Sherlock Holmes

by Dick Gillman

  On opening the glazed door marked 'Public Bar', Holmes casually looked around. Standing at the bar was a weather beaten old man in somewhat shabby, fisherman's clothes and smoking a clay pipe.

  I observed that he was holding an almost empty glass and Holmes’ eyes lit up as the old man turned to see who had arrived. Holmes bade him a “Good afternoon” and the fisherman nodded a response.

  The landlord approached saying, “Ah, Mr Holmes. I am pleased to see that you are better, sir. What may I serve you?”

  Holmes was seen to pause for a moment whilst seeming to think. “I will have a small glass of cider, thank you, landlord.” Holmes turned to the old man, saying, “And you sir, will you join me in a drink?”

  The old man turned and nodded. “Thank you kindly, I'll have another pint of Yeoman's mild, please landlord.”

  Holmes considered the old man's choice. “Do you not like the bitter, sir?”

  The old man smiled. “Well, sir. I have been a mild drinker for some 40 years and I enjoys my beer.” The old man paused for us to appreciate what he had said. “Now, this will make you laugh. Last week one of Yeoman's dray horses, those big greys that pull the wagon for the brewery, went lame and it was just before they was to deliver here.” We both nodded wisely and waited for the fisherman to continue.

  “I had drunk the last pint of mild the night before so I has to drink bitter. Well, sir. I only has the one pint and I was sick as a dog, I couldn't stand up! If there's no mild again, I swear, I will go without rather than drink bitter.”

  Holmes and I laughed heartily. Quaffing his cider and, with a wave, Holmes left the bar.

  Once back in the breakfast room I said, in a low voice, “It was very fortunate that the old fisherman wasn't a bitter drinker, Holmes.”

  A thin smile appeared on Holmes’ lips. “You have known me long enough, Watson, to understand that luck plays but an exquisitely small, yet sometimes significant role in the art of detection. Standing here I could see the colour of the beer in the old man's glass through the glazed door of the bar. He was clearly drinking mild and not bitter. On seeing that, I was simply going to obtain his opinion of the quality of the bitter.” Holmes’ smile broadened. “But I will admit that it was hugely fortuitous that we gained some further insight that supports our theory. I think that a telegram must be sent to Dr Carter in Portsmouth informing him of our findings.” With that he took out his notebook and dashed off a telegram.

  Chapter 7 - A visit to an Oast House

  The following morning I could see that Holmes was greatly recovered and, together, we ate a hearty breakfast before we made the journey by pony and trap to visit my Aunt Rachel. Holmes, I could see, was admiring the countryside as I had done but, as we approached my aunt's village, Holmes touched my sleeve and then pointed towards a collection of oddly shaped buildings.

  “Stop for a moment, if you please, driver.” The trap stopped and Holmes stood for a few seconds. “I think this could be of interest, Watson.” I looked but could see nothing in particular. Whatever it was, it had obviously caught Holmes’ attention. Re-taking his seat, Holmes again addressed the driver. “Take us to those buildings on your right, if you please.” The driver cracked his whip and the pony trotted on. At a fork in the road we proceeded to the right and, a few moments later, arrived at a small hamlet.

  Before us stood a large, square, stone and brick built building from which six truncated, tiled pyramids rose above the roof line. There were large, green, wooden doors to the front which allowed some kind of goods in and out of the building. The peaks of the tiled pyramids held slotted structures which, in turn, were covered by a weathered, pyramid shaped zinc cap.

  “What is this building, Holmes?” I asked but, as I spoke, the breeze changed slightly and the air was immediately filled with a familiar, pungent smell. “Hops!” I cried.

  Holmes smiled. “Indeed, Watson. The shape of a Hampshire oast house is not usually the familiar, circular building of Kent with its conical cowl that turns with the wind. People like their beer in Hampshire too and, a modern, square oast house is undoubtedly much easier to build!”

  As we admired the architecture, a gentleman appeared from the building and began to fill his pipe. Holmes, ever the one to seize an opportunity, approached him.

  “Good morning sir, is this your fine oast house?” asked Holmes.

  The gentleman's face filled with pride. “Why, yes, sir. Mind, it has only been built these five years but I am proud of it.”

