He reflected gloomily for a while, then, ‘Watson, remind me of the words carved on the Hung League’s north temple gate. I believe you committed them to memory at the time?’
‘At the sign of Yin-kui the water is deep and difficult to cross, but in Yun-nan and Sze-Chuen there is a road by which you can travel’.’
After a short pause my companion continued in a sombre voice, ‘We must find the road to Yun-nan and Sze-Chuen. If this Kipling League defeats us, such would be my humiliation I assure you I would have no choice but to consider immediate retirement to farm my bees. In short, your chronicles will draw to an end.’
So alarmed was I by this threatening proclamation I ceased all speaking. Moments passed. My comrade-in-arms turned his head towards me with a most quizzical look.
‘Watson, I admit we build on quicksand. When I hear you put the pieces together - and with such a dubious expression - they point to the constable’s conclusion, a suicide or an accidental drowning in a wagon pond, perhaps of a tramp who stole a gentleman’s clothing and unwisely retained the pair of shiny dark glasses.’
He followed this with a shake of his head. ‘No, Watson, my every bone and instinct tells me it is foul play. When I listen to your objections, they do not hang together. If you will believe me, these Sungazers... I am certain they have committed a heinous crime yet I cannot give an answer to the two most puzzling riddles they have set us.’
‘Why the corpse lay in the wagon pond and not the moat?’
‘That is the one,’ Holmes nodded.
And why the pair of paintings?’
‘I see at least you follow, Watson, despite your trepidation, well done.’
He lapsed into a deep silence.
‘Holmes,’ I began, keenly aware the distance between us and Crick’s End was narrowing like the shadow of a great Himalayan mountain rushing towards us at the setting of the sun behind it, ‘you must follow your famed dictum, ‘no matter what....’.’
As if he had no inkling I had spoken, my companion continued juggling with an equation, his words low and troubled. ‘Surely the moat is where a drowning purporting to be a suicide or an accident would best take place...? This was followed by, ‘A second canvas so recently ordered... why? Why would Siviter gild the lily?’
Perhaps it was a trick of the light but I was sure I discerned a shade of anxiety starting in my companion’s heavy-lidded eyes which was spreading out to his expressive face. His head had dropped, like a bull’s awaiting the torero’s estocada.
Finally Holmes spoke. ‘Watson, you may be right. Perhaps I have leapt to the wrong conclusion. Nevertheless we must risk bearding them in their den, and soon, while the traces of crime might still be there.’
We had covered the length of the Straight Mile. Scarcely fifteen minutes remained before we would reach our destination. My companion’s fingers drummed on his knees.
He spoke again. ‘If I am right and the corpse was first dropped in the moat, why did Sir Julius and Weit hurry back to Scotney Castle to haul it from such deep water and place it in a pond not more than eighteen inches deep? What triggered this urgent and inexplicable act? It cannot be beyond the limits of human ingenuity to furnish an explanation.’
‘Sir Julius and Weit?’ I gasped in the greatest disbelief. ‘Holmes, I beg of you most sincerely, furnish such an explanation in the next few minutes. We shall soon be at their portico.’
More moments passed. He turned back to me. ‘Watson, you recall the lesson from A Study in Scarlet and The Sign of Four. We were compelled to reason backward from effects to causes. We must start with the unequivocal, such matters which even you in your disputatious mood cannot challenge. At three o’ clock exactly Sir Julius and Weit made their hasty entrance to the parlour...’
I interrupted, frowning. ‘Holmes, why do you impute haste in the pair’s arrival? They seemed quite calm and orderly. Weit even asked me...’
‘...about his health? Yes, he did, and you promised him the span, but how do you explain their shoes and spats splattered with chalk and clay? It would have taken a mere moment to get the servants to wipe them clean. And why would Sir Julius arrive among us in a parlour still clutching a hat? He must have pushed into the house before your Botticelli house-maid could meet him at the door to wrest it from him. No, Watson. They had an urgent need to be seated before us at three this afternoon precisely.’
His fingers continued drumming.
Suddenly he asked, ‘How far did Siviter say it was to Scotney Castle?’
‘Some twelve miles - as the crow flies,’ I responded.
‘By Dudeney’s conveyance, what time would it take to get there by road, do you suppose?’
‘Not more than half an hour each way.’
‘Then to fish up the corpse from the moat and take it with its pile of clothing to the wagon pond...’ Holmes mused. ‘They would want to hurry such an assignment. Ten minutes at most ...’
He darted a look at me. ‘Watson, the telegram we sent from Tunbridge Wells to announce our arrival, at what o’ clock did you hand it to the station porter?’
‘Your gold watch showed 1.15.’
‘And the telegram would have reached its destination at Crick’s End when, do you suppose?’
‘I would say some twenty minutes later.’
‘Hum! Let’s say not much after half past the hour...’
Again his voice fell to a murmur. ‘But if Dudeney was at the Etchingham Railway Station to meet us... I am certain when we arrived at Crick’s End both Weit and Sir Julius were there, but hidden. Transport by motor-car would be the only method. Only so could they have reached Scotney Castle and returned to Crick’s End by three. But why....’
His eyebrows lifted in triumph. ‘Watson, I have it!’
‘Namely?’
‘The unexpected arrival of our telegram, what else? The moment they heard we would be at Crick’s End three hours earlier than expected, a rush ensued to remove the body from the moat and take it to the wagon pond.’
His face took on a most perplexed look. ‘But, Watson, why?’ And again, ‘It makes no sense!’
Holmes gestured at the newspaper jutting from my coat.
‘Watson, please take the newspaper and pass it to me.’
He reached forward and took the Standard from my outstretched hand, flattening it out upon his knee.
‘‘A body lying mostly submerged ...’ Watson, ‘Mostly submerged’, what would that mean?’
‘That it would be largely under the water, surely, Holmes?’
‘Indeed it would mean that exactly, Watson. And therefore...?’
‘Mostly wet?’ I answered, bewildered.
‘Mostly wet, yes, Watson, you improve all the time - and as a consequence, what of its temperature?’
‘Why, the part above the surface would be affected by the temperature of the air, and similarly...’
‘... the greater part of the body, lying mostly submerged,’ Holmes broke in, ‘would be affected by the temperature of the pond. Precisely, Watson, well deduced - as befits a medical man.’
As from nowhere my companion asked with a slight smile, ‘Watson, I am struggling to remember... for some reason it has sprung to mind. If my memory still serves me, are you not the author of the Watson Codex? A monograph upon obscure nervous lesions - the pathology of catalepsy, I believe?’
I frowned. ‘I am, Holmes, the author of the Watson Codex, but as to nervous lesions you believe wrongly. That is Dr. Percy Trevelyan.’