“Not all of it, Watson. What of foxglove, which is now used to treat a weakened heart? No, there are many herbal secrets that may yet be unlocked. Some are contained in such volumes as the one Ellwood retained. I caught a glimpse of it in his bookcase, and while he was watching you some days later, I broke into his house, found the book, and a certain receipt within it. I also found the pestle and mortar he had used to grind up the herbs into the salve or so-called flying ointment of witches. I took book and items to make him apprehensive—although afraid as he was, still he would not confess and I had no proof, only the certain knowledge of what he had done.”
“Then—?”
Holmes nodded slowly. “Then, my dear Watson, seeing I could not provide justice in one way, I took another road and made up my own tincture, since the receipt Ellwood had used may be prepared as either a salve or a tincture—a tincture that I believe he added to whatever Miss Evelyn drank. I added some to his sherry—since I was certain that he would drink heavily of it before our meeting. He evidently did so, and you yourself saw the result.”
“The engineer hoist by his own petard indeed, Holmes. But how dared you to take the law into your own hands?”
My friend regarded me quietly, and in his eyes I saw implacable justice. “I did not wish to do so, Watson, but there was yet—and appeared likely to always be—insufficient evidence to bring a case against Ellwood in the courts, nor would he have confessed, I had come to see that. There was no certainty that even after drinking the potion Ellwood would attempt to fly, so I left events to find their own way. I merely provided the path; it was Ellwood’s consciousness of his own guilt which sent him flying over the cliff.”
I recalled the man’s words. “That is very true, Holmes. He said, ‘I will cheat you yet, I can escape easily.’ He planned to escape justice by flying away. It seems that justice flew after him.”
”Exactly so, Watson.”
As to the principals in this drama, of those who remained, Merrian Hattan continues to teach at the village school. Stackhurst made more than a dozen continuing scholarships from the money he received and asked Holmes and me to present the first of them, which task we were most happy to carry out. So from evil some good has come and will continue to come, and that is all that any man may justly expect from life.
THE FURY
We were at breakfast when we heard a loud voice, the thump of footsteps towards our door, and a familiar figure appeared.
I rose in surprise to greet our visitor—while Holmes, who tends to the phlegmatic, especially around breakfast—remained seated.
“Colonel Ross!” I exclaimed. “What are you doing here? Has something happened to Silver Blaze again?”
The Colonel shook his head. “No, he is still at stud, producing some excellent foals, but it’s a strange business, and has to do with his son.”
I was somewhat perplexed. “Whose son, Colonel?’
“Why, Silver Blaze’s colt, of course. The Fury.”
I was horrified. The colt was in his third year now: a magnificent animal and bidding fair to beat even the records set by his sire. The previous year he had stormed down tracks all over the country, winning again and again, so that the name of Colonel Ross was spoken of with awe at his good fortune in possessing first the sire, and then the colt of so great a line.
“Don’t say something has happened to The Fury?” I protested. “It would be the greatest loss to horse racing England has seen. A horse like that should—must—carry on his line.”
The Colonel slumped into the nearest chair and mutely accepted the cup of tea Holmes passed to him, and accepted also a piece of toast that he loaded with butter and marmalade and began to eat absent-mindedly.
“It is worse than that. If I cannot recover what has vanished, then The Fury is useless to me. He will not race, he refuses to allow any jockey to remain on his back, and he does not eat well, and is losing condition.”
Holmes finished his toast, drained the last drop of tea from his cup, and thrust back his chair. “It seems you have a story to tell, Colonel. Begin.”
The Colonel squirmed. “It is not easy to confess, but The Fury is Silver Blaze’s first colt. I was there at his birth, and the moment he fought his way to his feet it was clear he was born to race. Every line was quality, from every angle he was a champion. An experienced horseman can see the potential in a newborn foal, just for the few minutes after the animal’s birth. That is why I was present. My trainer and I could only stare and know that Silver Blaze had bred true. But there was one problem.”
