Case One: The Adventure of the Centurion's Helm; Part the First.
Paper_mate_Pony
“I should swear ‘pon my life, sir, It spoke! It spoke to me in the frankest of tones. I may be a drunkard, sir, and perhaps even senile—heaven forbid, but I am almost sixty five, you see—but every word I say to you, every breath of it, is as true and honest as these hairs upon my chin!”
So went the cry that drove me awake upon a particularly dreary morning in Baker street. These cries were highly irregular, not to mention highly uncalled for. I recall laying on my back stubbornly, to ensure that it was in fact morning, and there were in fact voices coming from below. I seemed to be correct on both counts, as quite soon after our unknown visitor had awoken the neighborhood, the nondescript hum of Sherlock Holmes’ voice could be heard addressing the situation.
“Nay, Mr Holmes,” cried the voice again, in a thick welsh baritone, “‘tis you who appears to be mad—well, you inferred it then! I could see it in your eyes!”
The narration continued as I ambled through the threshold of my bedroom and down toward the settee of our humble flat. Holmes replied in a calm voice, but it appeared he was having little effect upon our raving guest. “Oh contend you sir, you have been expecting me!”
The long, supine figure of Sherlock Holmes lay across an armchair that faced the hearth. His spindly fingers met at a point just below his hawkish chin, while his keen brown eyes gazed, non-plussed, at the large character who disturbed our peace.
“Mr Harrington, I have not been expecting you, nor am I treating your apparently dire situation with even the slightest contempt. From the soot I perceive on your right elbow it would appear you have been travelling by rail quite recently. As surface trains don’t circulate soot into their carriages you must have traveled underground at some point. For a long enough, at least, to leave such a stain on your elbows, which were resting up against the windows as you slept, I would gather. As the aforementioned rest and your distastefully creased jacket would portray, you have been sitting down for a while, and through the night as it were. Thus, it is not too hard to imagine that you left Somerset upon the Great Western eleven o’clock to London, the only evening express to make use of our marvellous underground rail network. Ahh, Watson,” he turned to me, “so good to see you up at this hour of the morn! If you aren’t too hazy, may I present to your scrutiny: one Charles Harrington of Somerset.”
Our guest fidgeted as my gaze was brought to bear. He was a large fellow, his shoulders spanned the width of our doorway yet his face appeared two sizes too small; two beady eyes peered over a thin hooked nose. I assumed age was the culprit, as the thin blond hairs that waved to and fro as he stood looked as thin and numerous as the wrinkles around his permanently furrowed brow. His pants were pinstriped, as was the jacket he wore beneath a cavernous green travelling coat. The whole ensemble was speckled with both fresh and ancient specks of mud.
“Sir, if you wouldn’t mind,” he asked Holmes, eyeing me suspiciously, “would it be, perhaps, too much to ask if your friend here were not privy to all of our dealings?”
“Mr Harrington, Watson is the final word on privacy. Your narrative—which, I must admit, seems like it is little more than that—is safe within these walls. I can assure you that any and everything said in this room shant leave it.”
“Is that what you told Norberton?” he asked, the question for me more than Holmes. “The man is a ruin, you know. Not that it was undeserved, but his reputation died beneath the good doctor’s pen. I would rather not have such a thing happen to me. I may look like a drunk, indeed I smell like one, but I had a reputation, and somewhere on God’s great Earth is a man who remembers the name Charlie Harrington!”
His face was livid but his speech seemed incoherent and rambling, as if his mind were on other things.
“Mr Harrington,” Holmes rose from his chair, “Sir Robert Norberton deserved all that he received. If justice could not be served in the plane of law, then it most certainly may be upheld in the social one. If you have read any of my biographer’s works it would become apparent that the most colorful of cases has been dealt with in such a tentative manner; that if any sort of derision should arise, it is from myself alone, condemning my boswell here for his inability to lay out the most vital of facts. However, I can almost assure you, Mr Harrington, that your case will seldom reach the annals of the public, for I refuse to deal with time wasters. Now, if you are quite finished insulting my intelligence, and that of my friend, please, be off!”
When Sherlock Holmes normally concluded an investigation so tersely, it was not out of rage nor emotion, but to raise a point: that diplomacy was over, and the offending party should either leave quietly, or remain loudly. In my experience, those who meant well left without another word. Those who did not remained, to their eventual failing. Harrington was a member of neither party, as the man began to beg at Holmes’ feet.
