“Of course I have,” he answered, without tearing his eyes from the Silver Ghost. “But one does not often come across such a beautiful specimen, my friend. This is the best car in the world. It won the gold medal in the Scottish Reliability Trial for its speed and handling. It also set the world record for driving without stopping. Imagine: it travelled without stopping a total of twenty-seven times the distance from Glasgow to London, or some fifteen thousand miles!”
“You sound like a brochure, Holmes. I suppose you will also tell me how much it costs.”
“Upwards of three thousand pounds,” he said. “I briefly considered buying one, but for an old man such as I it would be a pure extravagance.”
Now I recognised the old Holmes. His ascetic nature had overcome his enchantment.
Suddenly the door of the parish burst open and out shot Barlow’s visitor. He shooed away the cluster of children around his automobile and with a contemptuous glance silently climbed behind the wheel and started the engine.
“Good upbringing can’t be bought,” said Holmes loudly.
The man looked around and realised that the comment was directed at him.
“Mind your own business!” he shouted at us, donning his driving gloves and slipping a pair of goggles over his bulbous nose and large moustache. Glowering at us from beneath bushy eyebrows, he honked loudly on the claxon and sped off, leaving a band of shouting children in his wake. He was an unpleasant person with whom I did not wish to have further intercourse.
The commotion also brought Barlow outside.
“Dr Watson!” he cried when he saw me on the driveway. “I did not expect to see you here today! To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Judging by the expression on his face, however, I doubted that he was in fact pleased to see me. He looked like a schoolboy who had been caught cheating.
“Mr Cedric Parker, Holmes’s cousin, has arrived in order to arrange the detective’s estate,” I said, introducing my companion to the fat pastor. “It occurred to me that I should pay you a visit and use the opportunity to show Cedric the country where our friend lived happily for so long.”
The two men shook hands. I was numb with suspense as to whether Barlow might see through Holmes’s disguise, and those few seconds when he examined Parker seemed like an eternity. Fortunately, the pastor did not evince even the slightest suspicion. Holmes’s cousin apparently did not warrant so much as a second glance.
“Certainly, gentlemen, please be my guests,” he said nodding to the door with his eyes fixed on the departing automobile. “In a moment my housekeeper will have tea ready. Will you stay?”
“Gladly,” said Holmes. “I hope that we did not interrupt your visitor. The gentleman seemed rather upset.”
“Oh, you need not worry about him, he is one of my parishioners,” the pastor mumbled while leading us inside. “He brought a donation for our parish, which I will use to finance repairs to the roof of the church.”
The man did not look like someone who was kept awake at night by concern about the sanctuary of Fulworth’s believers nor did the pastor seem to want to talk about him. Holmes’s curiosity was supremely piqued, but he said nothing, of course, to avoid angering our host.
Indeed, a cheque was lying on the vestibule table, the ink still wet. I tried to make out the name of the donor and the amount, but Barlow tossed a newspaper and several letters onto the table.
He led us into the garden and to a sunny gazebo where the housekeeper had laid out tea, or rather what resembled an early luncheon. Judging by the size of the repast, it was difficult to imagine what the pastor’s actual luncheon might be.
So far each meeting that I had had with this man, with the exception of the funeral, had featured a culinary accompaniment of various proportions. He ate food as others breathe air. For every morsel that I swallowed Barlow inhaled four and by and by all that remained of the chicken on his plate were a few bones. No wonder he was so fat! If as yet he suffered no ill effects, I predicted he would in the near future.
“If I could not eat a fine meal which of life’s joys would remain to me?” he said. “I have no wife, my life belongs to God, and I need hardly mention other vices. Take our dear friend Holmes, the same age as I am, who ate rather poorly his whole life, and who is now with God while we sit here and talk. I think that my health is in the best of hands!”
He crossed himself and poured a cup of black coffee.
“Holmes clearly had a bad doctor,” said Holmes, screwing up his face.
I shot him a glance, but the pastor, digesting contentedly, spiritedly defended me.
“Dr Watson did everything in his power! Unfortunately, Holmes was beyond help. He paid for his genius with his weaknesses and excessive strains.”
“Weaknesses? Do you mean smoking?”
“Certainly.”
“You are right,” I said. “Unfortunately, we all encouraged him in this vice. Indeed, you recently brought him some valuable tobacco, I believe from India...”
Barlow clearly did not realise that Holmes had related this to me before his death.
“Oh, that is true,” he admitted with a wry smile and, it seemed to me, perspiring even more than usual. “Do not be cross with me. I too received it as a gift, but I do not smoke. I did not know anyone else who would appreciate it more than Sherlock, which is why I gave it to him.”
“I do not mean to take issue with you,” I clarified. “In fact, Holmes valued your friendship greatly and told me about the tobacco only in connection with the gratitude that he felt towards you as a friend.”
A blush appeared on the pastor’s baroque face and he blinked humbly. In the sunlit garden, among the blooming rhododendrons and singing birds, he seemed almost saintly. How could he have been involved in the plot to kill Holmes?
The detective coughed, put down his cup of coffee and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“I still have not seen today’s paper. Have they written anything about Sherlock’s funeral?”
“Would you believe it, I do not know myself!” said Barlow jumping out of his chair. “I shall fetch the paper this instant!”
He hurried off and a moment later returned with the paper. He spread the local daily before us, which was full of articles about Sherlock Holmes. Although I had not seen a reporter at the funeral, several columns of newsprint were devoted to the memorial service and the ceremony.
“I regret that I was not able to attend,” said the detective.
I smiled inwardly. He sincerely meant it, not as Parker, but as Holmes.
“It was a beautiful ceremony,” said Barlow. “Most dignified and touching.”
The detective raised his head and I saw his chin twitch.
“Would you excuse me for a moment?” he asked the pastor, his voice trembling.
“Yes, of course,” said the pastor. “May I be of any assistance?”
Holmes turned his head away, clenching the newspaper.
“No, I just need to be alone for a minute,” he said quietly and left through the garden to the vestibule.
No doubt this was a rehearsed performance and I was relieved to see that it had impressed Barlow.
“Mr Parker must be a very sensitive man; the death of our friend has distressed him greatly,” he said, leaning back in his armchair and biting into the dessert with relish.
“He was recalling the memory of their childhood together,” I said. “He will be all right.”
Thankfully Barlow was sitting with his back to the house and I could watch through the French windows as Holmes snuck into the pastor’s ground floor office and began rummaging through his desk.
While I watched in horror lest our host turn around or lest Holmes be caught by the housekeeper, I tried to continue the conversation in a casual tone. The detective went through the office with his usual attention to detail; he did not leave one drawer, bookshelf or closet unsearched, though he took care to not leave any traces that he had been there.