He switched to a grim tone. ‘We shall make good use of their reply-paid communication. Watson, take hold of a form and a pencil. Concoct a reply to the following effect ... ’
Alarmed at a display of temper that I did not discern was largely dissembled, I offered in a faltering voice, ‘Holmes, you have a clear day, it would be great practice for our oft-discussed lecture tours. I am sure you will learn to defend yourself... ’, at which words my companion fell back down.
‘Sixpence a word, you say? It does not take a strong lens to see he has money to spend.’
He squinted at me through the fug of tobacco smoke. ‘Continue, Watson. Tell me more about our host.’
‘He is the second-highest paid author in the world, after Kipling himself. Siviter’s work brings him five shillings a word, amounting to more than thirty thousand pounds a year. Even with income tax at a third ...’
‘Pray go on...’ interrupted my companion, glancing at a large standing-clock, the more accurate time-piece of our collection. ‘He says ‘We’, that is, they... the League...by which he means?’
‘Siviter himself, of course. He mentions Alfred Weit and Sir Julius Wernher - and Viscount Van Beers,’ I replied.
One of England’s most famed Administrators, Stanley, Lord Van Beers had been much in the South African news of late because of the controversy over indentured Chinese labour. During the recent South African War the English cinemas showed flickering film of him in a canteen on a good-will tour of the Veld. His middling years contrasted with a photograph taken during the Anglo-Zulu war a quarter century before. The young man stood smart in his rifleman’s green undress uniform, a bandolier over his shoulder, black patent-leather despatch case to hand.
David Siviter’s name had come up only a week or two before, on a visit to the Athenaeum for a nostalgic and pleasant evening with a retired Regimental friend. We were soon joined by Eddie Marsh, newly-appointed Private Secretary at the Colonial Office, and something of an alter ego of mine since I found he had been at Cambridge with my boyhood companion Tadpole Phelps. On the evening I refer to, during a discussion of the West End stage and in particular Barrie, out of the blue Marsh said, ‘I tell you, Watson, a great actor is lost in Siviter. I was staying with the Desboroughs at Taplow Court and playing the game of guessing historical scenes when Siviter took the stage. I can’t recall anyone guessing his subject, which turned out to be the High Priest giving Judas the thirty pieces of silver - that made no matter. The point was the impression he created of something afoot was unutterably sinister and malicious’.
I returned to the telegram and read the post-script aloud. ‘And Pevensey hopes to introduce himself’. A famous artist, Pevensey maintained a substantial income painting the landed gentry and their estates. Some decades earlier, at the high-water mark in the great Queen Victoria’s reign, Pevensey made his name depicting trials of the human spirit by the demands of duty and honour. His best-known oil titled ‘Loyal To The Very End’ was a succès d’estime at the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition.
‘Holmes,’ I continued, ‘there is a Post Post-script. ‘A hamper and a bottle of vintage wine will be delivered to the Pullman car at Waterloo or London Bridge. Cost of same will be born by Siviter, in addition to ‘a small requital’ for your trouble,’ which,’ I started to read out for Holmes’ delectation, ‘amounts to ...’
Holmes’ hand rose swiftly, pointing at Mrs. Hudson’s shadow by the door... ‘a substantial sum and all expenses,’ I interposed. ‘Holmes,’ I exhorted, ‘I suggest you get into your country clothes and go.’
He gave a further glance at the grandfather clock. ‘They offer great inducements, Watson. Very well. As you are so keen, we shall spend the afternoon in Sussex. Take this down, confirm I shall catch the three-ten train and inform them you will be accompanying me, that is, my dear fellow, if you can tear yourself away from your manifestos. And Watson, bring the latest gazetteer. We shall learn more of Siviter and Van Beers en route.’
I handed Holmes the completed telegram. His long, thin arm shot out backwards.
‘Mrs. Hudson, I know you are at our door. Please use the reply-paid envelope and hasten with it to the Telegraph Office.’
He turned his face to me. ‘When Mrs. Hudson returns, pray ask her to whistle for a covered cab to take us to the station, a quiet, well-mannered brougham to be precise. I have no wish to get wet twice today, even if in obeisance to your orders I am to commence the life of a circus flea.’
With the man with the amber eyes patently in mind, he ordered, ‘And, Watson, ask our landlady to procure not the first nor the second but the third brougham passing by. We must take such precautions as would prevent it being one which has been placed ready for us.’
With a light tread I repaired to my old dressing-room to select the clothing I would wear to Crick’s End.
We Journey To Crick’s End
As I dressed, I observed through the window how the first leaves were flourishing on the solitary plane tree gracing the yard behind our house. Standing in the small dressing-room preparing for our journey, I could not have guessed even in a second life-time what we were about to encounter.
Holmes’ head appeared around the door.
‘Watson, make haste. Now we are on our feet, let us catch the eleven-fifty express. It takes us to Tunbridge Wells. From there we can catch the local train to Etchingham. I would suggest Park Lane and the Mall rather than the Regent’s Street and Piccadilly Circus at this time of day.’
At this his head disappeared.
‘But Holmes,’ I called out after him, ‘we can hardly arrive on their doorstep three hours early - surely we must inform them?’
The head reappeared.
‘If we are to catch the eleven-fifty we cannot afford to divert to the West Strand Telegraph-office. We shall arrive at Tunbridge Wells quite soon after one o’ clock. There we can send a telegram to invite Mr. Dudeney and his motorised barouche to meet us at Etchingham railway station. That will give our host at least a half-hour’s warning of our arrival.’
The head disappeared, only to reappear a moment later. ‘And instruct our cabby not to take a main road if a parallel side street will serve our turn.’
The head disappeared, yet again to return. ‘And have the cabman face his transport the other way as though we have an assignation on Hampstead Heath or intend to take an hour or two at leisure in the Regent’s Park.’
Hurriedly I reached for a pair of Balmorals.
I am a prompt and ready traveller. Hard schooling in the colonial life of Australia augmented by rough-and-tumble Army camps in Afghanistan readied me for the most sudden of trips. In less than the quarter hour I was dressed. The sharp sound of horses’ hoofs and carriage wheels grating against the kerb announced the arrival of our transport. In place of the well-appointed brougham Holmes had wished for, the demand for carriages under threat of rain had left us ‘beggars choosers’. I descended the stairs to greet the cabman at the threshold where, with trusty leather valise in hand, I awaited Holmes amid the smell of Brasso and Monkey Brand soap and perspiration. On my exit from our lodgings, our amber-eyed observer withdrew sharply a yard or two, like a land-crab at bay. He stood staring intently in my direction. On instruction the cabman turned his horses to face north. I hoisted one shoe to the footboard from which vantage point I could engage him in light conversation on the gossip from Westminster and the density of traffic.
Holmes came down the stairs. He glanced in the long looking-glass in the hall, checking collar and cuff and, with a touch of vanity, the lie of his silver-brown hair. He emerged seconds later, after an inquisitive glance at the Family Herald lying upon the hall-table (the love romances, photographs of pretty horse-breakers and the cookery pages were Mrs. Hudson’s favourite reading).