Sherlock Holmes

by Dick Gillman

  The next morning I found Holmes sitting in his favourite leather armchair reading the front page of a newspaper. From the occasional loud grunt and shout of “Hah!” I could tell that he was inflamed by the reporting.

  “Watson! It appears we have a new people’s champion in our midst! Here! Read this, for I can stomach no more of it!” he exclaimed, tossing the newspaper to me. I saw immediately the reason for his displeasure. Emblazoned across the front page was a large photograph of Lestrade smiling broadly and shaking the hand of the Prime Minister. Above it, the headline read; ‘Scotland Yard foils Fenian dynamite plot!’

  I smiled as I read aloud, “All Britain is grateful to Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard after he led the daring raid that foiled a plot to blow up 10 Downing Street. Dynamite was to be placed beneath the Prime Minister’s residence whilst the Cabinet was in session. Inspector Lestrade made a statement in which he said, “We had been shadowing this Fenian gang for some time. Using information from Special Irish Branch and other sources, we tracked them to their lair. Once in position, we pounced, seizing a quantity of explosives and freeing three hostages. It appears that, in an attempt to escape arrest, the Fenians fell to their deaths.” I had to laugh, saying, “Another feather in Lestrade’s cap, eh, Holmes?”

  Holmes’ only reply was to grunt, saying, “One can only hope that the Prime Minister serves a decent glass of sherry, Watson!”

  ~~~***~~~

  The Lymington Affair

  Chapter 1 - The Round Pond

  It was a chance remark one Saturday in August 1900, that was to provide the spark for the Lymington Affair. In the early days of that month I had taken to joining the Honourable Peter Croft, an old school friend of mine, in his hobby of model yacht sailing. This activity taking place on the Round Pond in Kensington Park. Being part of the 'crew' gave me some much needed exercise as I ran around the pond, ready to receive the yacht after its traverse.

  I had arranged to meet him at the pond but as I was preparing to leave, I looked around our rooms and noticed that Holmes was sitting hunched in his old leather armchair. This was a sure sign that he had begun to slip into one of his dark, withdrawn moods. I knew this was due to there being nothing, of late, that was worthy to challenge his immense intellect.

  In an effort to drag him back from the brink, I invited Holmes to accompany me. “Holmes, old fellow. Would you care to join me in a little mental and physical exercise at the Round Pond?”

  Holmes stirred listlessly. I knew this to be serious as there were not even the usual signs of frustration from him, the angrily tossed aside newspapers or the clothes thrown into corners. This being a clear indication of the ever pacing tiger within his head. “I don't think so, Watson. I lack the energy for a walk.”

  I had to think quickly or lose the moment. “Ah, but this is something more. I am attempting to learn the art of sailing but undertaking this in miniature is, I fear, getting a little beyond me.”

  I was heartened by Holmes’ response as he straightened in his chair. “Sailing, you say?”

  I nodded, “Yes, an old school friend, Peter Croft is a member of the London Model Yacht Club and he sails a yacht of almost three feet in length on the Round Pond.”

  Holmes rose from his chair, saying, “Then I am the man to assist you!” Seeming to cast aside all dark thoughts and to be invigorated by the challenge, Holmes reached for his coat and, in a matter of moments, we were off.

  It was but a short ride by cab to reach Kensington Park and then a stroll to the Round Pond. As it was a fine day, there were many people taking the air. Couples strolled arm in arm, some with young children and there were Nannies, in their black uniforms, fiercely guarding their wards tucked up in large black perambulators.

  Fellow model yachtsmen, like ourselves, could be seen either singly or in two’s and three’s around the pond, adjusting their yachts before sending them on their way. Some had even taken to removing their shoes and stockings and then rolling up their trouser legs to enter the pond in order to more effectively launch their craft. This practice was somewhat precarious as the summer sun had encouraged a prolific growth of slippery, green algae on the stones of the pond.

  It took us a few minutes to locate the Honourable Peter Croft but his tall, athletic frame made him stand out a little from the other yachtsmen.

