In the Company of Sherlock Holmes

by Leslie S. Klinger

  Slowly Straker opened the barn door and led me out into the mud and rain, toward the moor. As Sharp rose to follow, Straker latched the door behind us. We headed into the night. The rain was cold. My tongue hurt from biting it and my cheek burned where the man had slapped me. I am ashamed to admit that I watched for an opportunity for revenge.

  Along one path Straker found the black and red silk cravat that had been worn the night before by the stranger who came to the barn. It was now drenched and muddy but he scooped it up and carried it along with us. He led me about a quarter of a mile from the house, into a bowl-shaped depression below the knoll from which, during daylight, all the neighboring moor could be seen. There he took off his mackintosh, which the wind was flapping around his legs, and draped it across a furze bush. Cupping his hands over it, he struck three wax vestas, trying again and again to light a stub of tallow candle and angrily flinging each spent vesta off into the wet night. He began to curse in a worried, angry voice.

  It was then that I saw another figure at a distance, standing alone in the rain, watching. Straker had been leading me toward this other man, and as he stopped he looked up and waved rudely to him. The other fellow briefly raised a hand in reply but did not come closer.

  Like every other horse, even your vulgar hansom slavey—perhaps especially those unfortunates—I am well versed in watching the hands of men. Even in the rain that night, I saw Straker pull from his pocket an ivory-handled surgical knife with a stiff but delicate blade, its evil point sheathed only in a chunk of cork. The instant I saw it I began to snort and toss. I knew Straker and I knew that knife. I had seen him use it on the sheep.

  I knew then what Straker had in mind for me. I have not spent my life around race tracks and paddocks without paying attention. Feigning a comforting murmur, which was patently false and also lost in the rain, he walked beside me, patting my flank, until he stood beside my tail. He held the black-and-red cravat twisted like a rope.

  Like a blacksmith, he bent to grasp my left hind leg and raise the hoof. Instead I twisted aside and kicked as hard as I could. To my astonishment I felt his skull cave in, and as I danced around I saw that his hand brought the evil little knife not to my leg but to his own. I smelled blood and knew real fear. Without even a moan, Straker slid into the mud as I fled across the moor.

  I saw the other man slosh after me but soon I lost him in the rain and mist.

  We are taught always to accept the sufferings foisted upon us by our often ignorant servants. Perhaps Mater would have argued that I ought not to have kicked my treacherous trainer. But times change; mine is not the world in which she foaled. I fought back and I shan’t claim that I regret it. Even as I galloped away, I suspected that Mr. Straker would never torment another sheep or horse, but my heart was pounding with the realization of how close I myself came to never seeing another autumn day in Dartmoor. Finally I stood still in the rain until my breathing slowed and my sides stopped aching.

  Then I saw the other man—he who had witnessed my kicking of Mr. Straker—approaching from a distance. I watched him cautiously. I thought the movement and silhouette seemed familiar. Finally I realized that it was Silas Brown, the black-eyed, terrier-browed old man who ran the Capleton stables for Lord Backwater. Brown was in charge of Desborough, whom reckless gossip ranked as comparable to myself in speed and form. Two or three times when Straker exercised me out on the moor, he secretly met with Brown. As Desborough and I exchanged superficial pleasantries, Straker had complained about his debts and Brown had told him ways to vanquish them—which included betrayal of Colonel Ross. It appeared that they had planned tonight’s shenanigans for some time.

  I was tired and wet, and I confess that I was somewhat relieved when I saw that it was only Silas Brown who approached. I considered running away, but where was I to go? I am not a fallow deer. I am a horse, a race horse. At night I sleep in a stable.

  “Here, my lad,” called Brown in a voice that was, for him, soft and comforting. “Not to worry, me lad.”

  I turned to look at him.

