The Adventure of the Spanish Drums

by Martin Daley

  “Really sir,” said the RSM.

  Holmes, as usual, had no inhibitions about questioning this rather intimidating figure.

  “Where exactly were you when the drums were stolen?” he asked

  “I don’t know the exact time when the French drums and colours were stolen, sir. The general consensus appears to be that it was during the early hours of Tuesday morning, last week. If this is the case, I was here in my quarters.”

  “And Major Young?”

  “To the best of my knowledge sir, Major Young spent every evening in the mess or in the officers’ accommodation.” I sensed some friction between the two, upon hearing this latest comment. The soldier continued in his broad north-eastern accent, “the only event that broke up the week was the discovering of the injured guard. I had expressed my reservations to Major Young previously but it was not until the incident that I ordered that the guards be doubled. It was not until the colonel’s party returned that the true significance of the incident dawned.”

  “Were you aware of where the drums were held?” Holmes wanted to know.

  “I couldn’t have sworn to it before the furore sir. Although young Robins showed me round the castle when I arrived, the trophy room was not at the forefront of my mind.”

  “Thank you Regimental Sergeant Major McCue, that will be all,” said my friend, concluding the short interview.

  I found the senior NCO extremely difficult to read as, throughout the interview, he didn’t give anything away; his face remained expressionless and his voice monotone. “Would you like me to ask Major Young to join you sir?” he asked as he got up to leave, “he is waiting outside.”

  “No, that will not be necessary,” replied Holmes, “I do not believe he can tell us anything we have not heard already.”

  A moment later, after McCue had closed the door behind him, we heard raised voices outside the office. A figure I took to be Major Young not so much entered as burst in.

  “Mr. Holmes? Which one of you is Mr. Holmes?”

  “That is my pleasure,” said my friend, “this is my friend and colleague Doctor Watson. Now you have us at a disadvantage,” he added, knowing full well who he was addressing.

  Ignoring me completely the man confirmed his identity, “I am Major Clive Young. What is this the RSM tells me – that you do not want to speak to me?”

  “Oh, I do apologise Major, I did not realise you had some vital information that would help solve this mystery.” There was more than a hint of sarcasm in Holmes’s tone. This was however, lost on Young and once more I found myself amused at Holmes’s attitude towards the rather senior military personnel.

  “Vital information? Vital information? I was the officer in charge of the depot on the night of the theft,” continued Young, unabashed.

  “How long have you held your current rank?”

  “Only since February of this year. Why do you ask?”

  Holmes ignored the question. “And was this the first time you were left in charge in Colonel Hulme’s absence?”

  Suddenly it dawned on Young that he had dug a rather large hole for himself. His haughty air and arrogant tone instantly disappeared. “Well I wasn’t personally on guard myself,” he said, rather pathetically.

  “No, but I wager that you were fully aware of the custom of one guard being on duty?” There was an uncomfortable silence. “I believe Private Walker was quite badly injured. Yet it was not until the Colonel’s party returned later in the week, that the theft was discovered. Still I’m sure no one blames you personally Major,” Holmes said, rather generously, “thank you for your time. If I need any further information from you, I know where to find you.” Young left the room quietly. “Another one full of his own importance,” sneered Holmes, after him.

  “Quite an unusual pair,” I said. “I got the impression that there wasn’t much love lost between the two.”

  “I was certainly interested in the Regimental Sergeant Major,” replied Holmes.

  “Really? I thought he had all the personality of a brick!”

  Chuckling at my comment, my friend then announced, “I think we have had quite enough talking for one morning Watson. I think it is now time to take up Robins’s offer of inspecting the scene of the crime.

  The lance corporal took us across the large square and past a half-moon battery, apparently built toward the end of Henry VIII’s reign, according to our guide. Holmes mumbled something under his breath, little interested in Robins’s topic of conversation. The battery stood in front of a large stone curtain that protected the inner ward of the castle. We walked through the curtain’s magnificent archway, under The Captain’s Tower and crossed the triangular courtyard of the inner ward to the aforementioned St Mary’s Tower. Entering the inner building we climbed two stories to the storage room where Robins had informed us that the regimental trophies and memorabilia were held. The soldier took a large key and opened the door. Inside was a veritable treasure trove; a stored wealth of valuables from all around the globe, won through two centuries of service by the Cumberland regiment.