The change that came over Mr Harrington was brief but decisive. Tears formed at the creases of his ancient eyes and a dark expression mounted his face. I doubted I would ever witness such pain upon the features of a man again.
“Ohh, Mr Holmes, No! No, you could not! I am not an insane man, nor am I a time waster. Oh Lord, you know not of what I have been through! It spoke to me, sir, such a foul beast it was. Oh, God bless you if ever the day comes whence it stalks you through the twilight gloom!
“The Devil, sir! He stalks the hills of Somerset! Ten feet tall, at least! Eyes of fire and rage! Oh I shall see it in my nightmares, on the day I die! It had the tail of a snake, but an arm of a lion, and another of some vile bird. And the head of a goat, sir! Oh and the horns, one cannot forget the horns!”
Finding no solace on the face of Sherlock Holmes he turned to me, bowing to the floor and almost kissing my bare feet.
“Oh, but you will listen, won't you, Dr Watson? I meant no insult before! If you wish, you may write my little tale to all the publications of the world! I would not care! But, you see, it was through the evening gloom I trod. It is true, I am a drunk! A vile, rotten old man. I should be dead, Mr Holmes, yet I walk amongst the living! How else does a liverpool industrialist while away his days staggering through Somerset? And there I was, upon the gloomy downs. I sleep ‘pon the hills, for old men are not permitted to rest ‘pon the cobbles! I may never remember the terrible days I spent ‘pon those fields, but I shall certainly remember that night! A great flash, of blue and red, before me! I was blinded, sir, but my ears worked fine for I heard hushed gasps, and the sound of hooves around me! My eyes returned to me as I lay, but what I saw? I wish they never had.
“The beast, it’s foul neck stretched to the ground, peered at me through those devilish eyes! And he was not alone! Horses—ponies? I know not, but there were ten of them in all. They wore helmets—helmets, sir! And they followed the Beast’s orders to the letter! He told them to stand me up, and they did. He brought himself to his full height, such a horrible sight it was, and then... then he spoke!
“‘The way to Shoscombe Old Place, peasant’ he demanded, and I damn nearly fainted, sir. But a welshman never faints, not even for the Devil. So I stood my ground, and I asked of him,
“‘What... who are you?’
“He chuckled, as if he were the schoolmaster receiving his prize pupil! ‘I am the lord of chaos,’ he said, ‘the master of that which cannot be mastered!’ and I swear upon it, sir, his cackling wrung thunder from the skies, and lightning from the heavens! But then, then he came very close, right up to my face, and asked quite frankly, ‘The way to Shoscombe Old Place, If you please?’
“I pointed him over the downs, toward Norberton’s villa, and he doffed his cap—where did he find a cap, sir!—and was off, carried by his... servants? Slaves? They could have been centurions for all I know! And then I ran, sir! I ran toward the station. I knew of your exploits—there is not a man, woman or child in Shoscombe who doesn’t—and took the very next train to London. Please, sir, for whatever its worth, do not let to-day be my very last day on earth!”
He sniffled upon the floor, almost caressing my legs as he would a lover’s. Holmes’ face took upon itself a demure gaze, and I knew he had begun to consider the man’s plight. My friend seldom undertook cases out of pity for the victim; only those which presented him a challenge, for he played the game for the game’s sake as you know. But the sheer desperation that Mr Harrington presented us with must have made some effect on my normally mechanic friend.
“Mr Harrington,” he finally said, and our visitor looked up at him through bloodshot eyes, “I am a very busy man. However, if I should hear anymore of this incident—recall that while its owner is disdained, Shoscombe remains the very best training stable in England—I shall rectify myself and pay you the very respect you are entitled. Until then, do the page a favor, and leave our house!”
Mr Harrington excused himself with the most pathetic of gestures, bowing even further toward the ground and muttering blessings until he was through the door.
The subject was dropped for the duration of the early morning. Holmes lazed on the couch, while I removed myself to my Kensington practice. My wife was attending a funeral with her family in Swansea, and so I had moved to my old lodgings of Baker street—at Holmes’ behest—for the duration of her grieving. Very few patients were to visit me that day, however, and I had seen each one before eleven o’clock. With nothing to entertain me there, I left for Baker street, in the hopes that Holmes had become entrenched in another of his adventures, rather than the solemn contemplation that dogged him whenever cases refused to come to fruition.