  Holmes nodded. “Yes, it is impressive. Does it have the full three storeys for drying hops?”

  The owner's smile grew bigger and his chest puffed out. “Indeed it does sir. Have you a mind to come and see inside?”

  Holmes touched his hat. “I would welcome the invitation, sir. Come, Watson.” With that, we followed the proud owner inside the oast house.

  The interior was dimly lit and, I must say, the heat and the smell of drying hops was almost overpowering. On the ground floor was a kiln that was wood fired and a stack of split, oak logs stood in one corner. Fresh air was drawn in and heated by the kiln before being passed through the thin, slatted floors above. The fresh, green, hops stood in hessian sacks ready to be hoisted to the upper drying floors. There, they would be raked out into a thin layer and dried before being left outside to cool and then bagged.

  We climbed a flight of stairs and stood at the entrance of the first drying floor. The air there was slightly humid from the fresh hops… but there was something more. I detected a slight hint of wood smoke from the fire beneath but something more again, a smell that prickled my nose. I stood for a moment trying to determine what I smelt and then a slight taste entered my mouth. “Sulphur!”

  The owner nodded. “Yes, sir. The hot air and moisture rises up and passes out of the slots in the peak but we don't want to be here too long. We sometimes has to add a bit of sulphur to prevent the hops developing blight.”

  I noticed that Holmes had a quizzical look in his eye as he asked, “Do you supply hops to the local breweries?”

  The oast house owner beamed. “Why, yes, sir. I supply Wheatley & Ford, the biggest brewer in these parts and many other breweries in Hampshire.”

  Holmes nodded and having seen the process, we returned to the ground floor and the kiln. It was then that I noticed that Holmes had sidled over to a corner of the room. He nodded towards the oast house owner and signalled me not to follow. I was used to this particular signal. It was a sign for me to become a slight distraction.

  Placing myself as something of a screen between the owner and Holmes, I gave a loud and somewhat prolonged cough. Concerned, the owner came to my side and patted me, rather soundly, several times on the back, saying,

  “There you go, sir. That sulphur can catch the back of your throat a bit, can't it?” I nodded my thanks and pulled my handkerchief from my pocket to dab my watering eyes. In truth, they were watering from his assistance rather than from the feigned pungency of the sulphur!

  By this time, I saw that Holmes was returning and nodding slightly in my direction. Whatever goal he had wanted to achieve, he had clearly done so.

  With a handshake and a ‘thank you’ to the owner, we boarded the waiting trap and were off once more. Once on our way, I could not resist asking Holmes why he needed me to distract the oast house owner.

  Holmes smiled and withdrew a small envelope from his coat pocket. Within it were a few pinches of bright yellow powder. “I needed to take a small sample of the sulphur and, when I saw that there was a bag open, I took the liberty of acquiring a little.”

  I was puzzled. “Tell me Holmes, do you believe that in some way the sulphur might be implicated in this affair?”

  Holmes briefly held his index finger to his lips. “At the moment, Watson, I cannot see how… but it is prudent to consider all aspects of the case. Hops are an ingredient in the brewing process and they are treated with sulphur. I am merely trying to eliminate a possible source of contamination... as I am with
these.” From his other coat pocket Holmes produced a handful of bright green hops.

  Chapter 8 - A hive of activity

  The trap finally pulled up outside Aunt Rachel's cottage and, on paying the driver, we asked him to return in two hours time. We stood for a few moments and admired the garden. The flowers around the gate spilled out over the cottage's dry stone wall and, as we watched, bees made the flowers a frequent port of call.

  The path to the front door curved slightly and had been inset with wild herbs which gave forth an exquisite smell as they were bruised by our progress. I was unconcerned when there was no reply to our knock on the front door. Holmes and I followed the path towards the rear of the cottage where my aunt had a kitchen garden. As we rounded the corner, a familiar figure could be seen tending the bee hives at the far end of the garden.

  I called softly to my aunt in order not to startle her. On hearing my voice, she turned and waved. Aunt Rachel was attired in a protective veil and a close fitting white beekeeper's smock. Even through the veil we could see her smile. “John...and you must be Sherlock.”