  It was to the door of the room however, that Holmes first turned his attention. In the rather gloomy light of the tower, Holmes took his small magnifying glass from his vest pocket. Striking a match, he held it up to the keyhole and peered into the small aperture through the lens. He went through several matches before he appeared happy with his observations and finally crossed the threshold of the room itself. The detective then glanced round focusing his attention on the one window. Moving towards it he gave it a cursory examination. Running his gloved fingers along the sill, studying the latch he gave a cursory ‘Hmm’ to himself. Almost as an afterthought Holmes then looked at some of the items within the room itself.

  I have observed on many occasions that my friend pays little regard for the cleanliness of his clothes or the condition of any material items when he is on a case. Countless times, I have witnessed him wade fully clothed into water, crawl on hands and knees through mud or sift through the dust and ashes in an uncleaned fireplace, in an effort to find that vital clue. It was with little surprise therefore that I saw my friend climbing over boxes, throwing items away after studying them and generally treating the trophies of the regiment with disregard and contempt. I could not help being amused by Robins’s reaction to the detective’s behaviour. Discomfort gradually turned to horror as he witnessed Holmes carelessly manhandle trophies and mementos from campaigns dating back some two hundred years and brought back from all four corners of the globe. The poor man was beside himself as he followed Holmes around the room, recovering discarded items, full in the knowledge that he would be held responsible for any damage.

  “Were the colours and the drums of the French regiment stacked in any particular order?” Holmes questioned, as he tossed an elephant’s tusk – elaborately decorated with silver bands – to one side.

  “Not particularly sir,” replied the junior NCO, scrambling to retrieve it.

  After some minutes Holmes appeared to grow tired of his search and announced, “I have seen enough, we can leave now.”

  It was now twelve thirty and as we made our way back across the square Vaughan met us. “How is the investigation progressing?” he asked.

  “It has been a most enlightening morning,” replied Holmes.

  “Excellent,” said Vaughan, “I wonder if you would care to join me for lunch in the Officer’s Mess?”

  “That would be very pleasant,” I said before Holmes could suggest otherwise.

  Chapter Four - Several Interviews

  We enjoyed a satisfying lunch of cold ham, creamed potatoes and salad in the mess. Holmes, as usual, ate little and as Vaughan and I retired to the lounge area for coffee and a cigar, Holmes said he needed to look around the castle and left us.

  It was one thirty when Vaughan excused himself to carry on his duties and, as I knew that Holmes would be some time searching the medieval fortress from tower to dungeon, immersed in his own thoughts, I decided to ta
ke a walk around the perimeter.

  Immediately adjacent to the castle I found a beautiful park which, given the pleasantness of the afternoon, provided the perfect setting for my after lunch stroll. The paths were lined with foliage – delightfully mixed colours of golden brown, copper and bronze – shed by trees that rustled gently in the early autumn breeze, and they led me to the centre of the park where I found myself gazing up at a magnificent statue of her late majesty. My reverie was broken by a voice from behind.

  “Only put up last year.” I turned to see an old man with an extraordinarily long white beard seated on one of the park benches behind me.

  “Really?” I said politely. “It is a stunning likeness.”

  “Re-named the park in the great lady’s honour,” he added nodding.

  My interest in the man increased when I noticed he was wearing campaign medals on his jacket. He obviously saw me admiring them from afar, “Crimea and Indian Mutiny” he said proudly.

  “India and Afghanistan” I countered, smiling. “Doctor John Watson” I continued, walking over to him and offering a hand.

  “Isaac Scott” said the old man, gripping my hand with unusual strength for someone appearing so frail. “What regiment?” he asked, as I sat down.

  “Northumberland Fusiliers and Berkshires.”

  “17th Lancers and local Yeomanry, myself.”

