He paused. ‘Nevertheless, I fear I am missing something of immediate importance... something critical to the case.’
I remained quiet, happy to be back to my role as sounding-board while Holmes continued in intense cogitation, his eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Was there something in the setting?’ he murmured several times, ‘the dim-lit mill-attic? A shaft of sunlight through the window playing on the easel...’
As if I were no longer at his side, Holmes continued, ‘All that bended knee to history. The meadow where Jack Cade was slaughtered... so much on Cade’s death and his severed head on London Bridge I felt I was at a vivisection. In the telegram, Siviter threw in Pevensey as bait, such was the urgent wish to bring us here. He knew we would want to meet the famous artist and view his work, yet consider our host’s pains to prevent us from being tête-à-tête. Why so? You saw Pevensey’s uneasy stance upon our entry? How soon he took his leave? The glance he gave us on his departure. He may be incidental to the crime - I doubt he would garrotte a tube of Chrome Yellow - but Pevensey’s paintings are vital to their alibi. As to taking an earlier train than ours, more likely he wished to avoid a Pullman car containing Holmes and Watson than worry over Third Class compartments filled with colporteurs and market-women with babies!’
‘Holmes,’ I interrupted, ‘if the use of boiled linseed and the sheen so greatly aroused your interest, why did you not bring the matter to Siviter’s attention after Pevensey left the attic? Would it not have been of interest to hear what the patron had to say?’
‘We were not yet acquainted with the report in the Standard. I was not in the market for seeking clues. After Pevensey spent a week or more on such a mundane commission - jobbing works in imitation of a Constable or paintings of ruins by moats will not enhance his reputation - he may have decided to complete the work in the quickest time. It would hardly be out of character.’
‘Holmes,’ I said mildly. ‘Isn’t that a plausible explanation for his use of boiled linseed oil?’
Holmes’ thin lips compressed. His brows drew down, lost in profound thought. He turned in my direction and looked at me with a reluctant expression, as though the investigation had reached its end.
‘Watson, it is possible you have been right all along. Perhaps I am simply spinning conjurors’ plates. A fifth-rate Counsel might tear my suppositions to rags. As we stand here at this bridge there is insufficient evidence to bring an accusation to their porch or even gain the ear of Scotland Yard. Our ferret-like friend Lestrade would react exactly as you suggest - he would listen in apparent seriousness and snigger the moment our back was turned. While I maintain there is truth in my conclusion, that this is an assassination - and by the Kipling League - I can see they have you firmly on their side and would gain the sympathy and respect of a jury too.’
While sympathetic to my companion’s gloom, my heart grew lighter at these despondent words. I gestured towards the carriage. The watchful cabman picked up the reins at the ready. The horses’ brass accoutrements jangled. The greys, still grazing the lane verges, pulled forward for a last mouthful of vegetation, dislodging a rabbit from its shelter. With amazing celerity it dashed across the lane, leaping into the nearby field. Successive bounds merged into a long and shallow glide like a porpoise accompanying a Cunard ocean liner. Despite the ever-dimming evening light, the tufted white of the tail was remarkably easy to follow.
With the fear draining from my being, I twitched Holmes’ sleeve.
‘What would Darwin say about the whiteness of that creature’s tail?’ I asked gaily. ‘It cannot be a warning like the cobra hissing - it has no weapons in its armoury but flight. Surely such a ball of cotton commands the fox to chase it rather than dissuades it? Does this not contradict the Theory of Evolution by Natural Selection?’
‘It is a paradox,’ Holmes agreed.
‘And why does the white tuft flash only when its owner is retreating?’
‘At the very least it is a warning to its brethren.’
‘But what of its own safety as it rushes to its burrow?’ I asked, looking expectantly at my companion, keen to engage longer on the subject whilst edging ever-closer to our carriage.
‘Then, Watson... as it approaches its burrow what happens?’ Holmes responded.
I replied, ‘Why, with luck it scurries into the very deeps of Mother Earth.’
‘With luck, you say? But can it be just through luck? No species survives over brutish time at the whim of Mistress Luck, not a creature with such a lodestar of a tail.’
‘Yet prosper it has. Look at the numbers in this field alone.’
‘Indubitably so.’
‘So what of Darwin’s Theory?’ I insisted. ‘Surely the rabbit is too successful for the tuft to be mere evolutionary baggage?’
‘Darwin could only argue the creature prospers because of - not despite - the whiteness of its tail. Natural Selection permits no other conclusion.’
‘By which you mean...?’
‘If it raises only when the creature senses danger, it must aid, not endanger its own escape.’
‘Holmes,’ I pursued, ‘I may lack quickness of perception, but how could that be? Have we not this very moment observed what a marker the white tail makes, even in the dusk? Even from this distance our eye tracked it to its lair some forty yards away.’
‘Indeed,’ Holmes assented. ‘Again I ask, what then?’
‘Why, as I said, with luck it scurries into its burrow.’
‘And I repeat, Watson, we and all things living are lost if Nature depends so heavily on the momentary chance.’
‘Then I give up,’ I replied, perplexed, shaking my head dolefully at my ignorance, deeply pleased my stratagem was working. With a smile Holmes said, ‘Watson, you have aroused my curiosity and led me off from my own pursuit, well done. It is good you keep me flat-footed. We shall take this matter of the rabbit to a logical conclusion. What of the tail’s location?’
‘Why, Holmes,’ I laughed, ‘where tails are always located!’
‘Meaning?’
‘At the very back.’
‘Thus when the fox pursues it?’
‘In the fox’s very eye?’ I ventured.
‘How would you describe the action of that tail?’
‘That it bobs up and down?’
‘Watson, bravo! Once more today you have solved a vexing puzzle.’
Perplexed, I stared at my companion. ‘Holmes, would you kindly explain how I have solved this mystery?’
‘Why, as you suggest, it lies less in the tail than the bobbing.’
‘What of the bobbing?’
‘At the very least the speed of bobbing would allow a predator to calculate if the creature’s agility makes it impossible to catch - but let us assume our fox is in full cry. Whenever life is taken, there is always a decisive moment. Think when that would be for the rabbit.’
‘Just as the fox closes in, jaws gaping...’
‘... at which point the very whiteness of that tail even in the gloom would now be jigging before the fox’s eye... up, down, up, down...’
Dramatically I threw my arms into the air. ‘...creating mesmeric turmoil in the fox’s brain! Of course! Holmes, well done!’
At the very instant I uttered my congratulations it was as though an electric stroke passed through my companion. With an iron grip he took my sleeve, pulling me swiftly from the carriage step. I heard him crying, ‘Watson, you have done well! Let us reconsider Pevensey’s paintings in the light of the rabbit’s tail. Answer me without demur, at the last minute what replaced the dog in the painting of the wagon pond?’