I caught a cab from Kensington to Regents Park, where I thought to brave the dour weather and stroll to our flat. However, it seemed that it had taken a turn for the sour since I had left my lodgings. Nary a soul walked the streets, and snow had banked high upon the corners. Dressed in only my business frock and my Westinghouse coat, the walk was long, cold and desultory. Instead of spending it contemplating the morning’s event, such as I had intended, I could not but think of how silly I had been.
It was a ten minute trudge through the snow banks, and I was glad to see the lights of our apartment shining through the fall. The door was, however, opened upon me by an unseen urchin, who bowled me to the floor as he sped through the threshold of 221B. I slipped to the cobbles numerous times trying to right myself. Not wishing to make chase through the cold, and even more certain that I would have lost him anyway, I rose tentatively and entered.
“Tell me, Watson. How does a house on fire get on?” Holmes asked through the threshold as I ascended the stairs.
“I surely do not know,” I answered my colleague, who curled up upon his worn armchair as I docked my cloak upon the hanger and made for the fire roaring at the hearth.
“The fiends of Britain appear to be weathering, Watson. I have seen not hide nor hair of their numerous exploits in The Times,” he said with a frown. “Yet this message here perplexes me. Watson, I sincerely value your input, now as much as ever. How does a house, on fire, get on?” he said methodically, gesturing with his hand at every pause.
“Well,” said I, “one would expect a house on fire to go down rather quickly, I should think.”
Holmes chuckled. “Watson, should I ever rise so high that I lose sight of land, surely you would be there to reign me back among the mundane. Yes, I think that a house on fire would get on rather nicely. Why, then, does this anonymous correspondent wish for me to know this? Furthermore, why would they send it by hand in this dreadful weather, when a telegram would no doubt have been far more worth his while.”
“That was your messenger?” I ejaculated, still feeling the throb of where I had collided with the unforgiving ice.
“If you mean the urchin who knocked you asunder—oh, don’t make that face at me, Watson. You know very well that the damp patches upon your rear and the bruised expression you wore as you entered told me everything I needed to know—no. He was their messenger, ‘they’ being whomever wrote this missive. So what do you think of it?”
I shrugged.
“Indeed, perhaps a quick glance at this little note shall clear the fog of our minds, no? Here, what do you make of it?”
He handed me a small, thin rectangle.
How is it getting on? [It read]
Like a house on fire, Mr Holmes, like a house on fire.
“It is a typed note,” said I, “so the author wishes to remain anonymous. What more can I say?”
“Well,” said Holmes, “whomever wishes to remain anonymous lives somewhere in the vicinity of Charing Cross, an accountant, I believe, who works at Geofferys, Geoffereys and Jones’—is high in the firm but does not share the namesake—and happens to be left handed.”
“My dear Holmes!” I ejaculated.
“Watson, surely by now you know of my methods? First and foremost, what do you see along the very top edge? Three little bars, it would seem. But, through close examination, it is indicative of a water mark. Thus, we know that for whomever this perpetrator works for, they happen to be a well known firm. Well known enough, one should think, to watermark their paper. You also know that there is a monograph—penned by myself—In circulation upon the identification of typewriters. Now, you shall see here that these letters are relatively even, and by that I mean there is no evidence of a certain lean, indicative of long usage. However, if you would look closer, every letter has almost been punched in, meaning that the back-plate has been worn down to such an extent that the paper does not rest evenly upon its surface. Old typewriters that have yet to see their fair share of type all share this trademark. Thus, we have an old typewriter that is rarely used, but is still fed with paper for official documents pertaining to an important firm. We can be sure, then, that the user of this typewriter does not do the bulk of the paperwork yet still maintains an office typewriter as opposed to a personal machine. One should be in a position to deduce, therefore, that this certain individual is in a managerial capacity.”
“Why, it is as clear as day!”
“So it is, Watson. But we are seldom finished. How do I know his handedness? Even his home parish?”
The pause and his keen gaze told me that the question was not rhetorical.