  “A bit of a change in plan, that’s what we have here,” he continued, appraising me but pausing in his tracks as I turned. “Ye’re a fierce one, an’t you, Mr. Silver Blaze? Well, ole Silas is no meater himself. Not half. Well, we be calm and straight, lad. I won’t hurt ye. But also,” and he actually chuckled to himself, “also I won’t be standin’ behind ye.” He pretended to casually glance around. “Tonight I would trade every fancy racer for a hansom nag, or even for a rain napper.” Again he laughed. He did not seem disturbed by the death of his co-conspirator.

  I sigh to recall how easily I let this coarse oaf take my reins and lead me toward the Capleton stable. I relished the shelter. I welcomed the grain and water. I was delighted to be dried and combed. But I was hobbled and reined before I realized what was happening next. Scurrying in the dawn light, Brown opened jars and bottles and pumped water into a bucket and was soon dyeing my beautiful black coat—forgive my vanity—a drab brown.

  A few days later, I was standing at the stable’s front window at sunset beside Desborough, my rival and new house mate, peering out at the road that led through the Capleton gates when I saw two men walking up from across the moor.

  The taller man was obviously the leader. He strode purposefully ahead, his gaze darting from grass to road, from stable to gate. He had a presence about him, a kind of confidence and poise, from his strong hands to his high forehead. The other man looked like a former soldier, himself strong and broad-shouldered, his gait equal to that of his companion but his posture a bit subservient.

  Dawson, Brown’s battered and spiritless lackey, ran out of the stable to confront them. “We don’t want any loiterers about here!”

  The taller of the two stood with his finger insolently hooked in his waistcoat pocket. “I only wish to ask a question,” he said lazily. “Should I be too early to see your master, Mr. Silas Brown, if I were to call at five o’clock tomorrow morning?” Belying his tone was his piercing gaze, which I soon realized had observed me at the window of the stable. Our eyes met.

  “Bless you, sir,” Dawson said, falling into a peasant tone in response to the man’s confidence, “if anyone is about he will be, for he is always the first stirring.”

  He glanced back over his shoulder with what I already knew was his perpetual worried expression. “But here he is, sir, to answer your questions for himself.”

  The tall man held out a coin, but Dawson quickly murmured, “No, sir, no; it is as much as my place is worth to let him see me touch your money. Afterwards, if you like.”

  The man replaced the coin and waited calmly as Brown stamped across the asphalt, swinging his hunting crop threateningly.

  “What’s this, Dawson? No gossiping! Go about your business!” He turned to the strangers. “And you—what the devil do you want here?”

  “Ten minutes’ talk with you, my good sir,” the slender man said calmly. He did not deign to glance at the swinging crop.

  “I’ve no time to talk to every gadabout,” snapped Brown. “We want no strangers here. Be off, or you may find a dog at your heels.”

  Calmly the man leaned forward and whispered into Brown’s ear.

  His cheeks flushed and he snarled angrily, “It’s a lie! An infernal lie!”

  “Very good. Shall we argue about it here in public or talk it over in your stable?”

  Brown’s bluster passed like a shower on the moor. “Oh, come in if you wish to.”

  The man smiled. “I shall not keep you more than a few minutes, Watson,” said he to his companion. “Now, Mr. Brown, I am quite at your disposal.”

  Brown took a deep breath, failed to restore his swagger, and quietly, almost meekly, turned to lead the way into the stable. As the one called Watson wandered about outdoors, I turned from the window to watch Brown and the tall stranger in the stable, so near my stall. My heart was pounding with anxiety. Desborough seemed bored.

  “I am Sherlock Holmes,” the
man said calmly. “Perhaps you have heard my name.”

  Brown shook his head.

  Mr. Holmes raised his eyebrows and said, “I’m sorry I left Watson outside. He would enjoy this. I come, Mr. Brown, to tell you a little story.”

  “I’m not interested in stories.”

  “I fancy you shall find this one fascinating. Shall we sit? No? Fine. As you told the constable and Inspector Gregory, you were out on the moor very early one morning recently. You were wearing those same square-toed boots you have on now.”

  Brown glanced down at his muddy boots.

  “What you did not tell anyone is that while there you spied a lone horse wandering about. You crept closer and discovered, to your disbelief, a large white blaze on his forehead. It was your own Desborough’s chief rival—Silver Blaze.”

