The sweetness of scent enveloped us in sudden great balloons of air. Seated on our vehicle’s high bench we had a view over the fresh-trimmed hedges to either side. The run of unusually warm springs commencing with the new King’s reign meant the heads of the grasses and wild flowers were heavy with pollen.
Buoyed by the engine’s steady roar and the clean, fresh air, I looked out at the serene May countryside, at the profusion of wild flowers and early honeysuckle, contented herds of Sussex Reds resting in the cool shadow of the many great oaks, a tree so prevalent, our driver informed us, it was called ‘the weed of Sussex’.
I looked at the Sussex Express. A great rat-hunt had taken place on Broyd’s farm. Bees killed a dog on Mr. T. Davis’ farm.
‘Holmes,’ I said, amused. ‘Listen to this! ‘Astounding Doings at lonely Sussex Farm’.
A series of mysterious happenings at a lonely farmhouse in the Sussex Weald has brought about in the neighbourhood a firm belief in the resuscitation of witchcraft. The Walk Farm at Etchingham, in the occupation of Mr. Neil Armstrong, is the scene of its manifestations. A few mornings ago, when Mrs. Armstrong’s maid was at work in the farmhouse kitchen, she felt her back was being burned between the shoulder blades. She was not near the fire, and there was no possibility of a spark or live coal reaching her. The girl, who firmly believes ‘a witch did it’ was considerably burnt and had to be surgically treated. The first suspicion of something uncanny came on a recent morning when several golden sea-bright bantams were found in the fowlhouse with their legs broken. A watch was set that night, but though no one came near the fowlhouse, more bantams were found with broken legs next morning. The next day, when Mr. Armstrong and his family and a neighbour were at dinner, a flower pot on the window sill was seen to be wildly whirling around. Mr. Armstrong ran to the window, but there was no one near, and there was no wind, and yet the pot was still whizzing round. Pans jump up and down on shelves, chairs move jerkily across the floor in broad daylight while no one is near them, brooms dance, and household utensils move while being watched.’
At my side in the comfortable seat Holmes lay back with his hat tilted over his nose. ‘This stretch of road,’ I said conversationally, having done some cartography on the eastern part of the County of Sussex while Holmes cat-napped on the train, ‘is called the Straight Mile, built by the....’
As I spoke these words, our iron chariot ran out of straight road, rounded a sharp bend, and with a crash of its epicyclic gears came to a sudden stop. Close before us a hay-wagon had cast its load. Dudeney left us to assist in the reloading of the bales. The task accomplished, he returned to his seat. He turned to me and said, ‘Sir, you mentioned the tale of the cat-and-rat. I’m afraid you will be disappointed. Village children at play raised the sluice-gate and emptied the pond of all its water. The mill-pond is at present too low to run the turbine-generator.’
At this he set off again. I proceeded to give Holmes an account of the origin of the Sussex place-names. ‘Holmes, many of the Wealden villages end in ‘-den’. Did you know that’s Old English for ‘woodland pasture?’
He withdrew his pipe and answered, ‘I did not know that, Watson,’ and added, ‘I may soon forget it. I have no wish for my brain to emulate our attic.’
Undeterred, I followed up with a description of the South Downs sheep. I was deep into a description of the Sussex Red cattle and about to move on to the Shoveller Duck when I noticed Holmes looking closely at his gold watch. Realising I was boring him with such country matters, I stopped. Holmes laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Go on, my good Watson. I shall indulge you and hear more about the Shoveller Duck, if only to quiet you on the Sussex Red on which I fear I now know too much.’
‘Holmes,’ I replied. ‘No-one can know too much about the Sussex Red. You may find the Shoveller Duck a different matter.’
In this good mood we approached the historic Wealden trading-centre of Burrish. The Lanchester pulled us up a small curving slope and we were on an ancient High Street built when iron was king of the Weald, rich merchants’ houses on our left, artisans’ dwellings on our right. At its end our driver turned sharp left and we rolled down a steep lane. The view to the South opened up. Large coppices of sweet chestnut and hornbeam spread over the valley sides, cultivated for the charcoal which once fired the many now-lost iron forges of the Dudwell Valley. It made a pleasing contrast with the dims and drabs and slate greys of London.
The Lanchester descended until the lane flattened out at the valley floor. To our left two donkeys stood under a considerable oak in a steeply-sloping field, surrounded by a group of contented, snuffling, small black pigs and one silent, choleric-looking Muscovy duck. On our right loomed the grey stone lichened house. We had arrived at Crick’s End.
We Meet Siviter And White
Turned to gold in a sudden burst of sunlight, the squat building emitted an air of calm and stability, an English refuge. The roar of the Lanchester’s engine dropped abruptly as the vehicle came to a halt, waiting for the handsome wrought-iron gates to open. The gates hung from tall, weather-bitten posts patterned with centuries of epiphytes and surmounted by exquisite carvings of hops. A silver-grey oak dovecot was just visible above the walls and hedges of the house. Crows watched keenly from the great oak on Donkey Hill, their cawing a ceaseless accompaniment to the afternoon.
My companion sat in silence, staring forward at the house. I wondered what first impression he would make on the members of the Kipling League. In addition to his striking appearance, his ancestry (second cousin to the Ulster King of Arms and Chief Herald of Ireland) had bequeathed him a nonpareil sense of the practical and a fertile and retentive mind which sprang alive in the face of the supernatural. So Celtic is he in origins that at a miniature medal affair at Downing Street, after the dramatic solution of a Continental matter, I was asked in a low voice by a British Prime Minister to confirm Holmes’ place of birth. The eminent personage felt he must be a foreigner who spoke English well.
‘Julia’ squeezed between the finely-wrought gates, her voice reduced to a low growl. The grounds of the Armadillo of a building bulged with lines of potting-benches, garages, outhouses and oast-houses built with Staffordshire Blues. Blackbirds atop the yew hedges abandoned their song and flew in alarm to their sanctuaries, giving shrill warning of our arrival.
The vehicle came to a halt before a bronze statue of two defiant drummer-boys. Close to, solid rather than grand, Crick’s End looked what its builder, an ironmaster of the 17th Century, had wished it to be, the very image of a manse for the rising Middle Classes.
A servitor of indeterminate age and dark skin wearing a turban waited in the fore-court by the bronze, having seen (or more likely heard) our transport proceeding down the hill.
‘Staray mashay,’ I tried, placing my right hand over my heart. His head bobbled. With almost a sleight-of-hand gesture he swung his wrist so the palm faced the sky, forefingers slightly elongated. ‘Namaskār,’ he replied, taking my portmanteau and inclining his head towards the front of the house. ‘Or ‘Gurdaspu’, if you know the Punjab, Sahib’.