“Well, taking the day into account,” said I, “his urchin will have had to walk, as I doubt he could afford a cab on a day such as this.” I recall thinking “or ever” out of spite. “Charing-Cross is the closest business centre,” I continued, “so it makes sense that the author should be sending it from there, and it is therefore doubtless that he also lives in a similar region. But for the rest, Holmes, I am still in the dark.”
“Watson, you are too hard on yourself. Yes, that is most likely where he is from. As to his sinister dominance, take a look at the top edge of the note. Notice that there are four notches, cut along this edge on the left here? They form almost non-existent, but still visible, steps, you see. Scissors, Watson. He has cut this rectangle from the original sheet with scissors. We know he did this with his left hand as these steps, of a kind, move outward to the left, where the most pressure would have been evident on the tool he used. As to his employer, well...”
He slithered out of his armchair and made toward a thick tome upon the shelf. Upon opening, it was clear that it was full of telegrams, letters and other assorted roughage. He rifled through them, his long, thin fingers blurred by their speed.
“Aha!” he cried. “Here it is Watson.” He extracted a large rectangle of official looking card, and brought it back towards me. “Observe: a letter from one Hamish Geoffreys, congratulating us on our fine work clearing the name of his dear brother, Gregory. Note, the watermark.”
The three names, Geofferys, Geoffereys and Jones, were formatted thusly:
Geofferys, Geoffereys,
& Jones
“The three bars on this note here are surely the bottom of the ‘o’ and the two stems on the ‘n’ of ‘Jones’, are they not?” said he, prodding a long thin finger at the card beneath my nose.
“My word, so they are. Holmes, you have outdone yourself!”
The warm grin that marked his face reminded me that, behind his usually mechanical exterior, Holmes was keen of praise.
“Perhaps, yet for all our present knowledge, we are still lost. But, If I am not mistaken, that is Mrs Hudson upon the stair. Ahh, good morning, Mrs Hudson! Yes, coffee for two, please, and might we lunch early to-day? Capital, and beef should be fine. Oh, and send the page up, would you?”
She disappeared down the stairs, and not a moment later our fresh young page, Billy, bounded into the room.
“Billy, I have task for you,” said Holmes, scribbling out a small note. “Hie thee to Charing Cross—yes, Billy, in this weather—and find the Geofferys, Geoffereys and Jones’ accounting firm. I want you to deliver this note to Hamish Geofferys himself. He is an old fellow, but warm of heart and knows of our exploits. Now, I should expect you to be back by noon, but if by some chance we are not here, Mrs Hudson will no doubt point you in the right direction.”
He nodded grudgingly and stomped away, leaving Holmes and I to our pastimes. It was almost noon when a step could be heard upon the stair, however, it was the sweet face of Mrs Hudson that opened the door.
“Mr Holmes,” said she, “letter.”
“Well, Watson, it seems not every of london’s fiends is hibernating,” said he, plucking the letter from Mrs Hudson’s hands with a dainty bow. He read the note with a keen eye, and a wry smile warmed his face. “Aha, well, I should think the good Mr Harrington will have me eating my words before the day is through. Pack a night bag, if you will, and I shall start on lunch. We leave for Shoscombe by the one-thirty train. Mrs Hudson, If Billy should return after we have left, Shoscombe Old Place is where he may find us.”
The rest of the afternoon was a whirlwind of action. Holmes remained tight lipped, caught up in his own musings, whereas I had no time for such luxuries. Perhaps one of the setbacks of living with the great detective was the lack of a steady timetable. I spent the next hour organising replacements for my long suffering patients—how lucky I am that our neighbor, Dr Benjamin Cummings, was content to practice in my stead. We were met upon the step of our house by a bedraggled and chilly faced cabby, another Londoner dealing with the bitter weather. It was only once Holmes and I were sitting in the first class cabin to Somerset that my companion finally broke his silence.
“What do you recall of the name John Mason?” he asked, pulling the folded letter out of his breast pocket.
“The fellow who hired us to investigate his employer, Sir Robert Norberton? My, I cannot say I recall Sir Robert in the best of lights. Was he not the gentleman who hired an actor to impersonate his deceased sister to avoid losing the stables to his Jewish debtors?”
“The very same, and I’m inclined to agree. It seems that his prize colt—the Shoscombe Prince, you will recall—was purloined from the stables two days ago.”
