The Belgian and The Beekeeper

by Peter Guttridge

  “Not really,” Dr Watson said. “Reporting back to the government. Pen-pushing.”

  Watson took them into the Banqueting Room, which was jammed with hospital beds, laid out in neat rows beneath gigantic crystal chandeliers. The chandeliers were suspended from the high-domed ceiling by lead fittings in fantastical shapes. He waved his arm around at the patients sitting up in bed or milling together in small groups.

  “These are all Muslims from Madras and the Deccan. We have Punjabi Muslims too. And others – the Pathans and Afridis from the North West Frontier and the neighbouring Baluchis.”

  “You have Sikhs here also?” Holmes said.

  “Sikhs from the Punjab are the largest single group. They are mostly in the ward we set up in the Dome on the other side of the gardens. Then there are Ghurkas from Nepal and Garwhalis from the western Himalayas. They are all Hindu, as are the Jats from the Punjab. We have over seven hundred beds here but there are fifteen hundred up at the Kitchener hospital – the old workhouse.”

  Watson pointed beyond the banqueting room.

  “The kitchens are through there. We’ve converted them into an operating theatre. We have another in the entrance to the Corn Exchange over the other side.” He took Holmes’s arm. “But let’s go back out into the fresh air.”

  Watson led the way onto the Pavilion lawns. A Gurdwara had been erected there, looking out over the Old Steine.

  “The Sikhs worship here. The Muslims have their own plot of grass in front of the Dome on which they face Mecca five times a day. It’s quite an operation dealing with all the different tribes and religions, ensuring no offence is given to anyone’s customs and beliefs.”

  Watson pointed at some huts at one end of the lawns.

  “We have separate cooking and washing up facilities for Muslims, for meat-eating Hindus and for vegetarians. We have arrangements in place for ritual killing and storing of meat.”

  “All very impressive. And are the Indian troops in good spirits?”

  “I think they are bemused by their surroundings. The Royal Pavilion was chosen for them because it was felt the Indian look of it would make them feel more at home. Of course, that was ignoring the fact that it is as much Chinese as Indian and all phantasy. The dragons on the ceiling of the banqueting room are particularly disturbing for them.”

  “And is there harmony here?”

  “In India the Hindus and Muslims do not always get on. We keep them separate if we can - separate bathing houses, latrines and mortuaries. And in the wards separate water taps. Ward orderlies are from the appropriate caste and untouchables, who act as sweepers and dhobis, are housed separately.”

  “Have many died?”

  “Around thirty. To be honest, those who are going to die usually die in transit here. The Hindus and Sikhs are cremated on the Downs and their ashes scattered on the sea.”

  “I witnessed a ceremony on the Downs the other day,” Sherlock Holmes said.

  “Indeed?” Watson said.

  “How do you get on with the patients?” Poiret interrupted.

  Watson frowned at him.

  “Well enough – I don’t really come into contact with them. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I saw two men in the ward we entered give you the most baleful looks and whisper together and now I see a man lurking by that rhododendron bush – no, do not turn, take my word for it. Have you offended anyone?”

  A curious expression came over Watson’s face. Sherlock Holmes knew him well enough to recognise it as evasion.

  “I haven’t been here long enough to offend anyone. May I look yet?”

  “Well, let us take a turn past him, perhaps,” Poiret said. “Continue to talk as before, please, Mr Holmes.”

  “Very well. What is the commonest injury here?”

  “Oh gunshot wounds, of course. We X-ray, explore and drain. We often dress with simple pads of sphagnum moss wrapped in muslin. That fellow there? Fierce-looking individual is he not?”

  “Do you know him?” Poiret said.

  “I am not familiar with him,” Watson said under the keen eyes of both Sherlock Holmes and Jules Poiret.

  “Hello, he is going away,” Sherlock Holmes said.

  “Yes – curious though, do you not think?” Poiret said.

  “I do – I saw his look,” Holmes said.

  “It’s a mystery to me,” Watson said.

  “Is it, doctor?” Poiret said, a small smile on his face. “As big a mystery as to why you wear the scarf wrapped around your chin on such a hot day?”

