I preferred to avoid any repeat of this experience on a railway platform in Sussex crowded with leave-takers and travellers.
As we moved along the platform a searing memory from the earliest days of our association brought an embarrassed flush to my cheeks. A hansom had deposited me at The Guards in time for lunch. Over my meal I read a report in The Speaker which stirred me to a frenzy. Authorities had arrested a titled lady in the East End of London and marched her off to gaol, accusing her of being the leader of a gang shipping Welsh women into sexual slavery, drugging them with an exotic chemical and placing them aboard the S.S. Caledonia heading for a port in Palestine. From there they would be transported overland by camel to Al-Hillah, a town in Mesopotamia near ancient Babylon, thence onward to a jobbing life as daughters of Eve along the incense routes of Arabia Felix, forced nightly to dance from the vagina.
Incensed by this account and certain of the titled lady’s innocence I left The Guards and sped to our Baker Street rooms where I read the account aloud to Holmes seated at the fire-place, decanter at his side. He listened with growing agitation at my recital. At the conclusion he half-rose swiftly to his feet, declaring with flashing eyes, ‘Watson, this case grows on me. We have a good week’s work before us. It quite certainly contains points of national interest! I say there are dark complications here and important State secrets at serious risk. The police may be complicit in a deadly plot. Not one word further! Retrieve your six-shooter from Mrs. Hudson, load it and slip it in your Norfolk jacket. We must at once repair to the Mile End Road and save this woman from a dreadful fate. I fear the worst. She is a pearl of rare variety. Why else do you suppose she would be dressed (Holmes pointed at The Speaker) ‘in fine, thick silk material interwoven with gold threads’ known as samite? That is the evening wear of the English aristocrat, yet in her bag she hides a yard of shantung and a Muslim shift of coquelicot-coloured silk with white diamond spots like India handkerchiefs, whose true purpose we can only guess at. While you retrieve your revolver and a dozen cartridges - and your stoutest oak cudgel - I must work out which route to take. No, I am already clear on this - we shall take the Euston Road to Pentonville, and then to the Angel, City Road, Eastern Street, Commercial Street to the Aldgate. Watson, I say fly as the very wind, we must leave at once!’
With so urgent an injunction ringing in my ears I rushed into a Norfolk jacket, yanking on my outdoor coat and hat even as I ran into Mrs. Hudson’s rooms. I thrust a handful of cartridges into a pocket while I unrolled my Army revolver from its oil-cloth. The same revolver remained my weapon of choice even though on my departure from Afghanistan the Amir took me to his armoury and begged me to select a weapon from a cornucopia - gold-mounted Remington repeating rifles, breech-loading pistols, silver mounted revolvers, Brown-besses, military sniders, even rook rifles and a stick gun.
As it transpired, the woman was a Drury Lane actress, a lady titled only in Oscar Wilde’s play, the part requiring a ready change of costly clothes. For a small donation to the Policeman’s Pension Fund, the arrest and charge had been induced by a theatrical publicity agent. I was half-way down the stairs en route to Whitechapel before I realised my companion was far from treading on my heels, obliging on me an abject and humiliating return to the sitting-room to Holmes’ loudest guffaws.
The episode was a turning point in my relationship with Holmes. Through the cruelty of his laughter whatever confidence I may have had in my ability to become a Consulting Detective like Holmes evaporated like ice under an Indian sun.
On the railway platform at Etchingham I tried again. ‘Holmes, I believe I have made it clear I take this death at Scotney Park to be a sad occurrence but not of sinister significance,’ adding in an attempt to defuse his ire, ‘however, no further cautionary word will proceed from my lips if you will kindly offer me a fuller explanation.’
My companion nodded. ‘Watson, read out once more the facts of this discovery. I emphasise, the facts alone will be quite sufficient. From small facts can great inferences be made. The detail can be added when we have wrung them from the withers of Siviter and his gang.’
I winced. It was becoming clear to me I should humour him until despite the black fear now seeping through my veins like the ink of the octopus I could devise some strategy to bundle him aboard the train.
‘Well,’ I began, attentive to even the smallest discordant clue to counter his charge of murder, ‘what of the matter of the neat pile of clothing at the wagon pond’s edge?’
‘A pile of clothing in good order, yes...meaning what?’
‘Someone must have placed them there.’
‘Watson, you scintillate. Of course someone placed them there, but someone other than their owner, I suspect, thus giving what impression?’
Seeing my unwillingness to attempt an answer Holmes continued. ‘Why, as you imply, that entry into the water was under the wearer’s own command, what else? So, Watson, what further point do you elicit from this pile of clothing - what of the consequence for the corpse?’
‘It was unclad.’
‘Indeed. You have one more specimen of the grotesque and tragic to add to your collection. We must ask why. Why was the body stripped of clothing, but first, another vital matter. On which estate is this wagon pond located? Answer me, Watson, stay with me on this!’
‘As it says, Holmes. At Scotney Castle.’
‘Which has which other body of water, in addition to the wagon pond?’
‘As we have never visited Lord Fusey’s estate...’
‘Now, Watson, make an effort - throw your mind back! What of Pevensey’s second canvas? Do you recall the subject? A ruined castle and...?’
‘Ah, yes, a moat.’ I stared at him. ‘What of that?’
‘Good, Watson. A moat. Fed by a small stream as I recall. We have a body of water in each painting on the Fuseys’ estate. In the Constable a wagon pond and in the other a moat.’ He stopped to peer closely at me. ‘Do you not find that a matter of quite extraordinary interest?’
‘Of some small interest, Holmes, perhaps,’ I responded, frowning, ‘but hardly enough to spark a riot among an Old Bailey jury. If Siviter commissioned Pevensey to paint a wagon pond at the Fuseys’ estate in homage to a Constable, would it not be natural to ...’
Holmes broke in, ‘To pair it with a moat? Indeed, but do not let that convenience detract from its significance. I do not believe it can be so readily explained. It begs a question for which as yet I myself have no answer - why did he commission the second oil? Surely an homage to Constable is an homage to Constable? Why not let it stand alone? Why gild the lily? And why so late - hardly a day or two ago? Now let us proceed to the oils themselves... I recall the lively brilliance of the palette knife but you have a subtler eye. Which colours did he employ for the surface of the wagon pond?’
‘Holmes,’ I protested,’ why on Earth does it matter which colours...’
Holmes’ impatience with my obstruction turned to dudgeon.