  Holmes touched his hat, replying, “Indeed I am, Mrs Watson.”

  Aunt Rachel beamed and wagged her finger at Holmes, saying, “No, no. You must call me Aunt.”

  Holmes nodded and smiled in return. “As you wish.”

  Grasping my hand, Aunt Rachel led Holmes and me into the cottage kitchen and, after removing her beekeeper's uniform, we were soon being treated to tea and honey cake. After a few minutes, Holmes took the lead. “I know this may be somewhat painful, Aunt Rachel, but can you tell me the circumstances surrounding the loss of your friends?”

  Aunt Rachel immediately looked sad. “Well, it all seemed to start after May Day. We had had a Women's Institute meeting and then, within a week, folk began to become ill. First it was Mrs Parsons. She took to her bed and died within a week or so. Then Mrs Wallace. She went the same… and her husband too! I told John about poor Mrs Harvey. It all seemed to happen so suddenly. We had the W.I. meeting and made arrangements for buying the sugar for jam making and then it started.”

  Holmes held up his forefinger, asking, “Do you make jam, Aunt?”

  Aunt Rachel smiled, “Oh, no. I am quite happy to put honey on my bread and in my cakes. I use it to sweeten everything... even my tea!”

  Holmes seemed troubled. “But the others, were they keen jam makers?”

  Aunt Rachel nodded. “Oh, yes. All of them made jam. They grew their own fruit or gathered it from the hedgerows. They made jars and jars of it. That's why we decided, as a group, to buy a sack of sugar. It was much cheaper than buying single bags. We could get it directly from the factory. We bought it from Redmond's Sugar Refinery in Lymington.”

  Holmes nodded. “Would you say that your fellow W.I. members were beer drinkers?”

  My aunt gave Holmes a very strange look. “No. Not at all! Perhaps some would partake of a small glass of sherry at Christmas but many of my friends are Methodists and tee-total.”

  In a softer voice, Holmes continued. “Your friend, Mrs Harvey. Did she make jam?”

  Rising from her chair, Aunt Rachel disappeared into her pantry and returned clutching a jar of jam. “This was one of hers. Although she was in great pain, she made a batch and gave a jar to me.” A tear rolled down my aunt's cheek and, sniffing slightly, she continued, “I haven't had the heart to eat any of it... would you like it, Sherlock?”

  Taking the jar, Holmes smiled. “Indeed I would, thank you.” In an uncharacteristic gesture, I noticed that he took my aunt's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

  I have to say I was somewhat taken aback. How could Holmes so readily accept the jam made by a dear friend of my Aunt's who had so recently passed away?

  “Do you think that we should take this, Holmes?” I asked. Showing him that I slightly disapproved of his actions.

  Holmes turned and gave me a stern look. It was clear from the expression on his face that he had not made this decision purely from politeness. “Yes, I think it a very kind gesture by your aunt.”

  Holmes then looked out of the cottage door towards the beehives. “Would it be possible to look at your bees, Aunt?” asked Holmes.

  Aunt Rachel beamed, “Of course.” Donning her beekeeper's uniform, she led the way back to the hives.

  The hives were just as I remembered them. They stood on a raised wooden bench at the end of the garden, sheltered from the wind and the rain. They were hand made from straw, crafted into a single, round bundle which was then coiled to make an object that looked like a squat, upturned bucket. British Black bees could be seen around the base of each of the circular hives, constantly coming and going in the warm, scented air.

  Aunt Rachel gently raised one of the straw hives and turned it over. “This is a very old design of hand crafted hive dating back to the Middle Ages. It is one which is still made in the village today.”

  Holmes and I peered at the inside of the hive. Immediately we were fascinated by the swarm of bees crawling over the broad bands of sweet smelling, yellow, honeycomb. Picking up a feather, my aunt gently swept the bees aside before breaking off a piece of honeycomb. I could see that Holmes was intrigued. “Tell me, Aunt. Why do you use a feather rather than a brush?” asked Holmes.