“What was that, Colonel?” I asked.
“The Fury’s dam was Maid of Athens. She comes from a line notorious for their savagery. Her sire killed two stable lads, Maid of Athens crippled another and injured several during her racing career, and it was her intractability that caused her owner to retire her early to the breeding paddock. Silver Blaze is without that sort of vicem but a foal learns from his dam. We racehorse owners have a saying, ‘speed from the sire, temper from the dam’ and it proved to be true.
“As he grew older, The Fury became more difficult to handle until finally, in a battle between the animal and my trainer who was endeavoring to break him to saddle, The Fury pulled a tendon and was put out to rest in a small paddock at the back of the stables. This is screened from the stables themselves by a tall, solid hedge, and as the animal had a three-sided shelter in the paddock, he was normally seen only once a day, in the evening, when a small amount of hay was brought to him.
“I was staying in the area and unexpectedly drove over to talk to the trainer, James Hammond. After the business with Straker, I cleared out the staff and took on this man together with his family. He is a good man, married to a woman whose father was a trainer, so she knows and understands horses herself, and his son too, while currently a stableboy there, bids to be a promising jockey, and I had it in mind for the lad and The Fury to be trained together.
“In addition, Hammond had hired on two extra stableboys, both of whom I may say were terrified of The Fury, and quite useless in handling him. I had spoken with Hammond, and while at the stables wished to see The Fury, so Hammond and I walked down the property and passed through the hedge, not at the usual gate, but through a convenient gap at the far end—since we had been that way looking at another of my horses. Thus, the lad we caught had no idea of our presence.”
“Caught, Colonel?”
“Aye, caught. But doing something I would have believed no one could attempt and be unharmed. He was standing directly behind The Fury, disentangling burrs from his tail, while the colt stood placid as an old donkey, and when the job was finished the boy walked to The Fury’s head and that savage beast dropped his head into the lad’s shirt and stood there as if communing with a friend. I was astounded—but I am no fool, though I say so myself. I caught back Hammond by the arm, cautioning him to silence, for it occurred to me on the instant that here was the perfect stable lad for The Fury.
“Find out who he is, and hire him.” I hissed to Hammond.
“Sir, he looks to be very young.”
I looked at the boy again and had to agree. He appeared to be perhaps twelve years of age and of very slight build, yet I have seen other lads no larger, and if he could handle The Fury so confidently I cared not if he be a babe in arms and no bigger than a dwarf.
“Find him, hire him,” I ordered Hammond. “I think he is a whisperer, and if he can deal with The Fury as it seems, pay him a good wage. I want him to have no reason to change stables.”
“And your man found the boy.” Holmes said, “The lad has now gone missing, and The Fury will not work without him.”
“That is most unhappily true, sir. He vanished two weeks ago and since then The Fury has never cleaned up a meal, he has attempted to savage anyone who approaches him, and no jockey, not even my trainer’s son, is able to stay on the animal. He is entered in one of the major races in two months’ time. If we do not find the boy and return him to The Fury, the
horse will be in no condition to race, I will lose a fortune, and I will be a laughing stock, for I have wagered heavily on The Fury in private bets as well as public ones.”
“But have you not asked the lad’s family?” I questioned the Colonel.
“Of course,” he snapped. “That is, we could not find them, but we have looked for them.”
Holmes nodded. “I think you had best go back to the beginning of your tale again, and tell me how your man found the boy and persuaded him to work for you, if your man told you of that?”
“I have the tale from Hammond indeed. According to him, he followed the boy across several fields until he reached a broken-down gypsy caravan. As you know, the moor is sometimes home to a number of gypsies. He presumed the lad was one of them and, as they are usually poor to starving, and the offer of a well-paid job would be seized, he approached the caravan confidently. He was met by an old woman, who glared at him.
“‘What’s thee want hereabouts, mester?’
“‘I want to hire your grandson,’ Hammond said, indicating the lad who had appeared around a corner of the caravan.