  Chapter Eight

  The Battle of Maiwand

  Watson led them up a staircase with varnished bamboo banisters to his office. He poured three brandies before he removed the muffler, showed them the angry purple weal at his neck, took the garrotte from the drawer and tossed it on his desk.

  “Judging by the Indian hemp used in the manufacture of this garrotte I would judge George Adlam is not responsible for the attack on the doctor,” Sherlock Holmes said to Poiret. “More likely one of the men under Watson’s charge.”

  “One of the men giving him baleful looks,” Poiret said. “Assuming your attacker came in from the balcony he needed to be agile as a monkey to climb onto and, more importantly, off it.”

  “Of course,” Sherlock Holmes said, “he might have come through the door. Either way, he needn’t have been strong. I have made a small study of thuggees in India – the professional robbers who infiltrate caravanserai and get away with their thefts by garrotting their victims. The method of strangulation is more technique than strength.”

  Sherlock Holmes looked across at the garrotte.

  “That is quite sophisticated for them. Usually they would simply use a plain head cloth wrapped tight into a ligature.”

  “Who is George Adlam?” Dr Watson said.

  “Did you recognise those men downstairs?” Poiret asked him.

  “I only saw the one in the garden.”

  “And?” Poiret prompted.

  “Of course not.”

  “Have you offended them?” Poiret continued.

  “Since I do not recognise the man in the garden and don’t know who else you are referring to how can I know if I offended them? I repeat: who is George Adlam?”

  “A man who accuses you of theft,” Poiret said.

  “I’ve never heard of the man,” Watson said. “And I am accused of theft?”

  “And possibly worse,” Poiret said. “Dr Watson – did you fight in the Second Afghan War?”

  “You doubt I took part in the Afghan campaign?” Watson’s cheeks reddened.

  “It is just that you are such a magnificent storyteller, it is difficult to tell the truth from the exaggerations.”

  “Then I suggest you contact Colonel Hayter, my friend from Afghanistan. He lives in bachelor accommodation in Reigate.”

  “I know of him from your story The Reigate Squire. I’m sorry to tell you Colonel Hayter is dead.”

  “Good God.” Watson looked down for a moment then looked fiercely at his visitors. “I suppose you suspect me of that too.”

  “Not unless you have been doubling as a Master of Hounds in the Reigate hunt. He invited Hayter out on an unfamiliar horse and Hayter took a tumble at a high hedge and broke his neck.”

  “Damned sorry to hear that. And surprised too. Hayter was a fine horseman.”

  “Life is such a fragile thing, eh, Dr Watson?”

  Watson glared at Poiret then put down his drink.

  “Let me tell you how it was at the battle of Maiwand. Until then the campaign had gone well for us. We had defeated Afghan tribesmen wherever we encountered them. We had occupied many towns and villages, including Kandahar and Jalalabad. We had held Kandahar since 1879.

  “Our ally Shere Ali, the wali of Kandahar, was holding He-rat, during the British operations around Kabul and Kandahar. In June 1880, his younger son, Ayub Khan, rebelled against both him and us. Shere Ali asked Brigadier George Burrows for help.”

/>   Dr Watson swilled the brandy round in his glass and took a sip.

  “Ayub Khan was heading for Kandahar with an army some 25,000 strong. General Burrows led a brigade out of Kandahar to oppose him. Just a brigade, mind – a tenth the strength of the enemy. The 66th Berkshires was part of that brigade.” He gave his visitors a meaningful look. “And I was the Berkshires’ assistant surgeon.”

  Dr Watson put his glass down on his desk.

  “We were few in number but supported by Shere Ali’s own fighters. We reached Helmand. Here Shere Ali’s fighters abandoned us – we thought because they were scared of the rebellious Ayub Khan. In fact, as we were soon to discover, they had gone over to his side.

  “We had been lured out of Kandahar to be ambushed. Burrows decided on an orderly withdrawal to the safety of the city. However, we were so mercilessly harried by local tribesmen that at Maiwand command resolved we would make a stand. Alongside the 66th were British and Indian cavalry regiments, Indian Sepoys and our artillery.”