  My aunt smiled, “Ah, there is a good reason. If I were to use a brush, the hairs on the bee's legs would become entangled in the bristles. Using a feather means that I can carefully sweep them to one side with the blade of the feather, without harming them.” Holmes nodded as he continued to study them intently.

  Carefully replacing the hive on the bench, we returned to the cottage where my aunt carefully cut the honeycomb into slices. This allowed us to suck the honey directly from the section of hexagonal, wax matrix. It was divinely sweet, slightly warm and intoxicatingly pungent! Holmes’ face showed his pure enjoyment of this activity. Seldom had I seen him so captivated by anything as mundane as food.

  Sadly, the time had come for us to go. Holmes slipped the jar of jam into his pocket and we both said goodbye, promising to return before too long. Holmes looked wistful as we drove back. “You know, Watson. I have a mind to take up beekeeping in retirement. The bee's social structure and the relationship with their Queen is quite fascinating.” Holmes sat back contentedly in the trap, deep in thought and quite oblivious to his surroundings.

  Chapter 9 - Dr John Parry

  On arriving back at the inn, the landlord sought us out saying that we had a visitor who was waiting for us in the lounge. He led the way and, as we entered, a tall, slender young man of 30 years rose from a chair and approached to greet us.

  Holding out his hand, he asked, “Mr Holmes? I am Dr John Parry. I have had an express letter by hand from Dr Carter in Portsmouth. He has asked me to meet you and to pass on its contents.”

  Holmes shook Dr Parry's hand and, after introducing me, sat down to read the letter. After a few moments Holmes sat bolt upright. “Ha! Listen to this Watson. ‘After your compelling information, I have analysed several samples of beer from the casks of Wheatley & Ford and found them to contain a dangerous level of arsenic. The wooden casks themselves were tested and showed no contamination. Further investigation showed that the batch of beer currently being produced in the brew house was also toxic. As a result of my investigation, all production has been stopped and all supplies of beer from the brewery are to be seized forthwith.’ Holmes paused for a moment. "Excellent news... however, it doesn't indicate the source of the arsenic.”

  Holmes reached into the pocket of his coat and placed on the table the envelope of sulphur powder and the small pile of green hops from the oast house. Turning to Dr Parry, Holmes asked, “I took the liberty of acquiring these samples from the supplier of hops to the Wheatley & Ford brewery. How long will it take you to analyse them for the presence of arsenic?”

  Dr Parry thought for a moment before replying. “I can put them on the train this afternoon, Mr Holmes. We should get the results from the Public Health laborato
ry in Portsmouth by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Splendid!” Holmes paused for a second before asking, “I would be obliged for an analysis of this too?” Holmes reached into his coat pocket and produced the jar of jam that my aunt had given him. Dr Parry looked incredulously at the jar. Holmes inclined his head slightly towards Dr Parry and, in a most serious voice, asked, “If you please, Dr Parry, it is most important… and as quickly as you can?”

  I looked on aghast as Holmes handed over the precious jar! I could barely contain my displeasure, crying. “Surely not! I don't understand, Holmes!”

  Holmes had a grim look on his face as he patted my arm, saying, “I think your aunt has her bees to thank for her life, Watson.”

  Dr Parry stuffed the items into his coat pockets. We briefly shook hands before he hurried off to his office to ready the samples for their train journey to Portsmouth.

  Sitting down again, I must confess that I was confused. “Holmes, why do you have need to analyse the jar of jam from Mrs Harvey?”

  Holmes sat and started to fill his pipe. “Let us consider the facts as we know them, Watson. From the inquest reports we know that arsenic is causing illness and death in the local population… but from a source unknown. We now know that a source of the poison is the beer from the local brewery. But how is the beer contaminated? It cannot be from the casks nor from the water supply else everyone would be affected... and yet, deaths have occurred where people did not drink beer. The sulphur and the hops may be contaminated...but I think we must look elsewhere for the source.”

  I shook my head, still not grasping the significance of the jam. “But why the jam, Holmes?”

  Holmes sat back with his fingers steepled against his lips. “I fear that the sugar used in the jam may be the common factor in all of this. Sugar is used as the preservative in jam making but it is also used in the production of beer. It is the 'food', if you will, of the yeast and therefore necessary for the fermentation process.”