by Martin Daley
Sadly, his manner did not compensate for his appearance. “What can I get ye?” he grunted at us.
“Two pints of your finest ale landlord,” said Holmes without prejudice.
The man filled two tankards and slapped them onto the bar, spilling a proportion of the contents as he did so. I peered down in the rather murky, non-too appetising liquid. Holmes on the other hand grabbed his tankard with great enthusiasm and made for the table seating the roughest looking characters in the establishment; an honour for which, it must be said, there was strong competition.
In spite of our uncomfortable surroundings it has been my experience, on more than one occasion, to witness Holmes immediately defuse a potentially dangerous situation by sitting down with the locals and without any inhibitions speaking to them on a level and on subjects they can instantly relate to.
“May we join you gentlemen? It is nice to have some liquid refreshment after a hard day’s work.”
There was a collective snigger before a spokesman for the table said “Ye don’t look as though ye’ve done much plate layin’ today!”
Sniggers turned to laughter, which Holmes joined in heartily. “That is perfectly true,” said he. “I travel on the railway frequently but seldom lay the tracks!”
This brought even more laughter from the table and the men, obviously impressed and amused by Holmes’s self- derogatory remark, made room at the table for their visitors. As their appearance suggested, the group were all either railway navvies or labourers. Holmes quickly won their trust and within a few minutes he was laughing and joking with the whole group as if he had been acquainted with them for years. Holmes demonstrated once more that he is equally at home conversing with paupers or princes, and I decided after observing him for a short while, that my admiration for my friend knew no bounds.
After thirty or forty minutes Holmes announced – while flashing me a glance to meet him at the bar – “I must leave you now, gentlemen. But allow me to get in a round before I go.”
“Hey-hey!” sang one, instantaneously.
“A true gent!” added another, while the rest chorused their approval.
“It is clear they cannot help us,” Holmes said to me as we walked over towards the bar, “I wonder if we will have more luck with the landlord. Then addressing the publican he continued, “I would be obliged if you provided my friends with a further beverage and “– sotto voce – “provide me with some information.”
The man’s mouth contorted into a threatening snarl until his greedy eyes spotted the gold sovereign Holmes held on the bar under the index finger of his right hand. The snarl turned to an avaricious smile that revealed two yellow, rotting teeth protruding from the middle of his lower gum – their siblings were all missing.
“What sort of information?” he asked, not taking his eyes from the coin.
“I need to know if there have been any strangers in the area over the past few days”.
“Strangers?”
“I noticed your miniature Union Flag position behind the bar, suggesting that you are on the Unionist side of the sectarian divide. That notwithstanding I would wager that there are no visitors to this area of town – regardless of politics or religion – that would go unnoticed by your good self.”
“You mean have there been any bloody Fenians?”
“Precisely.”
“Well, there were some strangers in ‘ere a-couple-a-weeks ago but I couldn’t say who they were. Never seen ‘em since” His eyes never left the sovereign for a moment.
“How many?”
“Four or five. They sat quietly over there,” he said jerking his head in the direction of a secluded corner.
“How did they behave?”
“As I say, very quiet. There was only one did any talkin’. Another bloke joined them after a while. I noticed again that the new bloke spoke only with the leader. The others just sat there like idiots.”
“Thank you landlord,” said Holmes, releasing the coin, “you have been extremely helpful.” We turned to leave but as we reached the door, my friend said “Oh, Watson, there is something I forgot. I’ll be back in an instant.” He turned back leaving me at the door, to re-address the barman. I could not hear what was said above the din, but the supplementary interview only lasted a few seconds and I saw the landlord nodding his greasy head. Holmes then turned again to join me in our exit and shouted to his drinking companions, “And a very good evening to you gentlemen!” They cheered their response and raised their newly filled tankards.
When we were outside Holmes said, “An interesting episode; the dear old publican rarely overlooks a new customer.”
“It is a pity he is not as enthusiastic about his personal hygiene!” I replied, much to Holmes’s amusement. “On to the Jovial Sailor Tavern then?”
“No,” said my friend, “we will find nothing more there. Regardless of the sectarian divide amongst the local population, as I suggested to the landlord, visitors to the area would be known to everyone. No, we should make our way back Watson and think about what we have learned today.”
I must confess to being a little relieved at being spared a similarly uncomfortable half-hour in what would be no doubt equally threatening surroundings. I pulled my collar up still further to combat the distinctly chill wind that grabbed at our coats, and accompanied Holmes back to our lodgings.
After the excitement and exertions of the day I had a hearty appetite and enthusiastically tucked into a rather substantial steak and kidney pudding, laid on for us by our hostess Mrs. Graham. For his part Holmes ate little, preferring to mull over the occasional cigarette and stare idly into space.
“There’s something missing,” he said absentmindedly.
“Of course there is – the Arroyo Drums.” I said, amused by my own sharpness. Holmes did not so much ignore my facetiousness; my comment simply did not register in that magnificent brain as it explored every detail of the case at hand.