“Two days ago! Why on earth should the man call for us now? On a further note, why are we helping the blackguard! Surely the local forces can handle a simple robbery?”
“Watson, I apologize for uprooting you in such a manner. Indeed, If it were any other slight against the man this letter here will have served its purpose as kindling long ago. But this case is a singular adventure—I need not remind you of a certain raving old man who would believe the Devil himself stalks the Somerset Downs, and shows a keen interest in the local turfing community. Surely you and your readers can suffer Sir Robert for another few days? Here, allow me to dictate,
“Dearest Sherlock Holmes [he read]
You will undoubtedly recall the tricky business of Sir Robert’s not more than two years ago. However, I implore you to come to my aid once again. There is some curious business regarding Shoscombe Prince. Two nights ago, I returned to find the stallion gone, without a trace. Yet, within two evenings, he reappeared as if he had never left. At his hooves, however, a Centurion’s helm and a pool of blood. I notified the local forces, and upon searching the area the dead body of some breed of miniature pony was found in a nearby thicket. We are collectively clueless. Come with haste.
P. S. A warning regarding Dr Watson. Sir Robert has taken his ruin to heart, and holds the good doctor personally responsible. Please be cautious. If it does not shine through his demeanor, then I should think his rage is held in some other capacity, just inching toward the brim. Again, be cautious.
John Mason
Shoscombe Telegram Office
“A Centurion’s Helm. Telling, is it not? Now, I don’t expect us to take that drunkard’s words as truth, but you see why I had us at the station within the hour. So, Watson, what are your thoughts?”
We made small talk for some of the journey, but the majority was spent in a comfortable silence, watching as the fog slowly dissipated into a thick white blanket across the downs. It appeared that the nefarious weather choking London had come to pass, but thrice did we ride through a snowfall; heavy flakes built drifts upon the sills of the windows. “Curious weather,” my companion commented on numerous occasions, his brow knotted and his thin fingers tapping his knee. Aside from a furtive glance at the telegram as we passed Swindon, he seldom moved. The cab ride to Shoscombe Old Place was a bitter affair, and Holmes and I were glad to see the lights of the old Georgian Villa hovering over the undulating drive.
No sooner had our coats been taken from us were we ushered into Sir Robert’s vast study. Upon our previous occasion here, we had no inclination to enter the house—save our escapade into its catacombs—so allow me to describe it briefly.
Upon entering, one is met by a lobby bursting through the house’s outer restraints. It is so cavernous that I am sure he uses is as his ballroom upon an occasion. A view supported by the large crystal chandeliers that droop from the ceiling. Through this lobby, a grand staircase rises up and to the left, while two corridors below split the house into two sections. One is the staffing quarters, the other for guests. Only the upstair sections of the villa were occupied year round by Sir Robert.
Other than he, five other staffers lived within Shoscombe Old Place: John Mason, the Head Trainer and our chief employ when last we were present, as now; Stevens, the Villa’s long suffering butler; Mrs Norette, the maid of Lady Beatrice—whom you shall remember as the late sister of Sir Robert; Mr Norette, Mrs Norette’s husband and the actor hired to impersonate Lady Beatrice; and a cook by the name of Gallagher, whom had entered the employment of Shoscombe Old Place a few weeks before my chronicle of it’s dark secret was published.
Once one ascends the great staircase they are met firstly with the study, where a large writing desk, accented by a polished looking typewriter, is walled in by an expansive library, girdered by grand windows that face out onto the training paddocks. Through this study, Sir Robert’s private quarters, the gun room, and a small french style bathroom.
The man himself stood at his desk with his hands crossed behind his back, gazing out at the brooding weather. He wore a white shirt, cream slacks and matching vest. His fair hair seemed ruffled and ill kept, but he stood tall and perfectly poised.
“Sir Robert,” my companion stated atonally.
The man’s hands curled themselves into fists, but released almost instantaneously. “Mr Holmes,” Sir Robert addressed in an acidic tone, “and dear Dr Watson. It appears that he does, in fact, follow you everywhere, even here.”
“Indeed he does,” my companion retorted, “And I should see no reason why it is of any concern to you. He professes the truth, and in my eyes, justice has been served. Now, your horse, Shoscombe Prince.”
