‘Watson, ask our coachman to return to this precise spot in half an hour. And tell him at all cost not to be seen.’
I passed Holmes’ words to the coachman. Without so much as a look in our direction he raised the whip to his hat and turned the greys full circle. The sound of the rattling wheels died away along the narrow lane. We crouched in the dense black shadow of the yew hedges which separated the grounds from the track. Immediately to our left a small sign proclaimed ‘Park Farm No Through Road’ along an uneven pock-marked stretch of track. Twenty paces along, shielded from Crick’s End by the high hedge, we saw a six-bar gate.
‘Wait here, Watson,’ Holmes instructed.
Over the years Holmes had leapt many a gate. Even at a middling age Holmes maintained his india-rubber ability un-sapped. In some awe of this, Inspector Lestrade of the Yard with momentary wit said Holmes would vault a six-bar gate even when it was open wide. By contrast, cumulative injuries since my days playing rugby, and especially the hardships and wounds of Afghanistan, had left me less athletic.
Holmes turned to the gate like a good horse given cry and rein, and cleared it in a twinkling. A magnificent dog-fox, startled by the human arrival, made a dash for the long grass cover of the Wild Garden. A warm breeze blew from the westward. I stood alone, waiting, heart in mouth, as I had waited in the midst of many a case.
Above the nearby Park Wood the clouds had passed on. The young white moon was visible in a darkling sky. The Sussex Weald at night is other-worldly, full of mystery and sounds. Under the veiled moon, on this late-spring evening, it was possible to conjure in the mind wolves standing eyes a-glowing, howling amid bluebells and wood anemones. Among them, men wearing tunics with a belt, like a Norfolk jacket, over which was thrown a plaid fastened with a brooch, dwelt in the woods, as charcoal-makers or herding swine and small-horned cattle, or tending crops of wheat and barley. The pale moonlight cast deep shadows, turning everyday shapes into menacing creatures from a nether world. The very ground felt treacherous underfoot. My nerves were a-tingle by the time Holmes returned, presaged by his high-pitched whistle in imitation of a woodcock performing its roding ceremony.
‘Watson, the moon makes this route too visible. There are two doors ajar, including Dudeney’s, and several windows with lights behind them. We shall take the lane and enter unseen from the Mill-pond side.’
In case of need we agreed a civil greeting and a plausible excuse, based on a missed train, a love of moonlight walks and a keen interest in the countryside by night, but unremarked we soon stepped over the turbine with its 14-inch pipe and came once more to the entrance to the mill. Inside the unbolted door Holmes pushed aside his dust-coat to reach into a pocket. He withdrew the stump of a red wax candle, passing it to me with the murmured words ‘Please light it only when we reach the attic.’
We clambered in darkness up the narrow stairs, the familiar smell of old wood and rotted oats arriving at our nostrils. Within seconds we regained our former places in the attic. The speed and angle of our ascent left me puffing and blowing like a spavined horse, my old leg wound aching. Tense with excitement, Holmes ordered, ‘Watson, first the canvas on the easel. Light the candle and bring it to the painting of the wagon pond.’
I did as Holmes bid, stepping forward cautiously on the uneven boards. My foot knocked against a discarded bottle, spilling its last contents upon the dust layering the floor. The smell of linseed oil rose in the damp air. Holmes joined me at the easel. In the candle’s light his forefinger darted at the flamboyant stranger by the wagon pond. ‘Look, Watson, see the figure’s shadow, painted in so clearly? Note its direction. It indicates the sun was just west of south. And gauge its length - there can be no doubt it confirms the stranger was standing there at three o’ clock, sworn so by Pevensey and Fusey if required.’
‘Holmes,’ I began, in a hoarse whisper, ‘of itself, this does not...’
‘Offer proof of a conspiracy to murder, I agree! That you shall now have, Watson, did I not give you my word? Come with the candle to the canvas on the floor - my doubting Thomas, you and Scotland Yard are about to have your proof!’
I feel Holmes’ triumphant anticipation even now. Even now I hear the ringing timbre of his voice.
I trod with caution across the uncertain floor and took hold of the canvas, lifting it to the level of our eyes.
‘This is truly to be my coup de maître, Watson,’ my comrade exulted, bending his head towards the canvas. ‘Note well, Ruth to my Naomi! Now we can lay an account of the case before Inspector Gregson in its due order. Have your pencil at the ready! You shall have...‘
His words came to a disbelieving stop. A cry at once furious and anguished burst from him. Finally he managed a half-gasp: ‘Look! Watson, they have done us in!’
I swivelled the canvas towards me. Stare as I might, I could see nothing in the canvas to trigger so dramatic a reaction.
‘They have done us in,’ Holmes repeated in a strangulated voice. ‘The cunning devils! I fear our train has escaped the rails and is now sliding across the landscape. Their alibi is complete. Dudeney did not take Pevensey to the railway station. Siviter kept him back. Now I know for certain they killed the Boer but we can never prove it.’
Violently Holmes turned towards me. ‘I have been a farcical blunderer! I have committed the most serious error of my career!’
His agonised gaze returned to the canvas. ‘My display of interest in Pevensey’s work... Watson, had we been on a case, I would have kept my cogitations to myself. Unintended, my amiable enquiries caused them to conduct an examination of the paintings. They discovered the very oversight I required intact to make a convincing case to Gregory and Lestrade.’
I stood in helpless silence, uncertain how to respond. After a moment, to my surprise, Holmes spoke in a vibrant voice rather than the former strangulated whisper.
‘It’s all right, Watson,’ he reassured me. ‘They will know we are here. I warrant there is no likelihood they will come to meet us.’
‘But Holmes,’ I began, bewildered, staring at the canvas. ‘What is there in this painting which...’
My companion pointed to a spot on the inner edge of the moat. His outstretched finger looked gnarled in the flickering light. ‘Look most carefully, Watson. Earlier, you swore thrice you had no recollection of a figure in this painting - surely now you see your error. Surely you see the figure of the Boer!’
Panic swept over me. Am I in a nightmare, I wondered, such a nightmare as I suffered after engaging the forces of Ayub Khan at the battle of Maiwand where I was badly wounded? Would I soon awaken at break of day in a fevered sweat? Would I soon be able to dash my face and head in cold water to dispel the magic-lantern illusions of the night?
‘I’m sorry, Holmes,’ I croaked. ‘Where you indicate is just a patch of grass beneath an open sky. I see no Boer.’
Holmes kept his insistent finger close to the moat. ‘Nevertheless,’ he continued, ‘you note the shadow on the bank as of a human standing there, its length and direction indicating early evening?’
I peered again, bringing the guttering candle ever closer to the canvas.
‘No, Holmes,’ I responded at last. ‘I see no human shadow, only that of the overhanging bushes.’
‘Then what of the Boer’s reflection in the water?’ Holmes pursued, increasing my agitation with each successive question. ‘Surely you discern his reflection! ’
Again I peered where his shaking finger pointed.
I said firmly, in a low but determined voice, ‘Holmes, once more, may I make myself entirely clear - there is no human shadow on the bank nor any such reflection on the surface of the moat.’