‘Which is?’ I enquired keenly.
‘The dark glasses,’ my comrade responded.
‘The dark glasses?’ I repeated with some incredulity.
Holmes nodded. ‘Even now a shudder runs through my veins.’
’Not your veins, Holmes, surely,’ I demurred. ‘A shudder is more likely to be a muscular reaction.’
He looked at me sternly. ‘I realise your wit must on most occasions have passed me by. Shall we say a shudder runs through my musculature even now when I recall the moment I came to the dark glasses in the newspaper account.’
‘I’m sorry, Holmes,’ I returned, starting a scornful laugh. ‘If I recall the words they were ‘A pair of shiny dark glasses was discovered between finger and thumb’. Hardly anything to shudder at, surely? What of Moriarty’s ruthless lieutenant Colonel Sebastian Moran? Consider how near we were to a dreadful fate at his hands. Now that is something to shudder at. A pair of dark glasses must rest a long way down the list of horrors we have encountered in our long journey together?’
‘It was the cold inhumanity with which they staged the corpse, an arm left jutting above the water so they could pinch the dead thumb and finger around his trade-mark dark glasses, like a Harrods’ window-dresser with a mannequin. Your friend Beerbohm Tree could not have staged it better at the Theatre Royal. They turned the Boche into a speechless, sightless, lifeless signpost. It is the grotesque image which stays with me, not the manner of his death itself. I doubt if von Hofmeyer did the St. Vitus Dance ten minutes before the current killed him, a current lethal but less than would burn the skin.’
Silence fell between us. After a while Holmes added, ‘Sir Julius chose that hatband well. When threatened, the majestic spiny lizard wedges between the rocks and puffs itself up. It becomes impossible to remove.’
Minutes came and went in unbroken silence. The mystery of the dead Boer had reached its conclusion.
Tremulously I took my chance. ‘Holmes, there is one last matter of great concern to me....’
Holmes threw me a disquieted look. ‘My dear friend, please go on.’
‘Is it possible my... my craven fear of the Kipling League, my unwillingness to offer my knowledge of rigor mortis until you put the matter to me directly...’
‘...your reluctance to follow my argument so swiftly assembled at Etchingham railway station?’
‘Yes, Holmes. Exactly that. By that did I...?’
‘...by your obstructive behaviour did you impede a timely resolution of the affair?’
‘That is what I fear greatly, Holmes, yes.’
‘And because of that we face a fearful war against the Hun more surely and much earlier than expected?’
‘Yes, Holmes.’
‘Which may bring about the end of the British Empire?’ Holmes pursued.
‘Holmes,’ I cried despairingly, ‘I fear it may be all my fault!’
‘Watson, be at rest, my old and faithful friend,’ my old comrade chided me. ‘They beat us. Like lizards feasting on a wax worm they swallowed me whole. It was I who provided them with the instructions they needed to defeat me. It was I who taught them how to look for dogs which failed to bark. You have nothing whatsoever to answer to the Court of History, though indeed I do’
I waited a while. Then I said, ‘Thank you, Holmes, but I am not yet done. There is something further I should tell you.’
‘Concerning?’
‘The wagon pond painting.’
‘Do go on, Watson. You have my ear, I can assure you,’ Holmes responded companionably.
‘At the time, as you will certainly remember, I was unwilling to add fuel to your assumptions. I was certain you were determined on the path to professional extinction. I was desperate to save you from yourself. I shall regret one deliberate omission of mine for the rest of my days.’
‘Which omission precisely, may I enquire, Watson?’ Holmes asked, a twinkle in his eye.
‘Perhaps the final clue you needed to make a charge of murder stick,’ I responded.
Holmes raised his eyebrows. He gave me his full attention. ‘Please go on, Watson, this is of especial interest! Do you claim you were privy to a clue which entirely escaped me - and furthermore you kept it hidden? Is this history in the making?’ Mischievously he added, ‘I said at the time you had joined their camp!’
Ignoring these friendly barbs, I continued. ‘You recall the moment Pevensey made his exit from the mill-attic?’
‘Indeed I do.’
‘And how we both approached the canvas on the easel...’
‘I do, most certainly. Go on!’
‘And that I asked Siviter why a human figure had been painted standing by the wagon pond instead of the dog in the Constable?’
‘I remember as if it were this morning. Do continue.’
‘So you will recall his explanation?’
‘Watson, well done! You have picked up at last on my method of interrogation. Why, let me think, I must surely remember... let me see. Ah, yes! Siviter said ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t feel he is at his best painting animals’.’
‘Those were his exact words, Holmes,’ I responded in admiration.
‘What of it, Watson? Why do you wear such an unhappy look? Many painters make cats look like bull-terriers.’
‘There is a painting at the Tate which from the day the Gallery opened I and all those interested in medicine repeatedly visit and revere.’
‘Which is?’
‘It is known by the title ‘A Visit to Vediovis’. Venus is consulting the Roman god of healing about a thorn lodged in her foot.’
‘And?’ Holmes queried, looking puzzled.
‘The artist has painted a bowl of luscious fruit at the side of Vediovis...’
‘What of it?’
‘And by this bowl, painted in minute detail with the finest red sable brush, a wondrously life-like dog lies on the floor.’
‘And the painter of this masterly work?’
‘Pevensey.’
‘Damnation!’ Holmes exclaimed, his face darkening. ‘Why did you not confront Siviter with this at the time?’
‘As you said, Holmes,’ I responded, smiling broadly. ‘We were still his guests - nor had we been commissioned to investigate the murder of a Hun.’
‘Touché, Watson, well done!’ Holmes chuckled with excellent grace. The cooler evening air blew from the South-West as we left the courtyard and went inside where Holmes knocked a blaze out of the logs in the grate.
Some twenty minutes later, the sound of bicycle tyres on gravel came through the open window from the courtyard, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Soon afterwards we heard a creaking which could only come from the hinges of the front door. We listened while Tallulah first, then her mistress, welcomed the rider in their different ways.
As in our former days together, Holmes threw me a look of anticipation. ‘A telegram, Watson? What have we? Other than you, only the Foreign Office and the Eastern Department - or Siviter and the Kipling League - know I am here.’
Greatly curious, we rose and went out to the veranda to be met by an excited Mrs. Keppell. Reminiscent of our dear former landlady, she hurried towards Holmes and pushed the telegram at him with a polite bend of the knee. This time, rather than throwing it to me, Holmes pounced forward, taking it swiftly from Mrs. Keppell’s outstretched hand. He withdrew the slip of paper from its envelope and began reading it to himself.
He cast the first of a succession of serious looks in my direction. ‘Watson, it is a private telegram forwarded by our Foreign Office from a foreign potentate, the Sultan Mehmed V Reshad. You will of course know him as the son of Sultan Abdülmecid.’
‘Indeed. What then?’ I responded, looking back and forth from Mrs. Keppell to Holmes, trying to contain a smile at this conspiracy.