  “I have no idea what ye mean.”

  “Let us not waste time. You saw Silver Blaze but he was alone. There was no John Straker, no Ned Hunter, no Colonel Ross. What you could not have known was that Straker was already dead on the moor.”

  Brown’s expression did not change. It was one of the rare moments when I yearned for the ability to speak to people.

  “You stood in disbelief. You started back toward Capleton. You walked in a circle and thought.”

  Brown was no longer able to keep his face without expression. “Where the devil were you hiding, sir?”

  “You took the dragging reins of Silver Blaze and walked him around a few minutes. Then you headed toward King’s Pyland.”

  Brown stared.

  “You then realized that fate had delivered into your hands the opportunity you had dreamed of throughout your conniving, petty life. Under cover of the dawn mists, you decided to lead Silver Blaze back here to Capleton.”

  Brown laughed as if he had been storing up energy for a final protest. “Then where is he now, sir?”

  Mr. Holmes sighed and, without turning toward me, waved a hand in my direction.

  “I don’t see a blaze on that bay,” said Brown, but almost choked on his attempt at bravado.

  “Mr. Brown, we are not children. This is not a game. I have it in my power to destroy you and I will not hesitate to do so unless you follow my instructions to the letter.”

  Brown tried to meet Mr. Holmes’s gaze but failed. He looked down at the straw and sighed. Sweat stood out on his forehead and upper lip.

  “You will keep Silver Blaze here.”

  Brown’s eyebrows shot up.

  “You will keep him dyed.”

  “What?”

  “This is not a discussion. These are your instructions. You will prepare him for the Wessex Cup race at Winchester four days hence. You will not inform Lord Backwater. Nor will you cease to exercise both horses and to treat them well.” Mr. Holmes’s tone darkened. “If Silver Blaze is harmed in any way—in the slightest way—I will personally see you in court for horse-stealing and tampering with a race, and I might enjoy throwing in suspicion of murder.”

  “Murder! I have no—”

  “It doesn’t matter what you have none of.” Mr. Holmes strode toward the door. “I shall send you a telegram with further instructions.” He stepped outside.

  Fascinated by the spectacle of this man calmly overpowering the bullying Brown without a blow, I turned to watch them through the window again.

  His spirit broken, Brown scurried along behind the other man as he returned to his companion. “Your instructions will be done. It shall all be done.”

  “There must be no mistake,” said Mr. Holmes, looking round at him. The one called Dr. Watson watched them closely.

  Brown read the threat in Mr. Holmes’s gaze and swallowed. “Oh no, there shall be no mistake. It shall be there. Should I change it first or not?”

  Mr. Holmes thought a moment and chuckled. “No, don’t. I shall write to you about it. No tricks, now, or—”

  “Oh, you can trust me, you can trust me!”

  To my astonishment, Brown held out a quivering hand to shake.

  And to my delight, Mr. Holmes ignored it, saying over his shoulder as he turned away, “Yes, I think I can. Well, you shall hear from me tomorrow.”

  Brown marched as steadily as he could into the stable, then almost collapsed against the wall, leaning against it for support as he looked out the window to watch the two men stride across the moor toward King’s Pyland. He breathed deeply and I smelled his stale cigars and whiskey.

  Then suddenly he turned and kicked the door of my stall. I squealed and turned so I could fight back if he opened the door, but he dashed from the stable like a frightened rat.

  I ran a good race at Winchester. I was uncomfortably itchy with my coat still dyed, and embarrassed to not be recognized at a distance. Only when close enough to smell me did my fellow horses know me as Silver Blaze.

  I loved the roaring crowd. I was raised to this world, as was my father before me. The shouts, the waved hats and scarves, the glint of spyglasses raised to follow our progress—I loved it all. As always, however, I ignored the men’s calls such as, “Five to four against Silver Blaze! Fifteen to five against Desborough! Five to four on the field!” To win you have to think only of the race.