“I think we need to speak with the chap I would wager is the most trustworthy character in the regiment,” he said, again half to himself.
“Vaughan?” I questioned.
“No, no,” he said sharply, snapping out of his mental case analysis, “Sergeant Armstrong of course!”
With that he rose from the table bidding me goodnight, leaving me to try and fathom the mystery.
Chapter Seven - An Interview With Sergeant Armstrong
The following morning we set out once more on the short journey to the castle and found that it had been raining through the night, although there was a certain amount of humidity in the air. As we walked, I commented once more to my friend how changeable the weather was in this northern English county.
“That said,” I added, “I must say I prefer this altogether fresher climate to the rather dense atmosphere of the capital.”
Upon our arrival, we were shown to the Sergeants’ Office where, shortly thereafter, Sergeant George Armstrong met us, after being informed of our request to speak with him.
“Morning Gentlemen,” he said as he entered.
“Good morning Sergeant,” I said, “a change in the weather this morning.”
“Yes, there is a storm brewing I think,” replied the local man.
“I’m sorry we missed you the other day Sergeant, I believe you were unavailable,” said Holmes.
“That’s right sir, Captain Vaughan asked me to go through to Penrith and review last week’s exercise with the Commanding Officer of the local Yeomanry regiment.”
“Is that a standard practice?”
“Yes sir, although one of the officers normally holds the review session. Lord Lonsdale – the 5th Earl – is the Commanding Officer; his family have run the Yeomanry regiment since his grandfather raised the troop back in 1819. When he assumed command in 1897, he introduced such reviews. Annual training for the part time boys was increased from ten days to eighteen days a couple of years ago and I think the Earl likes to keep his lads as efficient as possible, so he uses
part of the annual training session as a useful examination by his full time colleagues. After the weeks training is complete, he views any feedback as invaluable.
“I suppose with all the carry on surrounding the drums, it was easier to send me back to Penrith on this occasion,” concluded the sergeant.
“Quite probably,” mused Holmes. “Tell me Sergeant Armstrong, how many uniforms did you use last week?”
“The officers and NCO’s each use two sir; as I say, it is not only a ceremonial inspection of the part-timers but an active training session, where we perform various exercises with them.”
“And how is the relationship between the part timers and their regular colleagues?”
“They’re good lads in the main – it’s an enjoyable week. Some of the lads were with us during the Boer War, which was the Yeomanry’s first overseas campaign.”
“Did anything unusual occur while you were in Penrith?”
“Well as I said earlier sir,” – Armstrong smiled to himself –
“I reckon they’ll be a storm before the weekend is out, but it can’t possibly be as bad as the one we had a week gone Tuesday night.”
“The night of the theft?” interrupted Holmes, “Nixon never mentioned anything about a storm when I questioned him.” He sounded a little piqued by the private soldier’s omission.
“Well he’s got enough on his plate without worrying about the weather,” quipped the Non Commission Officer, “but I can assure you that last Tuesday night it put down enough water to refill the canal!”
“Canal?” questioned Holmes.
“Well it’s a railway now,” resumed Armstrong. “Originally built to link the city with Port Carlisle. The city is a big industrial centre you see, and it needs an outlet to the Solway basin. Now the railway line runs down to Silloth Docks.”
I thought I saw a suggestion of a smile pluck at Holmes’s lips. Rather than pursue the merits of the weather and local communication links however, the detective invited Sergeant Armstrong to return to the subject at hand.
“It was ironic really,” resumed the soldier, “because we were out under canvass and I was chatting with some of the lads about the battle at Arroyo when the boys captured the drums in the first place. The night before the battle was just like that, you see. There was I trying to convince the lads that we had it good compared to our erstwhile colleagues who had to fight in such conditions, and all the while, our drums were being stolen.
“As you might imagine, the following morning the field was virtually waterlogged. We were due to perform an exercise that simulated a cavalry advance with infantry support. Conditions were treacherous for man and beast alike. When the exercise started, more than one horse unseated its rider, probably through a combination of conditions underfoot and the soaking wet equipment.”
“Was there any suggestion of equipment being tampered with?”
“No sir,” said Armstrong, surprised by the apparently irrelevant question. He continued his narrative. “One by one, columns proceeded across the field with a member of the regulars leading the infantry support. I remember one casualty in particular, Major Dalston-Ewbankes, of the Yeomanry force, a chap from out Appleby way. He fell and was quite badly injured. Captain Vaughan, who was in charge of his particular support force had to organise his removal from the field. We were all amused to see Harry blustering away, clearly miffed that his squadron had disrupted the exercise. I think he’d had enough as, with the help of a couple of part-timers he personally took the old boy off to the local hospital. By the time he got back the exercise was all but over. He received a bit more ribbing from the lads about that.”
The Non Commissioned Officer then corrected himself, “Hang on a minute, I’ve got that wrong! You asked me about the uniforms? I forgot that after the exercise we contacted Gibson, our tailor and organised old Isaac to come and collect the kit we had used that day. The C.O. felt it unnecessary to have the dirty uniforms clogging up the camp. The old boy had the foresight to bring replacements with him.”