Sir Robert was evidently not listening. As he rounded on me, I could see the outlines of veins in his neck, like the twisted roots of some ancient tree. “Imagine if you will, Dr Watson, the effect your little story had upon its publication. Seventeen pages was all it took to turn me from influential baronet to the scourge of the countryside. My sister’s creditors want me out, the town hall wants me out... even the servants, Dr Watson.
“Mason only works for the stables now, he refuses to be directly associated with me. Even the staff keep their distance. Heaven only knows how I managed to convince Gallagher to keep his position. We had only just hired him, after all,” he spat.
We were expecting this sort of reception, but the voracity by which he approached me spurned Holmes into action. Sir Robert was so close, he could have lit my cigarette if it were not for the solid arm that sprung between us.
Sir Robert caught the deadly gaze of Holmes and took a step back, grinning a vile grin. “Enough of the past,” said he, “for I should think you are here on business, and what a business it is. Come, to the stables, Sergeant Hammersmith awaits. If you’ll be so kind as to follow Stevens, I shall join you in but a moment.”
We were led out, down the staircase and across the great lobby. We donned our coats, and were offered thick wellingtons by Stevens. Holmes had said nary a word, his all seeing gaze darted to all manner of places as we exited through the great doors into the bitter evening. As soon as Stevens closed them, Holmes turned on me.
“Watson,” said he in a commanding whisper, “have you your service revolver?” I started, jumping back as Holmes's keen glare caught my own.
I held a hand to my breast pocket, and instantly spited my poor foresight: it appeared I had left it at my Kensington home. I shook my head.
“Bah!” Holmes exclaimed. He turned to me to say more, but the arrival of our third member cut him off. Sir Robert had donned a large winter coat, with a great fox-fur hood and numerous large pockets.
“Braving the cold I see. Well, I suppose the game for you, Holmes, is warming in itself. Dr Watson here will just have to suffer,” he smiled at me, “Come, the stables are a ways past the chapel. I’m sure you remember that from your last escapade.”
Both of us followed obediently. I made eyes at Holmes, an attempt to coax out of him what he planned to tell me moments before, but the steely glare had disappeared, and he met my curious gazes with equally mundane eyes.
The path had been covered—we could see not gravel nor stone of the garden walk beneath our feet. Throughout the journey, Holmes’s eyes were keenly searching the ground beneath us and beyond, towards a thick brace of pines, girded by the thicket.
“I had hoped you would be here sooner, lest we continue this investigation through the night. Alas, it appears our Lord above has not been so willing to grant me such a wish,” called our host ahead, also gazing out across the thicket. We left the light of the house behind us and further into the fleecy snow we trod. “Nonetheless,” he continued, “I fear that if we save, even for a moment, the trail evaporates, like mist. Not that that would trouble you, Mr Holmes.”
My companion merely grunted, and we pushed on in silence. We passed the chapel, where Holmes and I had discovered the grisly resting place of Sir Robert’s sister, and finally a glimmer of light through the ever dimming twilight appeared before us.
“Gentlemen, the stables,” announced Sir Robert. Through the growing twilight, we could make out little, but I was certain that these stables had been here longer than even the old Villa. Stone walls topped by thatches of hay and were further burdened by thick drifts of snow. A light flickered through a small pane to the left of the door. Sir Robert knocked twice, and from within we could hear bottles toppling and the crunch of a chair being pushed back.
“I take Mason is present as well?” Holmes inquired.
“And ready to serve you as ever,” replied our host.
In the interim a heavy weight fell into the left hand pocket of my coat, accompanied by a whisper in my ear, “Take mine. Watch him now, I fear our time together is short.”
I glanced toward Holmes a second time, but still he would not return an answer. It appeared his keen mind had set to work admiring the rusted steel axle resting upon the wall. I was not unaccustomed to wielding a revolver during our seminal escapades, but the accompanying warning shook me slightly.
The stable door opened, and a wave of heat caressed us. “Come in, come in,” cried an unfamiliar voice, “Mr Sherlock Holmes, it’s a long way from baker street, is it not? Aha, well, no matter, I am glad to have you at last. Ooh, do come in from the cold. You too, Sir Robert. And who... ahhh, Dr Watson as well! I must say, Your presence here has given me cause to celebrate.”