“‘Does thee, for what?’
“‘As stable boy to The Fury, the colt owned by Colonel Ross.’
“The crone seemed much amused. ‘Thee knows he be good wi’ horses then?’
“‘The Colonel and I saw him handle the colt. The Colonel will pay a pound a week to the lad’.”
I nodded in reply to Ross’s look at me. That was an excellent wage, twice, even three times what a stable lad could expect usually, but if the boy could handle a dangerous horse like that, he’d have been worth every penny.
“The old woman nodded. ‘Aye, then thee’ll have him. But he comes home nights to me here, else he don’t go. I be too old to live alone an’ I needs my grandson to help me evenings’.”
Colonel Ross’s gaze met mine and he shrugged. “It was irregular, but if the boy could do what was required, then it was worth meeting that condition. Hammond agreed, and the boy arrived the following morning at five. By the time Hammond was out there, the lad had The Fury back in a stall, fed, watered, groomed, and standing quiet.
“In the next few weeks the horse was a changed animal. He would do anything the lad asked of him, and his training was easy. Hammond supervised but the boy, we were told his name was Joe Farr, did all the work. In a few more months Hammond’s lad, Matthew, was riding The Fury in training—and so long as Joe was present, The Fury was completely tractable. It was like a miracle and I thanked God for it.”
“It is not so greatly uncommon,” I said. “I have known of other cases. You are a horseman and will know of Lady Jane’s Son. He would not race without his stable cat being present at the track. When she had kittens, they played about his hooves, and he was always careful never to harm one. The cat died, but her daughter took over and went with the horse when he was retired to stud.”
“That is true, and I have known cases where the horse was rendered tractable with a stable companion that was a donkey, a pony, or even a goat. As you say, it is not unknown, but in my case it is now most inconvenient.”
“So what happened?”
“Nothing for a long time. All appeared amicability. The lad was courteous when I visited, and appeared utterly devoted to The Fury. Why, when some tout sneaked into the stables and attempted to bribe the boy to drug The Fury, he shouted for Hammond, and my man says the lad was in a complete passion, so that he had to pull him from the tout’s throat. When The Fury was once ill, the boy remained with him day and night until the horse was well again. I queried that he had been permitted to do so, and he said that he had spoken with his grandam and she had agreed since he loved the horse so greatly. The colt ran five times in his second year with Matthew Hammond riding him, and won four of the races. A great future looked likely for him.”
“What then?”
“That is what I do not know!” cried Colonel Ross in exasperation. “There appeared to be some small tiff with another of the stableboys. Hammond says he found them struggling one evening. He pulled them apart and asked what the trouble was; neither would say what had begun the quarrel, so he sent Joe home and the other lad to his bed. In the morning Joe did not return. Hammond sought out the caravan, but it was gone—and from that day to this he has seen and heard nothing of Joe or his grandmother.”
Here he wrenched his collar. “If I do not have the boy back, The Fury will not race. I can use him for breeding, but his best years for racing are now, and as yet his reputation on the track is not all it could be. The fees I could charge are yet low. Find Joe Farr for me, Mr. Holmes, and I will pay and pay well. Can you do this thing?”
“What if the boy will not return, or asks for certain conditions?”
“I will meet almost any condition he may ask, if only he will return. I will double his wage, sack the lad with whom he quarreled, allow his grandmother to have her caravan on my land so none may move her on, only persuade him back.”
Holmes smiled briefly. “You are not a completely conventional man, are you, Colonel Ross?”
The Colonel stared. “I suppose I am not, Mr. Holmes. I’m a hard man perhaps, but a just one, I believe. If you are suggesting that Joe has been dishonest in some way and fled to avoid retribution, tell him that I know of no harm he has done me. If he has harmed another, I will stand for him. You know, Holmes, I liked the lad. He was a hard worker, never shirked his duty, and cared for The Fury as if he were his own. He had courage too. I’ve seen The Fury panic, kicking and rearing, and Joe went in under flying hooves cool as you please to soothe the colt and bring him down. He’s the sort of lad I’d have taken as many of as I could enlist for my old cavalry unit.”