  Peter Croft was the only son of the Earl of Wednesford. He was a sporting fellow and, in his youth, had been a Rugger blue at Cambridge before joining the army. These days he was somewhat restricted in his physical activities as he had been injured in India whilst serving there with his regiment. As a result, he often resorted to walking with a cane.

  Holding up my hand, I shouted, “Croft!” and waved enthusiastically to attract his attention. He looked up on hearing his name and, on seeing us, put down his yacht and waved back. A minute or so later I was introducing Holmes who, I could see, was clearly admiring his yacht.

  “It is a fine yacht, Mr Croft. Did you make it yourself?”

  Peter Croft smiled. “Why yes...well, actually, I made the hull over the winter. My father has a large workshop to the side of his house and I spent many hours in there, forming the body of the yacht. I was lucky in that our chauffeur is a practical fellow and he was able to sort out the rigging for me. His wife is an able seamstress and she was able to create the sails.”

  I could see Holmes was in his element. Soon the two men were discussing the merits of how best to trim the sails for differing wind conditions and technical matters of which I, as a novice, had but little knowledge.

  This continued for some minutes until I coughed discreetly and both Holmes and Croft looked towards me and laughed. Croft took my elbow, saying, “I’m sorry, Watson, old fellow. Let us involve you a little in doing some sailing. You may have to be my legs as it takes me a good deal of time to hobble across to the other side of the pond. I usually have to restrict myself to sailing a slender arc of the pond.”

  I nodded enthusiastically, saying, “But of course! I'm here to learn.”

  With that, he took from his pocket a small piece of ribbon which he held up in order to better judge the wind direction. The wind was blowing from behind us and, from my previous sailing 'lessons' with him, I knew that he would loosen the main sail and the jib as he was running with the wind. With this knowledge, he trimmed the sails accordingly and set the rudder before gently placing the yacht into the water. Using a bamboo pole equipped with a boat hook, he pushed the yacht a little further out from the edge of the pond. Almost immediately, the sails filled and the yacht was underway, heeling gently in the breeze.

  For my part, I had to hasten to the other side of the pond in order to receive it. I have to say that it was good exercise. The yacht made steady progress and I had to walk at a good pace, keeping my eye on it and ensuring that I was there in time to prevent it crashing into the stone edging of the pond. I retrieved the yacht, cradling it in my arms whilst I waited for my two companions to walk around the pond.

  It truly was a fine vessel and the workmanship was first class. On each outing I had learned more about sailing and I felt that I was now ready to apply my knowledge to a full sized vessel. Once my boating friend had joined me, I was eager to ask him where had learned to sail. “Tell me, Croft. Where did you acquire the sailing skills you now use with your model?”

  Croft smiled. “Ah, I have been a keen sailor for many years. Before my army days, my father used to take me to Lymington. We have a small yacht moored there and, from early childhood, my father and I used to take it out and sail on the Solent, sometimes even across to the Isle of Wight.”

  “Lymington, you say? Good heavens, I used to sail on the Solent myself.” said Holmes.

  I looked incredulously at Holmes for this was something of which I had no knowledge. “You continue to amaze me, Holmes. I had no idea.”

  Holmes responded casually, “Why, yes, Watson. I had the good fortune, as a very young fellow, to crew on the topsail schooner 'Cambria', owned b
y James Ashbury. It beat the Yankee schooner Sappho, in the Solent, in 1868 and our success led to a formal challenge for the America's Cup.”

  I just stood open mouthed and watched as Holmes and Croft prepared the model yacht for another run across the pond.

  Chapter 2 - Lymington

  After two very enjoyable hours of sailing, we bade Peter Croft farewell and returned to our rooms. As we settled back with a pipe of tobacco, I was still in awe of Holmes’ sailing achievement and I pressed him to say more.

  Holmes sat back in his beloved leather armchair but would not be drawn. His response was simply a wagging forefinger. “Watson, there is only so much that can be learned from sailing model craft.” I felt a little crest fallen but then he turned and gave me a wicked smile. “However, as there is precious little to challenge me here in London, I consider it my duty to instruct you in this matter. My talents as a tutor will, I think, be considerably tested.” I knew that my leg was being pulled and we both laughed heartily.