The speaker was a rotund, ruddy faced gentleman in a police uniform who we were introduced to as Sergeant Hammersmith. His cheeks were blush red, while his hair was a wispy tone of grey. Beside him sat the thinner and flush faced John Mason, appearing much as he did in my last little chronicle. His face was rough, however, and deep bags beneath his eyes certainly hinted at recent trouble in his life. His cold, self-possessing demeanor was ever present though, and he managed to bow to us all the same.
He shook both our hands heartily, “Good to see you gentlemen so soon! Why, it can’t have been two years since I saw you last. Come, have a swill. The brandy welcomes those from the cold.”
Holmes waved his hand in disinclination. “Sadly I must decline,” he took out his pipe, “as does Watson. I must be clear of mind, while Watson here, well, his small penchant for the drink has turned somewhat serious.”
Their gaze turned upon me, sober and pitiful. I was furious—never would I succumb to such a vice. But, Holmes’ gaze shut my lips, his deep set eyes assuring me that whatever he was planning, It would be for the better if my lips were sealed. Still smouldering within I managed a solemn nod and shot a rueful glare at Holmes. His eyes twinkled, but ne’er would he be more obvious than that.
“Mason, am I to assume that you were the first to discover the missing stallion?” he enquired, turning to our hailer.
“Aye, Mr Holmes, It was me, and what a fright it was too. I eat in the villa, you see—even I cannot stand these stables for long—and it was around this same time two nights ago whence I returned.”
“And what did you eat?” Holmes asked.
“My dear Mr Holmes, why, that seems rather off the track, does it not?” cried Sir Robert indignantly.
“My mind has been on other things Mr Holmes, but It must have been... hum,” Mason's features writhed as he searched his memory. His eyes searched their peripheries aimlessly until his face began to glow with clarity. "Mutton!" he cried. "Curried mutton!"
“Very well, and did it taste peculiar at all?” enquired Holmes.
“Mr Holmes, how can this be at all relevant?” cried Sir Robert once more, his face turning a livid red tinge.
With a sigh, Sherlock Holmes turned to face Norberton, his tall figure easily meeting that of the stable owner’s
“Sir Robert, my business is to know things,” Holmes said in a restrained calm. “What your cook has been feeding your staff could prove very telling. I recall a certain case in Montenegro—1866 I believe—wherein the whole defence rested on the contents of the Regent Prince’s previous meal. Now, if you will please cease your interruption I should like to continue with my investigation! Did the meal taste peculiar, Mr Mason?”
Sherlock Holmes’s voice seldom rose, and only in moments of sheer danger did his soothing tenor ever raise to a shout. But when his fury spilled over it was clear to all that never should Mr Holmes be crossed or angered.
Sir Robert appeared to shrink into the corner, his broad shoulders cambered. Mason and Hammersmith both sat upright in their chairs, the brandy losing all effect for a moment of outburst.
“Well, I can’t say that I have the palette for such things, but think it tasted rather fine. Gallagher made merry with the garlic, true, but I don’t believe it made much of a difference.”
“Quite so. Pray, continue with your narrative.”
“Well, I had just returned from dinner. The snow had only just begun at that point and I could see that the sky was almost smothered by these deep black clouds. I tend to leave the fire smouldering when I leave to keep the my humble quarters warm. That night, however, I was taken aback before I had even entered when I saw through the window that the fire was roaring anew. At first I thought the worst, and perhaps some of the embers had caught onto these timber boards along the floor, but no, the fire was burning safe. I did not notice him missing immediately. As you can see, I can hardly see into the stables proper from here—Mr Holmes?”
Sherlock Holmes was using the stem of his pipe to scrape at the boards upon the floor. “Please, take no account of my lack of attention. I have heard every word. You cannot see the stables from here, correct?”
“No, no you cannot. It is my usual practice to complete a round of the stables before sleep, and as such it was then that I discovered his disappearance. It didn’t appear that there had been any violence before hand, no sign of a scuffle. The feed bin was empty, completely empty—as if one had washed it clean—and the doors to the prince’s pen wide open. I remember almost fainting, and then running to the Villa without delay.”
“And that is all? No sign of a blue flash perhaps, or lightning?” My companion asked, his queer task upon the wooden planks apparently complete.
“No, Mr Holmes, that is all.”
Sherlock Holmes frowned, a sign that Mason’s statement had not shone light onto the mystery.
“Well then,” he finally said, “Let us see The Prince”