“Is that the chap with the long white beard?” I asked and – responding to Armstrong’s nodded reply – added “I met him in the local park earlier this week. I believe he used to be in the Yeomanry himself?”
“Yes, that’s right. He also belongs out Penrith way, so when he came out on the Wednesday with his experiences and local connections, we could hardly get rid of him! He’s a grand old bloke mind you; I’ve got a lot of time for him. Seen a bit of action himself in his time too,” said the regular, obviously referring to the old man’s time spent in India and the Crimea.
“And the rest of the week?” asked Holmes, obviously keen to pull Armstrong back to the subject at hand.
“The rest of the week passed off without further incident as I recall.”
“Since your return, have you found any anomalies concerning the men’s uniforms?”
“How did you know that sir?” said the sergeant, amazed by Holmes’s question. “There was an incident only yesterday. I was carrying out a routine inspection in the barracks, when I found two dirty uniforms belonging to a couple of the boys that were with us in Penrith. After giving them a good rollicking,” he added, with a smile, “I just put it down to their mates playing a prank on them. I didn’t really think it was too important sir,” he concluded.
“There is nothing more important than trifles Sergeant,” said Holmes smiling.
I thought Armstrong prevaricated rather with his answers and embroidered them unnecessarily but I suppose that is the prerogative of all veteran soldiers, perhaps even myself if I’m perfectly honest. That notwithstanding, there was no suggestion from him of any superiority over his subordinates or his part time colleagues and I must say, I was impressed by this obviously honourable and hard working soldier. I sensed that Holmes shared my view.
“I understand you have a loyalty to your regimental colleagues,” then said the detective, “but how do you rate your officers?”
Only a non-military man could ask such an indiscreet question and I could see that Armstrong was uncomfortable with this line of questioning.
“Come, come, Sergeant,” prompted Holmes, “there are only the three of us here, and you can count on our complete integrity and discretion”.
“Well to be honest with you sir,” answered the soldier, in a lowered, yet reassured tone, “I don’t know many of the officers very well, never having worked closely with them. The only two I feel comfortable with are the C.O. himself and ‘H’, er – Captain Vaughan that is – I served with them both in South Africa – good blokes the pair of them – well thought of by the men. We all felt Harry was unlucky to be pipped for the Major’s position earlier this year.”
“Yes, I think we met the successful candidate earlier this week, Major Young?”
“That’s right sir, he came from nowhere to get the job. He was with the 2nd Battalion who have been in Burma all year. We didn’t know much about him to till he took up post.” Although Armstrong did not elaborate on his opinions of Young, I sensed that he did not rate him as a superior officer. Instead he continued describing his friend and colleague from South Africa, “I’ve been on many an operation with ‘H’; had to reign him back on a couple of occasions; always the first man out of the traps, all guns blazing,” he said.
“Yes I can testify to that,” said I, about to recount my experience of our retreat to Kandahar
“Thank you Watson,” interrupted Holmes sharply, inviting Armstrong to continue.
“The truth is sir that the regiment is still finding its feet after the Boer War. Lost a lot of blokes over there, many others left on our return and a few new officers have joined from other regiments”.
“Yes, speaking of those who have transferred; what do you make of the new Regimental Sergeant Major?”
“Seems strangely quiet for somebody so senior. I spoke with him in the mess during his first week – it’s usually good to form the bond in the social environment,” he added smiling at me,
aware of my knowledge of such military matters. “He was a bit off hand to be honest. I was just making general conversation. He said his parents moved to Newcastle from Ireland back in the mid fifties. Joined as a boy soldier apparently and worked his way up through the Northumberland regiment before getting the Regimental Sergeant Major role with us.
“‘What action did you see with the Fusiliers?’ I asked. “‘Enough,’ was his curt reply.
““Knowing the Northumberland Fusiliers were themselves on the sub continent some years back,” – Armstrong nodded at me to confirm his awareness of my brief military adventure with the regiment – I asked ‘Were you with the regiment in India and Afghanistan?’
“‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ said the RSM, ‘no, I was not,’ and then made it clear that he was not going answer any more questions from the likes of you.”
I had cast a glance toward Holmes at Armstrong’s mention of Ireland but his face did not betray his thoughts. It is surely unthinkable that such a responsible figure as the RSM – regardless of his reticence and strange behaviour – could somehow be involved in such a crime, I thought to myself.
“There were a few rumours among the lads that it was a bit of a diplomatic move for him when he left the Fusiliers. It’s said that he wasn’t a particularly well-liked figure in Newcastle. Then there was some other nonsense about him changing his name.”
“And what is your view of these rumours, Sergeant, do you feel they have any foundation?”
“I don’t like rumours myself, despite his appearance and behaviour, I believe in giving the bloke a chance. Besides he – like the rest of us – is here to do a job, not to make friends.”