  The following morning I opened the door of our sitting room to the cry of “Lymington!” Holmes was already thumbing through a railway timetable as I was ringing for Mrs Hudson to bring me my breakfast tray.

  Holmes was tapping his finger on the page as he said, “Ah, yes. We can take the express from Victoria to Lymington Town leaving at ten minutes past ten. Come along, old fellow. The Solent awaits us!”

  I jumped as Holmes closed the timetable with gusto and dashed off to pack a Gladstone. Whilst it was encouraging to see that my friend had thrown off all vestiges of his depression, the thought of the dynamism he would bring as my mentor was somewhat un-nerving!

  My breakfast tray arrived and I hurriedly consumed the contents. Fortunately, my surgery had few patients at this time of the year so I would not be gravely missed. I dashed off a note, leaving it for Mrs Hudson. There being a standing arrangement with a colleague that should it be necessary for me to be elsewhere for a few days, he would attend to my practice. I swiftly packed a few things into my Gladstone under the gaze of a clearly impatient Holmes and we were off.

  Hailing a Hansom in Baker Street, we headed for Victoria Station and the 10:10 a.m. to Lymington Town. I was pleased that we were travelling to Lymington as I had an aunt who lived close by. She had lost her husband earlier in the year and, up until now, I had been unable to visit.

  Once aboard the train we travelled, for the most part, in silence until we reached Lymington. The station was quite grand for a small coastal town being built in a typical Victorian style, double fronted and using a mid-brown, buff brick. This was contrasted with a pale cream brick used to highlight the architectural features of the facade.

  Outside the station we were able to obtain a ride into town in a pony and trap. Holmes gave the driver an address and asked him to provide us with a brief tour of the town as we went. I was intrigued by the close packed dwellings and the steep cobbled streets of Lymington that lead down to the quay.

  Holmes saw my interest. “You know, Watson, this area had something of reputation for smuggling. It is said that there are secret underground passages that lead from the Inns in the High Street down to the quays, ideal for the illicit importation of French brandy.” I nodded and continued to enjoy my ride through the town.

  It was only a few minutes before we arrived at The Ship Inn, located close by the harbour. I had observed many fine Georgian buildings in Lymington and, I have to say, The Ship Inn was no exception. It was a large building with whitewashed walls fronting the road. The large sash windows facing the harbour were surrounded by stout, exposed stone sills and lintels. These gave the inn a certain elegance and charm.

  It was clear on entering the inn that it had long tradition with the sea and sailing. The walls were adorned with nautical items, prints of fishing vessels and their crews and also large, painted seascapes. I was intrigued to see that ships lanterns were ready to light our way to the bar where we received a hearty welcome. As we had not had luncheon, we asked the landlord if he was able to provide us with a meal and this he was pleased to do.

  Whilst we waited, I noticed that the inn had two different casks of beer on wooden trestles behind the bar. However, tucked to one side, I was delighted to see a cask of cider. “Tell me, landlord, is the cider locally produced?” I asked.

  The landlord rubbed his chin for a moment. “Well sir, it is Hampshire cider from The New Forest but I do believe that in some years, when the local apple crop was poor, they have included apples from as far away as Somerset.” I could hear Holmes chuckling as he stood next to me.

  Now, I have to admit to being a devotee of cider and, as there is scare little of it to be found locally in London, I was obliged to order a flagon. Holmes, however, selected a pint of the local Wheatley & Ford's finest bitter.

  We sat down to a satisfying meal of cold ham, cheddar cheese, pickles and home-baked bread and local butter. This was followed by an ample slice of delicious cherry pie.

  A walk was called for after our meal and stepping out spritely, we headed off towards the harbour in order to hire a boat for a few days. Holmes took the lead saying, “I fancy there will be something to fit the bill here, Watson.” pointing towards a gaggle of small boats nestled together on the river.

