As we arrived for our Ottoman culinary adventure Sir Julius remarked that in his opinion there were three great cuisines in the world, of which Turkish was one. In jest, I called to my comrade-in-arms, ‘Holmes, you may not be interested in the taste of Imam bayildi but, Gad, the chemistry!’
The Discovery Of A Corpse At Scotney Castle
Standing at the towering cast-iron gates (‘from the same forge that manufactured the railings of St. Paul’s Cathedral’) Siviter saw us off from Crick’s End with a cheery wave. The olfactory delight of the Imam Bayildi still swirled in my nostrils.
Once more Holmes and I were enveloped in soft leather in the Lanchester, Dudeney at the wheel wrapped in his pilot’s helmet. Invited into the vehicle for the short outing, Siviter’s Aberdeen terriers and the curly-coated retrievers yap-yapped and wriggled and slithered around us. A half-dozen tails wagged like furies in our faces, the owners excited beyond measure in anticipation of scents wafting to their small damp snouts at forty miles an hour.
I looked up to see a hand waving fleetingly from a window. It was the Peasant Madonna of the violet eyes who first greeted us at the porch. Would she eventually marry a young herdsman on the Estate? Would she have to compete with the poultry maid? In a fit of amour fou would she let one of the eminent men who passed through the bedrooms at Crick’s End take advantage of her lowly status?
Soon we were back at Etchingham. Just past the great church and fifty yards short of the Ambrose Tavern, we turned left into the small station yard. We said our thanks and goodbyes to Dudeney. I searched my pockets for our return tickets to Charing Cross and a pencil stub. I had earlier spotted an advertisement for Abdulla’s cigarettes on a station wall with a piece of doggerel too amusing to let go without noting it down to share with Eddie Marsh at a future date. Our tickets located, I opened my notebook and transcribed the ditty titled ‘Desert Drama, the Lady Sheik’.
As I transcribed the last stanza, a most unexpected intrusion burst upon this mild occupation. The piping voice of the young news-vendor caught my attention. He stood small and keen in front of Holmes, urging him to purchase a copy of the Evening London Standard, freshly-delivered off the London-to-Hastings train.
‘Late Extra! Dead Body at Scotney Castle,’ the boy sang, his face turned upwards, his apron displaying the bold headline black upon yellow on a poster.
‘Heavens, Holmes,’ I called over, amused. ‘Fame indeed. Scotney Castle has found its way into the Standard!’
On outward journeys by train or diligence Holmes cat-napped like Napoleon force-marching to Paris from Elba, but on the return he often fell into a much deeper sleep. I anticipated my companion would wave aside the small beseeching vendor. Had he declined to make the purchase, I would have followed suit while offering the boy a ha’penny in compensation. Thereby we may never been hurled into the astonishing matter of the dead Boer at Scotney Castle.
Rather than waving the boy away, my companion stared down at him and demanded ‘What did you say?’, one hand going swiftly to a pocket. ‘Dead Body at Scotney Castle,’ the news-vendor sang out once more, pushing a copy into my companion’s outstretched hand and taking three-halfpence in return. Holmes unfolded the newspaper and turned to an inside page as directed. He read for a moment and glanced up.
‘Watson, listen to this. ‘LATE EXTRA. From our local Correspondent by wire’.’
The report commenced with the curiously garbled sub-heading ‘Well-Dressed Unclad Body Discovered At Lamberhurst’ and continued, ‘To-day, at around 4pm near the village of Lamberhurst, on the Kent and Sussex border in the Valley of the River Bewl, in the undertaking of his rounds, James Webster, woodman on the Scotney Castle Estate, came across the unclad body of a man lying mostly submerged in the wagon pond, off the old Carriage Drive at Kilndown Wood, believed drowned. Age is estimated around 50. Gentlemen’s clothes of a good quality and condition lay at a short departure from the verge, neatly piled, and topped by a crimson hat like a bowler out of a Mexican sombrero, bearing a hatband made from the skin of a yellow and brown spiny snake. Death is estimated to have taken place within the previous hour as the arms and legs were still supple. It was noticeable the dead man’s chest was unusually seared by the sun in a triangle to a point some five inches above the navel, with similar ruddiness of arms right to the armpit, and the legs from above the calf to just below the knee. Exact details are few but no traces of struggle or nearby disturbance have been reported. A man in this garb was seen standing at the edge of the wagon pond in the middle of the afternoon, around three o’ clock, by Lord Edward Fusey, owner of the Estate, whose house overlooks the valley from the top of a nearby hill. While suicide is a possibility, the empty pockets of the clothing and weathered condition of the skin incline the Lamberhurst constable to agree with Lord Fusey’s suggestion the body is most likely that of a passing tramp, who, having stolen a gentleman’s clothing, felt obliged to bathe in the wagon pond and consequently drowned.’’
Turning to me with an air of excitement, Holmes demanded, ‘Well, Watson, what do you make of it?’
‘What do you make of it, Holmes?’ I parried, staring at him. He was on a hot scent but as yet I could not in the least imagine in what direction his inferences were leading him. Without responding to my own query, he returned to the Standard and continued, ‘‘A pair of shiny dark glasses was discovered between finger and thumb, but identifying papers or other memoranda are lacking. The old smugglers’ track is a favoured route of indigents and vagabonds overnighting in the castle ruins on their way to London. No further action is expected’.’
Holmes lowered the newspaper.
‘‘The body is most likely that of a passing tramp?’’ he repeated. ‘How could this be?’
He raised the paper again and continued reading out loud. ‘The probability remains that the deceased has been the victim of an unfortunate accident which should at the very least have the effect of calling the attention of the Estate owner to the parlous condition of the wagon pond verges’.
Once more Holmes lowered the newspaper, frowning. ‘Again, Watson, I ask, what do you make of it?’
‘Apart from the sensationalistic prose, Holmes, what should I make of it?’ I replied evasively. ‘Any self-inflicted death or accident is a sad event.’
He cocked his head. ‘’Self-inflicted death or accident’ you have already decided?’ he demanded. ‘Is it not obvious to you this matter strikes rather deeper than you think?’
He looked back at the report, his brow still furrowed. He muttered, ‘It makes no sense.’
Even now I find it hard to divine what confluence of suspicions in Holmes’ keen and penetrating mind drew him so quickly to conclude something sinister lay behind the unfortunate victim’s death. It was as though lead had turned to mercury. His eyes positively gleamed with excitement against the startlingly white skin of his face.