‘Watson,’ he returned, his voice rising sharply, ‘if you would indulge me the while!’
‘The higher and warmer notes,’ I hastened in response.
‘Please be precise. Which colours? There is a point to my enquiry.’
‘Light tones - yellows, oranges and reds.’
‘Which means?’
‘Very picturesque?’ I hazarded.
‘Indeed picturesque, Watson. Painterly even. But I mean the use of such a palette - it would indicate what? What of the water’s depth?’
‘Shallow, Holmes,’ I replied, bewildered. ‘Those are colours for shallow water,’ adding, with a tinge of sarcasm, ‘as befits a wagon pond.’
‘How shallow, Watson?’ Holmes pursued. ‘Come, you are a military man! You must have driven many a wagon into a pond to soak the wheels.’
‘Eighteen inches at most, less at the edges,’ I replied, still mystified, ‘though I remember in the Hindu Kush we nearly...’
‘And the second oil? What of the surface of the moat, what colours did Pevensey employ?’
‘Umber or burnt sienna and dark purple for the reflection of the castle brick...’ at which again my companion broke back impatiently. ‘Watson! Not the reflection of the ruin - the reflection of the sky!’
‘The darker blues, as I recall. Yes, mostly Stone Cobalt blue.’
‘Which indicates?’
‘Much deeper water.’
At this my companion’s voice lost its assured tone. ‘Much deeper,’ he repeated. He shook his head, muttering ‘It makes no sense...’ several times.
Then, ‘Watson, at which hour do you suppose death occurred?’
‘According to the Standard around three o’ clock - sometime between Lord Fusey’s sighting and the woodman’s discovery of the corpse at four.’
‘And you have no reason to dispute that?’
‘I have no evidence to assume otherwise, no.’
‘Nor to oppose outright the constable’s presumption?’
‘Neither. It seems a perfectly reasonable conclusion.’
‘As you say,’ Holmes agreed. ‘And where were we at that very hour?’
‘Holmes!’ I cried out in amazement. ‘You well know!’
‘I insist you tell me, Watson!’
‘Why, we were in the parlour at Crick’s End.’
‘Doing what, precisely?’
‘I was on my feet giving my introduction...’
‘Precision, Watson. It was I who was on my feet. And who was I addressing?
‘Our host Siviter and Viscount Van Beers.’
‘Again, Watson, it is time you developed an affection for detail. Were we not joined by Alfred Weit and Sir Julius at three o’clock precisely? If you recall, Siviter told us it was so.’
‘Holmes, entirely coincidental, surely?’
‘I consider their arrival at that exact hour a matter of great consequence, by no means mere coincidence.’
If the publisher of The Strand had not recently told me my readers’ taste was changing and I should take heed in the extravagance of my portrayals, I would have described Holmes’ eyes as ‘glittering like Egypt’s deadly Coastal cobra’.
Holmes gestured. ‘Please return to the newspaper report. What else does it offer a Consulting Detective?’
‘’The face, arms and legs, and upper torso burnt by the sun’.’ I looked up. ‘That is certainly odd, Holmes, I agree - ‘burnt’ must be an exaggeration.’
‘Bravo, Watson!’ Holmes responded. ‘As you say, even though a tramp is painfully exposed to the vagaries of England’s weather, this summer has hardly begun.’
He stared thoughtfully at the newspaper in my hand. ‘Since when do our tramps take time off to winter in the Tropics? What else could it mean, weathered legs from just above the calf to just below the knee?’
By now the build-up of passengers was encroaching upon us. Holmes ushered me further down the platform. ‘Watson, let us return to the pile of clothing. Besides being neatly piled what other detail are we offered?’
With whatever confidence I had gained from the day’s commission melting, I ventured, ‘The pile was topped by a crimson hat.’
‘Topped by a crimson hat, which indicates...?’
Haplessly I offered, ‘The owner has a taste for unusual head ware?’
‘You are on your very best form, Watson,’ Holmes responded tartly. ‘Certainly it is not a hat from the Ponting Brothers or Underwood and Sons of the Camberwell Road. I mean what of the placement of this object of attire? Let me offer you a hint, ‘topped by a crimson hat’.’
‘Placed where it would catch the eye?’
‘Yes, not cast upon the ground beside the pile of clothing but placed with deliberation. In addition to the crimson colour and width of brim, distinguished by the owner’s choice of...?’
‘Snake-skin hatband?’
‘Certainly not a hatband from a common viper - and not a snake at all, but a...?’
‘Lizard?’ I hazarded.
‘Excellent! A hatband struck from the majestic spiny lizard, a reptile inhabiting the scrub forest and dry grassland south of the Crocodile River, West of Swaziland and Zululand and the Portuguese possessions, and East of the regions of the Bechwana and Bangwaketsi peoples...’ at which he paused to draw breath, looking at me triumphantly, ‘which is where precisely, Watson? No, don’t worry, you are an India hand, I shall answer for you. The Transvaal!’
Without further ado, my companion commenced to supply me with the most striking illustration of those powers for which he is justly famed, a fine example of the contingent value of the obscure.
‘The yellow-to-brown colouration, the distinct whorled scalation and spiny tail evident from the description tell us at once it is the mighty Sungazer lizard! You see, Watson,’ he rushed on. ‘Southern Africa is rich in reptiles, but like Darwin’s finches they are closely confined to their different regions. This hatband is from a giant girdled lizard, the largest of the cordylids, which lives nowhere else but in underground burrows in the boulder fields and rocky outcrops of the highveld of the northern Free-state and southern Transvaal - where the goldmines are.’
Holmes stopped abruptly, drawing breath. Then, ‘Watson, tell me, you still see no connection to Crick’s End?’
‘None whatsoever,’ I replied stubbornly, growing hot with anxiety. I dreaded the cab’s imminent arrival. ‘Except the tenuous connection you draw from a hatband - what does it matter if the band is made from a girdled lizard from the Transvaal or Gnathostomata out of time, trawled up from some deep ocean? Surely we have examined this enough! As to murder at the hands of the Kipling League, I fear - I hope - you are pulling my leg.’
‘Tut, man, do you not yet agree the man was a victim of murder?’
‘I do not, Holmes, but as you so manifestly do, do you have any identity in mind?’
‘I am certain it will prove to be the body of a Boer.’
With a choking laugh I exclaimed, ‘A Boer? Here in the depths of Sussex? Holmes, this goes too far! It is the most absurd... if this corpse could sit up and scratch his head, he would say ‘I have never been in Africa in my life, so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Busybody Holmes!’!’
‘Watson,’ Holmes broke back angrily, ‘I keep begging you to quit the habit of a lifetime, you must try your best to think!’
He paused. In a milder tone he asked, ‘I have another question for you. Where have you seen that hat before - is the description not oddly similar to one we have only very recently seen?’
‘To the best of my recollection,’ I responded, ‘the only hats I have seen today except your travelling cap and my topper and Siviter’s wideawake and Sir Julius’ fedora is Dudeney’s leather cap, and that mostly from the rear...’
Even as I spoke these words an image flashed before my eyes, the flamboyant figure in Pevensey’s reprise of a Constable.