the detective spoke for the first time in several minutes.
“Bledwell is the village La
uncelot Wake claimed to have bicycled to on that rainy day past, is it not?”
“I believe so,” I replied. “Have you been pondering him, as well as the others considered possible German agents?”
Holmes smiled wistfully. “Yes, though I confess that it was our approach to Bledwell that only now prompted me to pursue that line of thought. My hope is that, during our absence, Frederick Shaw will have responded to the enquiry about your new novel.”
“Ah yes,” I said. Wishing to lighten Holmes’s mood, I added, “The one I have titled The Crimson Rat of Sumatra.”
“I look forward to the interview,” said he. “I believe I have told you that Frank Farrar has been collecting information on Shaw’s activities in London.”
“Do his movements have features of interest?”
“They do,” replied Holmes. “As we already were well aware, Shaw travels to the metropolis almost every day, save for Sundays, and always in the company of his black valise. However, Farrar has discovered that on Tuesdays and Thursdays, before going to his office, he visits a particular block of flats in Praed Street.”
“Indeed.”
Holmes smiled. “Whether that is relevant to the matter of the Black Stone remains to be seen, of course.”
Our carriage remained quiet for some time thereafter. Then, as we approached the Biggleswick station, I said, “Holmes, I feel I must yet again thank you for—”
“There is no need, old fellow.”
“What you did for young Clark was—”
“Something entirely reasonable,” he asserted. He smiled at me again, but this time only with his lips and not his eyes. “Let us speak of other things instead—cabbages and kings, for instance.”164
Upon arriving at the Biggleswick station and leaving our carriage, we were met by Corporal Scaife, who escorted us to my cottage, where, he said, Martha had prepared a selection of cold cuts despite the ravages of wartime shortages, which had become more noticeable as the spring season progressed.