  Dr Watson swallowed and stared at the back of his meaty hand.

  “We fought like heroes. The artillery fired every shell it possessed. We held our line but the Afghans simply kept coming, despite their dreadful losses. We were overwhelmed. Completely routed. Some say it was because our Indian troops panicked and pushed back upon the Berkshires, causing chaos. Be that as it may, more than half of the 66th Foot was killed.”

  Watson picked up his glass again.

  “We would all have been slaughtered, every one of us, had the Afghans chosen to follow up their advantage. For some reason they did not.”

  Watson peered into his drink.

  “The figures are well known,” Holmes said. “A brigade of 2,500 was cut in half. The Grenadiers lost sixty four per cent of their strength. The Berkshires lost sixty two per cent.”

  “Tell me about Bobby, Dr Watson,” the Frenchman said.

  “Bobby?” Sherlock Holmes said.

  “Allow Dr Watson to explain,” the Frenchman said silkily.

  “We lost half our regiment and you want to know about Bobby.”

  Watson’s brandy sloshed on the desk as he noisily slapped the glass down.

  “He was our regimental mascot from Reading. A mongrel. He accompanied the regiment to Afghanistan. He belonged to Lance-Sergeant Peter Kelly. He was at the battle of Maiwand. Anything else?”

  Watson’s chin was thrust forward pugnaciously. Poiret indicated that he should continue.

  “Ayub Khan was a Pyrrhic victory, you know. The Berkshires were cut in half but we killed thirty times our number – three thousand Afghans and four thousand of those damned Ghazis. We would have killed more but we ran out of ammunition.” Watson swallowed his drink and got a faraway look in his eye. “And still they kept coming. That was our most frightening time.”

  “And Bobby?”

  “Damn it, man, what is this fixation with Bobby? He was at the battle. The next day those survivors scrabbling back to the fort saw him limping behind them. His master was also wounded. He made it back to England and was presented to the Queen who honoured him – alongside several soldiers – with Distinguished Conduct Orders.”

  “A remarkable dog, this Bobby,” the Frenchman said. “I am pleased you are aware of him.”

  “He lived a long life in peace after his adventure?” Sherlock Holmes said.

  “For Jesu’s sake, Holmes, could we move on from Bobby? If you must know, a year after he met the Queen he was run over by a hansom in Gosport. They stuffed him and put him in the military museum in Salisbury with some unknown soldier’s Afghan medal draped over him. Now, do you want to hear about Afghanistan or about a damned dog?”

  “Forgive me, my dear fellow,” Holmes said. “Do continue.”

  Dr Watson thought for a moment, then:

  “After Maiwand spirits were damned low, I can tell you. Ayub Khan, had lost a lot of men for only a small advantage. However, he continued to Kandahar where he besieged the British. Then General Frederick Roberts made his famous relief march from Kabul to Kandahar in August 1880. Three hundred and fourteen miles in gruelling condition but when Uncle Bob got there he gave the Afghans the thrashing they deserved.”

  “Uncle Bob?” Poiret said, looking over at Sherlock Holmes.

  Sherlock Holmes ignored him and said quietly:

  “You began to say how frightening it was after the battle was lost.”

  “No ammunition left. We ran for it. Every one of us. And they cut us up like sheep along the line of flight. I knew I was being chased – I can still hear the knives behind me – but I didn’t dare to turn and fight. I had no idea where I was running to – I didn’t stop to see. As I ran I could hear this poor beggar squealing for quarter.”

  Watson’s hand was shaking as he reached for his glass again.

  “It took me some time to realise that I was that beggar.”

  “Then Murray rescued you?” said Holmes, almost in a whisper. The room seemed to close in on the three men.

  “Yes,” Poiret said. “I thought Murray put you on a pack-horse, yet you were running?”

  “To get me off the battlefield, yes,” Dr Watson said shortly. “But I took a tumble off the horse and after that I was on foot.”

  “You made it back,” Sherlock Holmes said.

  “Clearly. First I spent a day and a night lying up like a rabbit in a hole in the ground and another hiding under a bedstead in an abandoned house. I was ravenous and delirious with thirst when finally I limped back into the fort.”