  They were a worthy lot, the other horses. I had just spent several days in the company of Desborough. He acted as if somehow we were co-conspirators—until just before the bell he whickered, “No need to push yourself, my dear Blaze. You can’t keep up.”

  “Sir,” I protested, shocked, “may the best horse win.”

  “Indeed.”

  The other horses were not so rude as Desborough. I had not seen Iris, who runs for the Duke of Balmoral, in almost a year, and I discovered that my admiration for her lean flanks had not diminished. Pugilist, Colonel Wardlaw’s famous roan, I had run against before and we had a respectful, collegial relationship. I had never before crossed paths with Rasper, Lord Singleford’s proud bay with the haughty gaze and restless tail. The Negro, Heath Newton’s big black, was also new to me—and, I must admit, a handsome fellow, with his jockey riding lightly in cinnamon jacket and red cap.

  None too soon for me, because I had never felt so restless, there came the gun. The six of us ran neck and neck for a couple of long minutes, with my heart and hooves both pounding. Soon, though, Rasper, The Negro, and Pugilist fell behind. For a minute Iris and Desborough ran on each side of me. But beautiful Iris was spent and fell back to a respectable third place. Then Desborough, cursing me in language I shall not repeat and choking on the dust from my hooves, fell half a length behind, then a length, then more. I was six lengths ahead when I passed the finish line.

  After all that had happened to me over the last weeks, I had never felt more triumphant.

  “Here he is,” I heard the hawk-nosed Mr. Holmes say as he led the way into the owners-only weighing enclosure. Ned Hunter was combing me and wiping me down as I drank water from a bucket. He took off his cap and Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson nodded to him. Glowering Colonel Ross did not.

  Mr. Holmes still smelled of strong tobacco. He indicated me. “You have only to wash his face and his leg in spirits of wine, and you will find that he is the same old Silver Blaze as ever.”

  “You take my breath away!” exclaimed the colonel.

  “I found him in the hands of a faker, and took the liberty of running him just as he was sent over.”

  “My dear sir, you have done wonders.” The colonel walked round me, looking me up and down, fetlock to mane. He patted my flank. “The horse looks very fit and well. It never went better in its life. I owe you a thousand apologies for having doubted your ability. You have done me a great service by recovering my horse. You would do me a greater still if you could lay your hands on the murderer of John Straker.”

  “I have done so,” said Mr. Holmes quietly.

  “You have got him! Where is he, then?”

  “He is here.”

  “Here! Where?”

  “In my company at the present moment.”

  Colonel Ros
s bristled like a teased dog. “I quite recognize that I am under obligations to you, Mr. Holmes,” he said coldly, and the hand gripping his riding crop twitched, “but I must regard what you have just said as either a very bad joke or an insult.”

  “I assure you that I have not associated you with the crime, colonel,” the man said with a mocking sort of laugh that matched his fierce eyes and aristocratic nose. “The real murderer is standing immediately behind you.” He stepped past the colonel and, with surprising gentleness in a man so clearly strong, rested his hand upon my neck. It was the first time I had touched the man who rescued me. I learned then that respect and gratitude can suddenly feel like affection.

  “The horse!” the two men exclaimed simultaneously.

  “Yes, the horse.”

  Mr. Holmes looked at me sympathetically and I held my head high. I dislike pity.

  “And it may lessen his guilt if I say that it was done in self-defense, and that John Straker was a man who was entirely unworthy of your confidence. But there goes the bell, and as I stand to win a little on this next race, I shall defer a lengthy explanation until a more fitting time.”

  I realized then that, knowing where I was and that I would be brought over to race—as he had commanded that simpering coward, Silas Brown—Mr. Holmes had placed a bet on my race. I was flattered, but I knew that this kind of betting knowledge was illegal at the track.

  No one seemed to care.

  The next day, Ned Hunter drove me home along the familiar lanes, with the rented cart horses jostling my wagon but my stance steady and proud as befits a returning conqueror. I saw Silas Brown, dirty and meek, standing by the roadside. He appraised me coolly as the wagon passed. I met his gaze with an expression I imagine he could not read.