  “You weren’t in the famous charge at Balaclava?” I asked in awe, knowing the former regiment named were involved in the infamous action.

  “Alas no,” he replied. “I joined them shortly afterwards. Saw plenty of action in India mind you,” he continued. “That’s where I picked up this damn injury”. He reached down and rubbed the calf of his right leg grimacing as he did so.

  “Yes,” I said sympathetically, “I suffered myself at Maiwand,” indicating my own war wounds.

  “What brings you to our fair city?” asked the veteran. “My friend and I are looking into a problem at the castle.”

  “Not the Arroyo Drums?” he questioned. Almost instantaneously, before I could answer, he cried, “Of course! Doctor Watson! Sherlock Holmes’s Doctor Watson!”

  I was both flattered by the recognition and astonished that he knew about the theft as I had assumed it was not public knowledge. Mr. Scott obviously saw my look of surprised and explained, “I work for Mr. Gibson, the tailor on Bank Street. We do a lot of work for the officers in the castle, so there’s not much goes on that we don’t know about. Found out about the scandal last Friday morning when I collected the uniforms used at last week’s training at Penrith. I was tekin’ ‘em to be cleaned, you see. The story then broke in the paper on Friday night.”

  We continued to chat desultorily for some time, as old soldiers are bound to do, before I glanced at my watch. I was surprised to see that we had been sitting for almost two hours. I explained that I had an appointment at four o’clock and rose to leave, commenting that I was sure we would meet again before the investigation was completed.

  “I hope so,” the old man said genuinely, “goodbye for now.” He walked away uncomfortably with the aid of a stick.

  Given the hour and the time spent separated from Holmes I made my way back to the castle. As I walked in its shadow, created by the low, watery, late afternoon sun, I looked up and saw the unmistakable figure of my friend in his long travelling cape and matching ear flapped cap – appearing and disappearing behind the crenulated wall – as he prowled along the battlements, deep in thought.

  He was descending as I walked under the portcullis into sight “Ah, Watson my boy! An interesting little problem,” he said cryptically.

  “What have you found?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” replied Holmes, amused by my puzzlement, “but that in itself may be progress”.

  “It is almost four o’clock,” I said, “the Colonel will be waiting.”

  “That will never do,” replied Holmes, further amused by my sense of urgency.

  We rejoined Lt. Col. Hulme at the appointed hour and he informed us that the local police officer assigned to the investigation of the theft would be joining us shortly, “I have the feeling that once he heard about your involvement Mr. Holmes, interest and sense of importance in the matter has increased amongst the local constabulary. As Captain Vaughan stated earlier, Inspector Armstrong has a good reputation but I must say, some of his subordinates do not inspire confidence”.

  A few minutes later Lance Corporal Robins showed in a similarly youthful looking man. The latter had a most unusual gait; he did not so much walk, as lurch into the room, while his extreme leanness exaggerated his not inconsiderable height.

  “Gentlemen,” announced the Colonel, “let me introduce you to Sergeant Smith of the Cumberland Constabulary. Sergeant, these are the gentlemen I told you about on Monday.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said the man removing his hat. In doing so he highlighted his rather sallow complexion and revealed his head of dark, lank hair. “I took the liberty of wiring Inspector Lestrade who informed me that you have helped him on the odd occasion.”

  Helped on the odd occasion? I thought to myself. Holmes obviously read my mind and prevented me from speaking out with a glance and the merest of smiles, indicating that he intended to have some fun with our new acquaintance.

  “Tell me Sergeant,” said he, addressing the policeman, “what do you make of the case so far?”

  “Case?” echoed Smith, “I don’t think there is much of a case. As I said to my Inspector only the other day, it seems to be simply a matter of petty theft. I’m sure we’ll have the musical instruments back in no time.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Lieutenant Colonel raise his eyes to the ceiling as he heard Smith’s description of the regiment’s prized trophies.

  “Where do you think they are then?” asked Holmes simply.

  “Well, er …” stumbled Smith uncomfortably, “our resources are a little stretched at the moment. The truth is that we have yet to get our teeth into the case proper.”