  “Where exactly were you wounded, Dr Watson?” Poiret said.

  Watson didn’t seem to hear.

  “Our colonel cursed his maker that he’d lived to see that day – he broke his sword and cried.”

  Sherlock Holmes looked at him intently after he said these words.

  “The wound, Dr Watson?” the Frenchman repeated.

  Watson studiously ignored him.

  “It was terrifying. I had a painting by Feller in Baker Street – you recall it, Holmes? It lied about battle as most war artists do. Goya perhaps the exception. There is no romance in it, just blood and horror and death.”

  Poiret and Holmes both murmured agreement.

  “You have your modern weapons but there is nothing more nightmarish than mad-eyed Afghans wielding medieval weapons. Huge swords or lances or vicious daggers – cutting at you, cutting and cutting.” He shook his head. “The mutilations I saw. They seemed to delight in it. They roamed the battlefield after the battle looking for the wounded so they could dispatch them in the most brutal way. I saw heads lopped off with one blow. I shall never forget.” He gave a shudder. “Never.”

  He drained his glass and looked Poiret in the eye.

  “Now then, sir. This ridiculous charge you level against me? What am I accused of stealing?”

  Chapter Nine

  Of Wealth and Wives

  “Are you a wealthy man, Dr Watson?” Poiret said.

  The doctor gave him a long look.

  “That is not the question an Englishman asks another Englishman.”

  Poiret looked puzzled.

  “I thought the question the Englishman did not ask another Englishman was: when did you stop beating your wife?”

  Dr Watson looked at Sherlock Holmes.

  “Foreigners,” he muttered.

  Poiret nodded.

  “I am indeed a foreigner so I hope for that reason you are willing to answer the forbidden question.”

  “I will not.”

  “Very well. Perhaps you would tell us where you live. I believe even Mr Holmes does not know that.”

  Sherlock Holmes stirred.

  “I have told you, monsieur, my solipsism…”

  “Tell me, Monsieur Holmes – did you ever visit Dr Watson in his home in recent years?”

  “I did not.”

  “And the address at which you communicated with him?”

  “His rooms in Harley Street, though I seldom…”

  “�
�initiated the contact?”

  “Quite so.”

  “He would invariably contact you.”

  “Indeed.”

  “So in fact he could be living in Buckingham Palace for all you knew.”

  “Unlikely, but I take your point.”

  “I am present, gentlemen,” Watson said. “You may address me directly.” He pointed at Poiret. “Tell me, monsewer, if I had all this great wealth, why did I remain in practice for so many years?”

  “Well, you were not always actually practising, were you? In your first practice you left your patients on many occasions to your accommodating neighbours - Doctors Anstruther and Jackson? When your wife died you bought a practice in Kensington that you later sold at a top price to a doctor called Verner who was a relation of Holmes – indeed, Holmes put up the money. You had seldom been there. Then by 1902 you had moved to Queen Anne’s Street beside Harley Street, the area reserved for society doctors. But you spend most of your time in Surrey. The land registry has you listed as the owner of -”

  “- I put up the money?” Sherlock Holmes said.

  Poiret turned to him.

  “According to Dr Watson’s account.”

  “I assumed, Holmes, as this man was called Verner…”

  “My relations are called Vernet, Watson, not Verner.”

  “Ah. I see.” Watson looked at Poiret. “What is the source of my imaginary wealth, monsewer?”

  Poiret looked down at his neatly clipped nails.

  “You inherited it from your wife. Your first wife. Or possibly your second.”

  “Careful how you step now,” Watson warned.

  “D’accord. But please clarify for me: how many wives you have had?”

  “Why?”

  “It is another area in which you leave confusion in your wake.” He looked at Sherlock Holmes. “In his record of your cases you never know from day to day whether the good doctor is married or not. But then divorce laws are complicated, are they not?”

  Sherlock Holmes raised his chin.

  “I wouldn’t know. I never did divorce work.”

  “Nor I,” Poiret said, with a tight smile. “Dr Watson left Baker Street to move in with a new bride at the beginning of summer 1887, did he not? In July I believe you spent a night at their house.”