‘That’s the utter damnation of it!’ my companion cried out. ‘On this very canvas this afternoon there was both shadow on the ground and dappled reflection on the surface of the water as of a man standing there - but no figure. I recall still with what meticulous detail he painted the hat’s reflection. Clearly he had seen it at close hand. Even now I can visualise the daubs of dark purples, browns and viridescence. He must have painted in the shadow and reflection last evening, waiting to complete the oil today.’
At Holmes’ words, a work of art flooded into my mind. In the foreground, below fine trees, a reflection on the surface of a stream picked up the passers-by.
‘That’s why you shouted Daubigny just now!’ I burst out.
My companion nodded.
‘Then what...?’ I began.
‘Immediately on our departure, they returned Pevensey to this attic to examine both canvases for any possible blunder.’
He pulled the painting to him and held it close to his face, sniffing at its surface.
‘Poppyseed oil - there you have it!’ he cried hoarsely, pushing the canvas back at me. ‘Poppyseed oil is not the best medium to over-paint a reflection, let alone a shadow, but it was to hand. It is much too light, yet it has served its purpose.’
Tentatively I dabbed a finger at the spot Holmes indicated. A thin line on the moat’s edge, perhaps half as long again as the shadow of the stranger by the wagon pond was tacky to my touch. In the gloom I looked back at my companion’s contorted face.
Holmes’ words spilled out. ‘The presence of a human shadow and reflection awaiting a figure made me the more surprised when Pevensey told us he completed this canvas yesterday. I took it he was in a rush to finish his commissions. He would not trouble himself to paint a figure in or, otherwise, to paint out the shadow and reflection. Now I realise it was an oversight brought on by panic. That omission was what the Sungazers discovered even as we were returning here from Etchingham. The shadow and the reflection were painted out not half an hour ago. Like the sign-post to Wood’s Corner, once painted in, the figure would become the gnomon of a sundial, its shadow of a length and direction signalling six o’ clock, precisely the time Fusey would swear he saw our Boer standing by the moat had we boarded the three-ten train as commanded.’ He added despairingly, ‘To be ‘found by the woodman in the exercise of his rounds’ at seven.’
In the silence of the Sussex night I could hear Holmes’ gold watch ticking the seconds by. A grudging admiration was taking hold on him.
‘Watson, the mechanisms employed in this extraordinary crime are quite unique. This is the work of immensely skilful men. The wagon pond was a far less satisfactory choice than the moat and indeed makes little sense - adults seldom drown in waters a mere eighteen inches deep. The Sungazers had no option once it was known we were on our way aboard the earlier train - they needed warmer water to stew the corpse. They calculated - correctly - they could rely on the influence of Fusey’s powerful testimony on the local constable. In return, Fusey was happy to take a little disapprobation over the condition of the wagon pond verges.’
Holmes turned to me. ‘Watson, it took a mind capable of the most remarkable daring to accommodate such a last-minute change of plan.’
‘Siviter’s?’
‘I have no doubt.’
‘And it succeeded.’
‘It did. Did he not write ‘You must not blink when the wounded tiger comes running at you’?’
After a minute’s heavy silence, Holmes continued.
‘The cunning dogs have truly covered their tracks.’ He pointed to the moat. ‘That empty space awaiting a human figure... that was the dog that didn’t bark. Had they not been pushed by my innocent enquiries... had I not related The Adventure of Silver Blaze... they may not have uncovered Pevensey’s lazy blunder. The painting you hold would have led to the unravelling of murder.’
I was disturbed to hear Holmes’ voice taking on a quite sinister drawl, rather high-pitched as though, like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, he was transmogrifying into an alter ego. Seeing him in the gloomy attic with his head thrown back and eyes half-closed, a chill of fear came over me. I stood uncertain how to react, holding fast to the canvas and candle. I was about to speak some consolatory word, even congratulate him on taking such a violent setback so well, when - not for the only time on that extraordinary day - something took place which will forever stay in my memory. His face now utterly distorted, Holmes shrieked ‘Am I to stand here and chuckle at my own defeat? Put candle to canvas, Watson! Do it now!’
Realising even as he spoke I would refuse to perform this sensational act, Holmes closed with me like a Fury, seizing me with convulsive strength. The ink- and chemical-stained hands able to display an extraordinary delicacy of touch with his experiments now seemed to belong to a Madagascar python. My legs began to sag. Within an instant a hand able to bend a steel poker crushed my fingers, pressing the candle against the canvas. Tiny bluish flames sprang like genies from the surface, licking at my hand. The candle dropped. Spilt linseed oil on the thick dust and tinder-dry wood-shavings caught fire. Within seconds the roar of the burning floorboards sounded preternaturally loud.
We made our exit. Despite the stiffness in my leg from the Jezzail’s bullet, I scrambled at speed down the narrow stairs, staying on the very heels of my fleet companion. Once outside, at the small bridge leading to the Wild Garden, for an unconscionable time Holmes stopped to stare in silence at Crick’s End. I waited anxiously. Even though the wind had slackened and the night air was cooling fast, I worried that the Aberdeen terriers would catch our scent.
At Holmes’ whispered command we re-commenced a withdrawal, as despairing as Napoleon on the retreat from Moscow, passing a statue of Hephaestus, blacksmith of the gods, half-hidden by the Brazilian gunnera, the plant’s leaves huge and sinister in the half-moon’s light. At the side-gate to the pitted lane I paused to look back through high trees. The mill was a blaze of light. Flames had forced their way through the ancient roof, stabbing into the heavens, like pink feathers from a monstrous flamingo. Alerted by the acrid smell of smoke drifting across open windows and the loud crackle of burning timber, Siviter’s staff were running out into the open. Soon the garden would be alive with people. At any second I expected to hear the deep, booming voice of a scenthound on our trail, hunting us as such hounds hunt jackals in Afghanistan.
Ahead of me by some yards, I could see the gleam of the side-lights of our waiting carriage. Holmes was already there. He gave a rapid order to our cabman. Driven by my and Holmes’ exhortation, quite as though he had no eye for the flames nor ear for the urgent voices of half a dozen Crick’s End staff, our loyal driver used his whip. The carriage surged forward.
We Journey Home To Baker Street
The greys clattered at a long trot through a lane so narrow it would have been reckless at a busier time of day. The carriage’s side-lights blazed, brushing against the hedges as the carriage swayed and jolted. I listened for the sound of a motorised barouche roaring behind us. We came to the small bridge over the Dudwell River. The horses pulled left and began the steep climb to the ridge on which Burrish’s ancient church stood. The atmosphere in the cab was dark beyond all measure. Twice I tried to question my companion but he remained silent, lost in unhappy reflection. The quiet air of command, the incisive voice pitched like the string of a high-strung violin, the subtle, sly, dry humour, all were for the moment vanquished.
‘Holmes,’ I asked, hoping to lighten his mood. ‘What do you say - a year in Pentonville for burning down a mill listed in the Domesday Book? Six months’ hard labour for each canvas painted by the President of the Royal Academy?’