‘And if he’s here within the quarter-hour?’ the boy responded.
‘Then ninepence,’ Holmes responded with a short laugh.
The young vendor threw the last of his newspapers into the clap-trap conveyance and set off, the dog galloping like a small race-horse sensing the tape not far ahead. Standing at my comrade’s side, puzzled and unnerved, it seemed to me Holmes’ eyes had scarcely glanced over the paragraphs before we were to spring into a cab and rattle off.
I persisted. ‘Look here, Holmes, this is all surmise. You confessed at the time we were engaged in solving the disappearance of Silver Blaze that the provisional theories you formed from the newspaper reports were entirely erroneous. You cannot cry murder at every turn. Why, the constable stated...’
Holmes’ quelling expression caused me to falter and fall silent.
‘Watson, do you have a more favourable hypothesis? The constable, you say? Was it not a constable in ‘the Hound’ who sent the good doctor and all others down a blind by his interpretation? Was it not the same Peeler who concluded the deceased tip-toed in the dark rather than running for his very life? ‘The constable stated’! Is it not obvious we have a Peeler whose head is more for ornament than utility, a man more accustomed to using his muscles rather than his wits? He will state whatever is put into his brain by the Lord of the Manor, Fusey. I surmise, you say, but at least it covers all the facts. When new facts come to our knowledge which cannot be covered by my assumption, it will be time enough to reconsider. No, Watson, and again no! I say this is at the very least a suspicious death.’
‘A suspicious death?’ I responded more boldly, a hint of sarcasm returning to my voice. ‘And at the hand of anyone in particular, have you already decided?’
Holmes flared at my dogged manner. His pale cheeks began to flush. ‘You must take this seriously, Doctor! I am not about to make a joke! There is much that is still obscure though I have quite made up my mind on the principal facts. I say there is a great driving-power at the back of this business.’
For a further moment he stared at me angrily.
‘As you ask, Watson, I shall tell you. I believe this man’s death points unerringly at the very denizens we have just been instructing in our work.’
‘The Kipling League?’ I stammered in disbelief, horrified at this unexpected accusation.
’The very ones,’ Holmes affirmed. He smiled grimly at my dismay. ‘Watson, you must join me in a double-game against a most powerful criminal syndicate.’
‘Holmes,’ I gasped, ‘by habit I trust to your judgment though less often to your discretion. If murder this is - and it is still only a matter of the most extraordinary speculation - it is exceptionally outré and sensational. I have heard your reasons and while I am intrigued, I am quite unconvinced by your deductions. The most repellent man of our acquaintance, even a Professor Moriarty, should not be killed and left naked in a wagon pond. If murder it is, the most grotesque of human minds must lie behind it. Yet you lay the authorship of such a crime upon the Kipling League whose members are pre-eminent in the whole of London!’
I stared at him with grave concern. ‘Holmes, have you become unbalanced? The members of the Kipling League are not wax figures of Voltaire at Madame Tussaud’s. Has too much Medlar jelly left you demented? Am I mistaken in believing you are the author of a famous saying taught to young detectives at Scotland Yard, that the temptation to form premature theories upon insufficient data is the bane of our profession?’
Even as I uttered these heated words, I knew all argument was folly. The subtle eagerness, the suggestion of tension in the brightened eyes, the briskness of his manner, all showed me the game was in play. My companion’s face wore the grim and determined look of Nelson’s admirals at Trafalgar on sight of No. 16 battle signal.
Holmes responded, ‘Good old Watson! Ever obsequious to the rich and powerful! As you say, it is grotesque, and, yes, they are indeed pre-eminent names, yet I say there is more to this League than a Lodge of the Ancient Order of Freemen. They play a deep game! The very second I adopted the hypothesis everything seems to fit - or at least nothing so far appears to traverse it - otherwise it is as random a death as ever was reported.’
I answered with considerable understatement, ‘Holmes, they will be much surprised at our return.’
‘I had not realised the faculty of deduction to be so contagious, Watson,’ he returned bitingly. Heedless of my concern, he went on, ‘It is certain those who killed him have had the co-operation of Lord Fusey. His sighting of a tramp - in mid-afternoon, so he states - has already placed a certainty in the local bobby’s mind both to the calling of the soul which once inhabited this corpse and the hour of death - and will no doubt in the coroner’s too. At most he will record an open verdict.’
He stared back at the Standard. ‘Yet,’ he went on in a lower voice, ‘why invent a tramp?’
He held the newspaper towards me. ‘Watson, a further point for you to examine - this hat. What do you make of ‘a bowler out of a Mexican sombrero’?’
‘I make nothing of it, Holmes.’
‘What if we suggest ’bowler’ means a high crown, and the Standard’s use of ‘sombrero’ denotes the width of brim, what then?’
‘Why, it would be a hat crafted for the Tropics!’
‘Bravo, my friend. That is the deduction I would draw, which I am about to augment and solidify.’
Dread seeped through my every vein. I was being swept along like a coracle on a choppy sea. I knew from bitter experience my courage to protest against so forceful a person as my comrade-in-arms would be found deeply wanting.
Holmes pushed the newspaper to me, turning away to peer across the station yard for a sight of the sociable, the vehicle favoured by Edward as Prince of Wales.
Returning his glance to me he continued, ‘Watson, we are spies in an enemy’s country. We must make great haste. You referred to my ability to track the Lanchester by its tyres. I am sure that noble carriage was used to convey the corpse from Crick’s End to Scotney Castle. By now Fusey’s men will have smoothed every inch of the Kilndown track with Pevensey’s Ratel brushes. They will have scumbled madly around the wagon pond. As to my reference to the clay and chalk-dust on our late arrivals’ shoes, those shoes will have had the boot boy’s fullest attention. Your reference to my small trick of divining the trade of the artisan - or hardships of the tramp - by the callosities of his knees or fore-finger and thumb may cause some consternation. There is no account in the Standard of any hard and repetitive work or callouses on the corpse from sleeping rough, despite the visibility of its every joint and palm.’
I glanced around. With the imminent approach of the London train, the long narrow platform bustled with day-trippers carrying baskets filled with the produce and medicines of the fields.
‘Holmes,’ I scolded, with a coldness born of angst, ‘a charge of assassination is furiously indiscreet so openly proclaimed in a public place not a league from Crick’s End.’
Holmes swung round abruptly, noting for the first time the growing assembly behind us. Beckoning me to follow in his wake, he strode along the platform towards the far, deserted end. I followed ill at ease. At the very least we must return the handsome stipend if we stood before them on their portico with so extraordinary a charge. Walking at Holmes’ back I had time to recall a not-to-be-forgotten moment shortly after we took up quarters on Baker Street. It was at the start of a case which culminated most unexpectedly on Powys Mountain in distant Wales. At first I put my reservations to him quietly, then, as now, in incremental steps more forcibly as he refused to accommodate my argument and concern. Later, I realised I should have recognised in the threatening, deep-lined brow one of Nature’s plainest danger-signals. Finally, unwisely, I angrily spoke of his ‘overheated intuition’. Holmes’ lanky body stiffened. A terrible change came over his face as he heard my words. His features turned perfectly livid. A small spot of crimson flared up on his cheek. It was some seconds before he could get out a single word and when he spoke it emitted in a high unnatural tone. With a coruscating eye, he shouted, ‘Watson, keep to the forefront of your mind, I am not Captain of a rusty seven-knot tramp-steamer with thirteen crew, so do not treat me so! I am Nimrod, Son of Cush, a mighty hunter before the Lord!’