  “What has been done then? The searching of the castle and its surrounding areas perhaps? Or the questioning of staff at the railway station about recent unusual freight?”

  “Well er … no, not yet, we were about to instigate such lines of enquiry,” blustered the young policeman, unconvincingly.

  “Well I am sure you will do your best Sergeant,” said Holmes, with a mischievous twinkle, obviously sharing my amusement at the policeman’s contradicting of himself, as to the importance of the case.

  “We do have reason to believe that the theft is connected to the break in at the town hall,” added the policeman, obviously trying to recover some credibility. By making this announcement, Smith did at least succeed in gaining Holmes’s interest.

  “When did this break-in occur?” asked the private consulting detective.

  “Last Saturday night.”

  “And what was taken?”

  “Strangely, very little. The only item missing was the plaque that lists the names of all past mayors of the city. It hangs – or hung – on the wall of the main chamber. It would appear that someone is playing silly beggars with our local history.”

  “If you have no objections sergeant, I would like to visit the scene of this burglary.”

  “Inspector Armstrong is in charge of both enquiries; I’m sure he would have no objection; I’ll check with him when I get back. Mind you, our lads have given it a thorough going over. Unless you hear anything different I will tell them to expect you tomorrow morning. Well if you will all excuse me gentlemen, I have got quite a lot on at the moment,” said Smith, as if to make a honourable withdrawal. Then as if to emphasise the importance of some of his tasks he added, “We are preparing for the visit of Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman, the leader of the Liberal Party who is coming to the city on Friday. I shall return later in the week Colonel to update you on how our investigations are progressing.”

  His stressing of the word ‘our’ drew another half smile f
rom my friend. Colonel Hulme did not share our amusement however. Upon the youthful sergeant’s exit, he simply repeated his earlier phrase with a grave expression, “He does not inspire confidence.”

  “I wonder if we can speak with Private Nixon,” said Holmes, re-capturing the Colonel’s attention. “I would like him to accompany us to the hospital to see his colleague.

  “He is on a charge at the moment. I am reluctant to allow him any privileges until further notice.”

  “Colonel Hulme, what’s done is done and cannot be changed. Clearly this practice has been going for some time. Obviously I have no authority but I might suggest that you draw a line under the past and set the standards that your men should follow from now on. It is wrong to blame Nixon when some of his superiors clearly knew what was going on. I feel by allowing me to speak with Nixon and letting him accompany us to the hospital to see Walker, it will significantly help us get to the bottom of this matter.” Holmes’s tone was conciliatory and I had the impression that the commanding officer agreed, however reluctantly, with his suggestion.

  “I will arrange for Nixon to be released to you,” Hulme said, at last.

  We left the commanding officer and went back to the room we had used earlier that day. Shortly afterward the charged soldier was brought to us. Holmes moved quickly to put him at his ease, “We are not the authorities Private Nixon; we are not here to apportion blame or to mete out sentences. We simply want to establish the facts of the case and solve the mystery surrounding the theft.”

  “I understand sir,” replied the soldier quietly.

  “Now, for what it is worth, how did you see the events of last Tuesday night?”

  “Well sir, Jackie – that is Private Walker – and myself, took over sentry duties at twenty-two hundred hours. You probably know by now that I left my post shortly after.”

  “Exactly how long after,” interrupted Holmes.

  “It would be around twenty-two thirty hours sir. I then sneaked back into the barracks and left Walker to it, just as he had done with me the night before; it’s common practice for us to alternate you see. It’s just unlucky for Jackie that the trouble fell on his turn.” There was genuine concern and guilt in the soldier’s tone. “The following morning I went back to me post at 05.30 hours for the changing at 06.00. It was then that I found Private Walker. He was in a pretty bad state, having been lying there all night. I raised the alarm and got him some attention. He was moved up to the Infirmary shortly after and that’s where the poor bloke’s remained. I haven’t seen him since coz I was arrested when the C.O. found out what had happened. I’ve been banged up since then.”