  There were craft of all kinds in the harbour, some tied up to the harbour wall whilst others were moored to buoys that bobbed in the river. We found the office of the Harbour Master who kindly directed us to one of the local companies that seemingly specialised in hiring out boats to visitors in the summer months. Soon we had agreed to hire a small sailing dingy for two guineas a week and had paid a deposit of ten pounds.

  Chapter 3 - Illness in Hampshire

  By this time it was mid-afternoon and we returned to the inn. Whether it was the bracing sea air or the cider, I felt that it would be better to start my period of tuition in the morning. Holmes, seeing my somnolence, agreed and we sat back in the lounge of the inn, smoking a relaxing pipe of tobacco.

  It was during this time that I happened upon a copy of the previous day's Portsmouth Evening News. “Good Lord, Holmes! Listen to this.” I folded the paper and read aloud. “Mystery deaths continue in Hampshire. For the last three months the medical men and the hospitals throughout Hampshire have reported a mystery illness which has caused the disablement and deaths of over 50 persons. The symptoms appear to be common in many cases. Patients have complained of a feeling of 'pins and needles' in their hands and feet accompanied by weakness in their limbs together with all over rheumatism and a general numbness. This affliction has been apparent in both men and women and in advanced cases has been seen to cause paralysis.”

  Holmes took his pipe from his mouth and gazed at the wall, deep in thought. “Interesting and extremely concerning. From the symptoms described, it appears to be a case of poisoning through the ingestion of a heavy metal, leaching perhaps, from an old mine working. However, if a water course were affected, then one would expect the effect to be fairly localised but this appears to be county wide.” Holmes returned to drawing on his pipe, clearly deep in thought. “Is there more, Watson?”

  “Yes, indeed there is.” I looked back at the paper and continued. “A meeting of the Portsmouth District Health Committee was convened last week. A preliminary report was presented by Dr J Carter, the Chief Medical Officer. His evidence revealed that in the last 3 months, 28 people had died due to peripheral neuritis or alcoholic neuritis. After a review of the evidence collected, a suggestion was made that the poisoning may have been from the ingestion of arsenic. The source of such a poison continues to be a mystery and one that requires urgent investigation.”

  Holmes had closed his eyes. “Yes, it would appear that I was correct... but from where? That is the question.”

  For the rest of the afternoon I sat and read a copy of ‘The Lancet’ whilst Holmes went out into Lymington town and procured a copy of the local tide table. This would enable us to determine when we could safely sail, the river at Lymington being tidal.


  The sea air had seemingly stimulated our appetites as by 7 o'clock we were both ravenous! Our evening meal consisted of the most delicious, locally caught fresh cod. Holmes had opted for a portion of prawns as an entrée, he being a devotee of seafood and shellfish in particular. I did not indulge as I preferred the home made pâté. We washed this down with the same choice of drinks as before and, on finishing our splendid meal, we had a final pipe of tobacco before retiring to our rooms.

  At around 2 a.m. I was awakened by the most dreadful sound of moaning, the location of which, at first, I could not identify. Shaking myself awake, I determined that the sound was emanating from the room next door which I knew to be that of my friend, Holmes. The glow from a gas lamp in the street below allowed me to locate an oil lamp in my room and, having lit it, I went out onto the landing. I stood and knocked on Holmes’ door but I could get no reply save for a weak cry of “Watson!” By this time, the landlord had appeared and, together, we opened the door of Holmes’ room.

  I quickly lit the gas light and could see that he was deathly pale. A chamber pot at the side of the bed bore witness to his vomiting and he was clutching the bed sheets in agony. I quickly set about examining my friend, finding his stomach was tender to the touch and he was suffering from acute abdominal pain.

  Holmes opened his eyes, saying, “Watson, I am so dry. Pour me a glass of water, if you will.” I went over to the jug of water by the wash stand and poured a glass which Holmes drank voraciously. Almost immediately he wretched and lost all that he had drunk and more besides. I was deeply concerned for my friend and considered what might be causing this sudden sickness. I thought back to our evening meal and his choice of prawns as an entree. My immediate diagnosis was that he was suffering from food poisoning. I moved closer to my friend, saying, “Bear up, old chap. I will empty the chamber pot and sit with you for a while.”