‘Again, Holmes, what of the sheen?’ I repeated haplessly. ‘Please explain.’
‘I asked myself even while we were at the easel in the mill-attic, why did Pevensey suddenly resort to boiled linseed oil? What was the urgent need? Why commit a sin against his own profession? There could be only one answer - force majeure. Why else? Imagine him at the wagon pond not long after lunch-time today, completing at leisure the last few brush-strokes in the Constable painting, namely the dog. It is possible up to then he was unaware of the murderous activity taking place around him. He was simply finishing the Constable before returning to the moat by six o’ clock to staff the second canvas - at Siviter’s behest - with a figure wearing Sir Julius’ flamboyant hat. From The Musgrave Ritual we know in the early evening a rod of six feet would throw a shadow approaching nine. The shadow and the spectre’s reflection would indicate the hour. Pevensey would be driven direct to a railway station to catch the train. After his departure, the body hidden in the waters of the moat among the carp and bream was to be discovered by the woodman at seven. Instead, what happens? Just after lunch, Pevensey was at the wagon pond completing the Constable by painting in the dog. Dudeney drives up, accompanied by Weit and Sir Julius. With at most a hurried explanation, Dudeney lifts a corpse from the back seat or boot and drags it into the shallow water before Pevensey’s bulging eyes. Weit or Sir Julius order the artist to overpaint the dog with a living stranger wearing the flamboyant hat, the shadow and reflection to indicate three this afternoon, precisely the time I would be on my feet, the Kipling League before me.’
‘Holmes,’ I demanded hotly, fearful of the reckoning drawing nigh, ‘this is all quite exceptionally ingenious though as near impossible a supposition as you have ever uttered. What of motive? How else can you convince Scotland Yard let alone a jury? This is a case as different from the Abergavenny murder as the moon is from Earth.’
‘For the moment it is not motive which concerns me, Watson, it’s the proof! As of yet I have not grasped the motive - we must leave it in gold and diamonds and the Rand. Emanations from the recent war in Africa are far from settled. Across the Continent the great scramble goes on. Nyasaland and the Congo are up for grabbing.’
A ‘Whoaa’ to the horses reminded us of the presence of the cabman hidden from sight above and to the back of us.
‘Holmes,’ I said, lowering my voice but unable to withhold my urgent tone. ‘Please answer me, have I been your true friend and loyal companion through a multitude of almost intractable cases...?’
‘You have, Watson, and I am most...’
‘And have we not together been confronted several times with death itself - in The Adventure of the Empty House, when we faced the threat of Colonel Sebastian Moran, for example? And when we infiltrated the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn?’
‘Indeed, my friend, we have,’ Holmes replied imperturbably. ‘I remember clearly.’
‘And in The Adventure of The Speckled Band?’ I pursued.
‘As you say,’ came the reply.
‘Did I not save your life on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion when we were hunting Sir Grimesby Roylott?’
‘...in the Dinaric Arc, yes.’
The Dinaric Arc was a vast network of underground caves, lakes and rivers running under the Balkan Mountains in labyrinthine fashion, dark and largely devoid of light.
‘And must I remind you Sir Grimesby was reputed to be the third most dangerous man in London?’
‘Indisputably you saved me from destruction at his hands, yes, my good friend Watson.’
‘And what of The Threadneedle...?’ I clamoured, at which Holmes interrupted with a slight smile.
‘Watson, I find your reference to several of our adventures most enjoyable but in turn I remind you we are short of time. Can we follow my maxim, ‘If ‘p’, then ‘q’’? You have made one point well - which is, unless I have misunderstood you completely, you are a most loyal and brave companion. Is there another point of equal merit to follow from the first? Surely you are now not going to whisper your old school number in my ear, which, unless I am mistaken, was thirty- ...?’
‘Holmes, in short, am I not a true comrade upon whose nerve you can place some reliance?’
‘I repeat, most certainly you are.’
‘A whetstone for your mind...’
‘Again, indeed.’
‘And if I irritate you by a certain methodical slowness in my mentality, does that irritation make your own flame-like intuitions and impressions flash up the more vividly and swiftly...?’
‘Watson, my dear old friend....’ Holmes interrupted, a wry look replacing the smile. ‘Please, I beg you, cut out the poetry.’
‘Holmes, I follow your words closely. I am aware at other times you have deduced from signs so subtle and minute that even when you have pointed them out to me I could scarcely follow you in your reasoning. On this occasion - you must forgive me for putting it so plainly - I would rather follow you into battle against Professor Moriarty and Colonel Moran together, armed only with one of Mrs. Hudson’s feather dusters, than confront these Sungazers with what you have in mind.’
My knees trembled with anxiety but I forced myself to continue. ‘Tut, man, the facts so far presented are not the slightest bit convincing. Familiar as I am with your methods, it is impossible for me to go along with your deductions.’
‘Not for the first time in living memory, surely, Doctor?’ Holmes responded with an edge. ‘None the less, if you insist, I shall keep on piling fact upon fact until your reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right. I hope by that process to have cleared up any little obscurity which the case may still present.’
In a more conciliatory tone he continued, ‘You have my word, Watson, once we confront them at Crick’s End, the facts will evolve before your eyes. I have no doubt that we shall have all our details filled in. The mystery will clear gradually away as each new element uncovered furnishes a step which will lead us on to the complete truth.’
‘We shall see, Holmes,’ I replied, giving him a dubious look. ‘I had no idea of the lengths to which your curiosity would carry you. This is not a puny plot in a yellow-backed novel or a sevenpenny by Rider Haggard. Gold Bugs and Randlord - and Siviter himself - these are hardly people who hang around in Tower Hill. To promote the charge of murder against men of such standing - of such wealth, such raw power - on what you speculate seems neither legally plausible nor politically palatable.’
His words were coming to me muffled as though through wool. I bent my head to look out of the carriage. My voice rose to a shriek. ‘Holmes, we are approaching the final furlong before we meet them face to face. I simply cannot let you...’
This adamant refusal to accept his deductions overstretched my companion’s patience. He ceased his attempts at reason or conciliation. With a violent movement of his forearm he fixed me with a synthetically enraged eye and in a high and strident tone shouted, ‘Watson, you dare to say you simply cannot let me? You question both my actions and my motives? You, a doctor - you are enough to drive a patient into an asylum. Do not make me regret I spoke of you with warmth and sympathy! Don’t harry me like a badger-baiter! This is not your novel. I am reconciled to the fact you are Ruth to my Naomi but you stretch my good-will and patience to the point of breaking. Pay attention, Watson, I demand you take my assumptions seriously. Throwing down that Tropical hat was a challenge worthy of a Professor Moriarty. From it they knew I would infer their deadly hand. Their dare to me is - ‘Great Consulting Detective, put together proof!’