‘What drives Siviter is more than India. He is a true adherent of his literary Master. Recall, Watson, Kipling’s poem The Mary Gloster - hard work, duty, self-sacrifice and resilience. These Sungazers are hardly red republicans. They are men of Empire and the White Man’s burden.’
He was silent for a moment, followed by, ‘But what of India?’
‘Populous?’ I ventured, edging towards firmer ground.
‘Very populous.’
‘Colourful?’
‘Yes, colourful.’
’Large?’
Holmes frowned impatiently.
‘Yes, Watson, yes, it is a sub-continent, very large, very populous, but politically?’
‘Why, in ferment,’ I replied.
‘Indeed, Watson, there you have it. To a medical man like you, India is the geographic expression of mosquitoes and fevers. India and Afghanistan left you with a shattered leg and shoulder, a half-pay surgeon on a pension of eleven shillings and sixpence a day. But what of salted Anglo-Indians like Siviter? For him it is the great pilgrimage to Hurdwar on the holy Ganges. The ‘wind of March against the lattice blowing’.’
Stirred at this unexpected poetry coming from my friend. I joined in, a chorus to his verse. ‘‘Tamarisk-trees white with the dust of rainless days’.’
‘The road from Jugdullack to Butkhak! What of the festival of lights at Chiragan? The Levées at Government House. The Carabiniers... the drink called peg. The Squadrons - think, old warrior that you are, of the Punjab Cavalry!’
Tears sprang to my eyes for the second time that day. ‘The day-long rolling thunder among the Khyber hills. The 14th Bengal Lancers,’ I added.
Holmes leaned forward. He continued in a low and serious voice, ‘To them it is love and longing of a mystical kind. Yes, Watson, you are right. Rail as he might against the tide of unclean humanity amid the seething, stinking bustees of the presidency cities, when Siviter dies we will not discover ‘Crick’s End’ lying on his heart but Lahore or Simla, the Abode of the Little Tin Gods. In short, he adores being Heaven-born, white stranger within the gates of Hindoos, Mohammedans and the Sikh, set apart in a vast, anonymous multitude, scion of an empire which contains only Milords Anglais, soldiers, shipowners, magnates, famous barristers and explorers.’
He paused dramatically. ‘Now, however, England’s rule is being ripped asunder by agitating natives. You heard his references to lascars - ‘caste-ridden, venal and incompetent’, and ‘hybrid, University-trained mules’. Even if Siviter has not yet cast his topee into the waters of Port Said en route to Blighty, India is saying good-bye and he must turn with urgency elsewhere.’
As he spoke, the coachman called out ‘whoa!’. The horses halted. The tinkle of a thin chain from the rear told us the brown-spotted carriage-dog was being released and led away.
Holmes continued insistently. ‘As India loosens from Siviter’s grasp, what then? You read his words in the gazetteer. England is ‘slipping down the broad, easy decline to our extinction as a Great Power with an influence to exert on the side of the angels, with a civilising tradition to plant all the world over’. Where better to cast the fly of the White Man’s burden next than on the sweated backs of Zulus and poor devils in Matabeleland?’
With a jerk our journey recommenced. The promise of a half-sovereign in mind, our driver whipped up the greys. We sped at a flat run, the vehicle whirling along the ridge. Holmes resumed his discourse. ‘I have enough to beard them in their lair, though mark my words, before we pass this to Scotland Yard it might take seclusion and a seven-percent solution, or an ounce of shag from Bradley’s before we meet them in a Court of Law.’
He wiped the condensation from the cab window and continued, ‘Take the corpse. It is clear the local constabulary has no thought of suspicious death, itself no small achievement by the Kipling League.’
‘Holmes,’ I broke in, ‘if death was not by drowning, what then?’
‘As yet that too I cannot tell you. Certainly death was not by poison à l’anglais. The muscular contortions strychnine causes would leap out even to a local bobby’s untutored eye.’
Holmes fell silent. I stared at him most dismally. After a pause I ventured, ‘Why naked, Holmes? Can you explain that to my satisfaction? Was this perverted and insulting act solely to expose the weathering of the skin, and if so, why?’
‘The matter of disrobing is extremely clever. Without doubt one aim was to open up the body to reveal the sun-scorched skin. While possibly it was to insult - we shall return to that - I do not believe it was with a perverted intent.’
‘You say ‘one aim’ was to open up the body, Holmes. And what of another?’
‘If I am right in my deduction, it was a signal.’
‘A signal?’ I exclaimed.
‘A signal,’ Holmes confirmed. ‘Through the fact a sun so violent is clearly indicative of a Tropical clime.’
‘And at whom is this signal aimed, I pray?’
‘At whom, indeed. It behoves us to discover.’
Holmes paused again.
‘Then, the perfect crime in their grasp, the assassins’ luck ran out,’ Holmes went on, his words jerking with the jolting of the carriage, ‘by sheer chance - an uncalculated delay resulting from your intense satisfaction in consuming Imam Bayildi - we were caught by the clamour of the newspaper boy. A half-hour sooner we might have concluded our journey to London by the earlier train. We would never have heard him singing his song ‘Late Extra! Dead body at Scotney Castle’.’
‘Holmes,’ I expostulated. ‘You try to insult and divert me all at once but I see why. I know we share a love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life but are facts not of some importance if this is a case of murder as you assert? As yet I cannot see anything save vague indications.’ I added cuttingly, ‘So far you are able to deduce neither opportunity nor motive! It seems quite feasible the victim died sometime this afternoon when we were in camera with Siviter and his companions, a matter you refuse to address despite my persistent questioning. You assert the body was thrown in the moat. How you come to that conclusion mystifies me completely. The corpse was discovered in the wagon pond. As to its nakedness, that was, you say, a semaphore, but you have not the faintest idea at whom the signal is directed.’ I added, smiling grimly, ‘Otherwise, Holmes, you are as right as you have ever been. We have most truly got these murderous Sungazers on the run. As it is so critical to your case against the Kipling League, I repeat, what of the timing? Were they seated in front of us at Crick End at three o’ clock or not? You impute contrivance and precision to these events. It is incumbent on you to enlighten me. Otherwise, turn this carriage around and let us emulate the Grand Old Duke Of York and beat a path back down the hill to Etchingham and let the Pullman car carry us home to Baker Street.’
To my intense frustration, rather than answer my query, he continued as though speaking to himself. ‘Yet what am I to make of...?’, though to which point he was referring he did not elaborate.
He continued to stare out through the cab window, repeating over and over, ‘It makes no sense.’
Unwisely, I determined to force my opinion on him. I took a firm grip on his arm, as with an errant schoolchild’s ear. He wrenched his arm away. In a savage voice shouted, ‘Watson! You fidget me beyond endurance. I beg you, cease all questioning - and at this instant! I must ask you to remain completely silent. Keep your concerns to yourself. Do not inflict them on me any longer or we are utterly lost.’
Astonished by his ferocity I did as I was bid. He slumped back with a disconsolate look.
‘Watson, this Kipling League has set me an equation of the utmost complexity. There are no clues hidden in a tobacco jar. Each one seems to slip through my fingers. Except the matter is beyond humanity - which like Siviter’s tale of his ghostly monks I do not believe it to be - there should be no combination of events for which the wit of man cannot conceive the explanation, yet I admit I am stretched beyond anything we have so far confronted. If I cannot solve it, they will defeat us.’