‘Three hours earlier than expected.’
‘Yes.’
Observing my expression, Holmes continued, ‘Watson, you still look dubious. Let us consider the mathematics of this case, so central and so precise it required the most exact administration. According to your Codex, if a body is kept cool there should be a stretch of eight hours ten minutes before rigor mortis takes its grip. Anticipating we would take the three-ten train they dispatched the Boer this morning, the body taken at once and deposited in the moat. That done, all they needed to do was wait. All would go like clockwork. We were to give our talk at six. The woodman would stumble across the corpse at seven, his attention directed to the pile of clothing and the hat. At once the village constable would be summoned. He in turn would assume the victim, arms and legs still limber, might well have died within the hour, a time to be consolidated both by Fusey’s sighting and by Pevensey’s painting of the phantom stranger showing him alive at six. But think, Watson, what must they do on receiving our telegram informing Siviter we had taken the earlier train? Imagine their agitation! We would be on our feet and speaking not at six but three. Now, rather than retarding the onset of rigor mortis, they need to speed it up for fear the body would stay limber much too long - long enough to lose them Holmes as their alibi. But how does one speed up the natural process? Simple! Refer once more to a famous work on rigor mortis. I am certain from their remedy those who masterminded this crime are well acquainted with the Watson Codex, as Van Beers and Siviter would surely be. They are veterans of many violent engagements where medical men would swarm. Taking their cue from your tables, they rushed back to fish the corpse up from the moat, recover the clothes from a nearby bush, and hurry the body to the wagon pond where the warmth of shallow water even in our early summer would work its wonders.’
He paused, smiling at me grimly. ‘Watson, without the scientific information in your Codex the Sungazers could have made a very dangerous blunder.’
I shook my head in wonder. ‘You construct a most ingenious theory, Holmes, quite the equal of The Murders in the Rue Morgue. If what you say is true... they should have hidden or destroyed the second painting the moment they heard we were on the earlier train.’
‘Except that Siviter had no idea that Pevensey, anticipating a change of weather, sketched in the shadow and reflection yesterday, in the evening sunlight, leaving just the figure to brush in today.’
Holmes’ mood returned to black despair. He flung his face in his hands. ‘Damnably, had I not recounted The Adventure of Silver Blaze I believe we could have got them. They were attentive to my recitation solely to discover which gaps might lie in their violent undertaking. Such fiends! They used my vanity against me. To think how I flattered their confounded League by expressing my obligation to their patron.’
When the excess of emotion had drained, Holmes leant forward and looked at me with an accusing expression. His outstretched fingers twiddled before my face in curious fashion, as rhythmic and hypnotic as the antennae of a mantis.
‘Watson, after this, your plans for my retirement must change. Were I ever to stand before another audience, I would be asking myself which among these keen and attentive faces is totting up my words for clues to get away with murder - are we once more to be the assassin’s alibi!’
‘Holmes,’ I interpolated, ‘we are not done with the day’s events. Why would they empty the dead man’s pockets of all possessions? It was that which added to your suspicions.’
‘He was a foreigner. All such indication would have to be removed in case an overheated constable declared it was the corpse of an enemy agent en route to Downing Street or the Palace. Inspector Gregory would have been called down at once. The League wanted no such intrusion.’
‘But Holmes, again I ask, why did they have to disrobe the unhappy man?’
‘Fully clad, just his hands and face would have been apparent. In the countryside ruddy face and wind-burnt hands are the norm, even among gentlefolk who could afford this sort of apparel. Undressing him sent a signal to someone in particular, almost certainly in Pretoria, someone who would recognise the clues on offer. Dark glasses, chest and legs burned by Tropical suns from above the calf to just below the knee. And that most brilliant touch, the substitution of the fedora with a hat designed for Tropical climes.’
‘Surely, Holmes,’ I broke in, ‘a Boer, if such he was, would own...’
‘... such a hat? Why not! But I tell you, Watson, that was never the dead man’s hat. It would prove to be a half-size too large if we could measure his skull. Indubitably it was Sir Julius’s. Do you remember in the parlour when I remarked how he had so recently worn a hat a half-size too small? Did you not note the change in his expression at what was at most an inconsequential remark? A man of such standing and wealth would have his own skilled hatter. He would never resort to an off-the-shelf fedora. The report in the Standard - the mention of the weathering between calf and knee, the V-shaped sunburn of the chest, the dark glasses especially, even the location so near to Crick’s End - would merely tell the recipient of this news their man is dead. Without that hat tossed atop the pile of clothing it might well have been the accidental or self-inflicted drowning asserted by the constable which the newspaper in your pocket reports almost as a fact - a conclusion you yourself are still inclined to, despite my every effort. To someone who knows this Boer, the description of that hat will signal murder. His close acquaintances would know he never owned a hat with such a band. And who else but someone in the Transvaal would recognise the reptile referred to in the newspaper report? In the outside world, how many are familiar with this mud-coloured lizard’s skin? No, Watson, certainly ‘gentlemen of the road’ do steal or are given gentlemen’s clothing as hand-me-downs to replace their tattered attire. Think of the watchman in the bowler hat. But when the intended recipient of this news reads the pile of clothes was topped by a crimson hat, ‘a yellow and brown spiny snake’ for the band, they will know that this was murder.’
At this, my companion knocked out the dottle from his pipe and refilled it with fresh tobacco. I watched with impatience. Unable to restrain myself longer, I broke in, ‘Holmes, do go on! What could be the aim of such a killing?’
‘It can only be designed....’ Holmes responded, puffing hard at his pipe, ‘...to engineer a third South African war.’
I stared at him in the greatest astonishment.
‘Watson, I see you are incredulous. I ask you, who was there to-day?’
‘Van Beers for one.’
‘South Africa.’
‘Wernher...’
‘South Africa.’
‘Weit.’
‘South Africa.’
After a further pause, he continued, ‘A lot remains unsettled and at stake from the recent war, not least the Transvaal, bristling with guns and gold, the most opulent state in Africa.’
‘Then let me ask again about Pevensey - why did he go along with them and play his part? He has no connection with South Africa. He is not a man known for his commitment to the Empire.’
‘Yes...Pevensey,’ my companion replied, frowning. ‘It is hard to believe he could have been elected to the presidency of the Royal Academy without the Kipling League’s most earnest interventions. These men’s millions carry weight. He may not be a member of the Kipling League, I suggest he is not, his nerves are too ragged, but he is no doubt much beholden to them. Until the corpse was thrown into the wagon pond and the clothing assembled before him he may not have known the role he was playing. Indeed, I am inclined to think he did not.’