“Then I shall do my best.” Holmes answered him. “Call here again in three days and I may have news for you. Meanwhile, please write a note for Hammond, instructing him to allow me every access to the stables and his staff.”
“At once, sir.” I provided paper, pen, and ink and Colonel Ross dashed off a brief note, dusted the ink dry, folded and sealed the sheet of paper, and handed it to Holmes. “Here you are, sir. And I shall wait on you again in three days.”
He strode out energetically and I turned to my old friend. “You have some idea already, do you not?”
He nodded. “The name of Farr is a gypsy name, but not as the Colonel believes it to be. The name is Faa; spelled as F-A-A, and those of the line of Johnny Faa, who was a king amongst them a century ago, carry it. Years back I heard a scandal about a branch of the Faa family. The daughter wed a man who wasn’t of their blood in any way; he was a blacksmith, however, so the marriage was tolerated—but only the girl’s mother remained in touch with her.”
“And you wonder if Joe Farr is not the daughter’s son, the old woman being the girl’s mother?” I asked.
“Precisely. I must discover where the Boswell tribe has their vardos currently and speak to them. They may be able to tell me a considerable amount.” As he was speaking, Holmes vanished into his room and I heard his voice through the half-shut door.
“Vardos, Holmes?” I queried, “And will they talk to one who is not a gypsy?”
“A vardo is a caravan, Watson. And the gypsies will talk to me; I am known to them as an old friend under more than one name.”
He then emerged and I stared. In every way he was a gypsy down to the small gold rings on his ears and the lurid-colored scarf about his neck. His face was swarthy, and even his hands and wrists were weathered to a deep brown.
“Holmes, it is wonderful!”
“It is convincing, that is more important.” Holmes said dryly. “Meet Jack Smith of the Devonshire branch of the Smith tribe.”
He pulled his scarf straighter and clattered down the stair in boots which, I now saw, were old and slightly broken, with knotted laces. He did not return that day or night. But as I was brewing a pot of tea next morning he reappeared, looking tired.
“I was right, Watson. The old woman is Margaret Faa whose daught
er, Leah, wed a blacksmith. He died twelve years later, and his family cheated Leah of her inheritance and drove her and the child out. She returned to her people, but they demanded she remarry from amongst them, and she refused since it would have meant that her child would have been forced to conform to Romany laws. In some altercation Leah was killed, and her mother then took her caravan and the child and left to wander alone.”
“How long ago was that?” I queried.
“Almost four years.”
I raised my brow in some surprise. “But Joe Farr has been working for more than a year for Colonel Ross. From what you say, the lad must now be seventeen and Ross was convinced he was only twelve or thereabouts when he was hired.”
“Gypsying can be a hard life,” was all Holmes said to that.
“Where will you go now?”
“To Ross’s stables. I would question Hammond, his family, and the lad with whom Joe Faa was quarrelling.”
“And afterwards?”
“Afterwards, I think I may have news for the Colonel.”
“You have found the lad then?”
“I know where the caravan is, but it remains to be seen if I can convince them to return to King’s Pyland. The old woman may not wish to bring the lad back, and he may not wish to come. There were reasons, I suspect, for their departure, which reasons still apply.”
That afternoon we departed for the moor. The journey is arduous, and it was not until the next day that we were able to seek out Hammond and question him.
Holmes began. “The lad, Joe Farr as you knew him, did he stand his watch one night in three as is your custom here?”
“He did, sir. He would return after the evening meal to his grandmother’s caravan to see all safe there, then he would walk back after dark to stand his watch. By the time I was up in the morning, he would have all shipshape with The Fury and would nap in the hay for a few hours. Several times after he first arrived, I woke up in the early hours to check and see that he was watching according to his duty. Always, sir, he was awake and alert.”
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