Authors: Braven
Some distance from
Mayswood, I diverted from the main road to the neighboring village
and started a wide circle round the breeding farm. Now Fandango
introduced another little trick in her repertoire. Since we were not
moving away from Mayswood, at every crossroads she chose to veer in
the direction that would return us to its pastures. After some urging
on my part, we reached a meeting of the minds and my mount abandoned
visions of her stall, oats, and a rubdown.
The winding country
roads were in good condition considering the spring rains, and
the whole area, in contrast to Mayswood itself, was heavily timbered.
Hemlock, chestnut, and elm were in profusion, and it occurred to me
that the coloration of Fandango blended well with the surrounding
trees. My riding apparel was beige, and were I to pull off the road
and remain motionless in the timber, I fancied my mount and I would
be difficult to spot. The lane I had chosen inclined upwards after a
while, and soon I was on a bluff looking down on a pleasant valley.
The gleam of rails was discernable to the left, and as I followed
them visually I noted a freight terminus of some size with a variety
of tracks on which boxcars and freight carriers stood, many empty and
with their doors open. This puzzled me somewhat, being removed
from Litchfield, until I realized that the rails I had first noted
were probably a branch line and that sizable freight trains were
assembled at this terminus and then dispatched for the run into the
metropolis of London.
It was a country freight
yard that I had chanced upon. Well, Holmes had drawn my attention to
the railroad so I abandoned my proposed circuit of Mayswood and rode
a little way along the path until I found a trail leading down from
the bluff and into the valley. I made note of the area in case my
side journey turned into a dead end and I was forced to return this
way. Once on level ground, I followed the rails towards Litchfield.
When we turned away from Mayswood, Fandango again showed a
disposition to sulk, but she finally became reconciled to the
situation and mustered a presentable single-foot that did not bounce
me too much in the saddle, though certain portions of my posterior
gave promise of tenderness.
The single-foot segued
into a canter, and I realized that Fandango was a gaited horse when
she accelerated into a rack that ate up ground with a gentle
rapidity. The horse, like Deets, sensed my ineptitude and seemed to
be making things easy for me, or perhaps she was in a hurry to get
the matter over and get back to a nosebag.
On the outskirts of
Litchfield Fandango decelerated into her single-foot, probably her
most showy gait, and I fancy we made a sporty pair as we entered the
hamlet, which was little more than one street of about two city
blocks in length terminating at the railroad station.
As I suspected, there
was a cable office adjacent to the station, and I drew up before it
and, carefully and slowly, quitted my saddle with no more than a few
grunts. I led Fandango to the horse trough in approved style and then
secured her reins on an adjacent rail right next to a mounting box.
I'd gotten off without falling on my face, and perhaps I could resume
my seat with dignity as well.
At the cable office I
entered and made a show as though inquiring about a message. Actually
I just exchanged some words with the telegrapher about the weather,
and he must have thought I was a lonesome soul indeed. Vacating these
premises, I noted that the local inn, a small establishment, was
named "The Red Lion." Were I to possess a pound note for
every inn by that name in Britain, I might well have a box at the
races next to Lord Balmoral! "The Red Lion" had to be the
center of Litchfield's limited social life, so I set my feet towards
it resolutely. Then I saw them! Two Chinamen on the opposite side of
the street and coming towards me. Well, I had not been friend
and biographer of Sherlock Holmes for so long without recognizing the
makings of a shrewd move. Orientals don't just happen in the depths
of Surrey. Contrary to the experience of our American cousins,
English hands iron English shirts, and most of our railroads were
built with the assistance of the Welsh and the Cornish. The Chinese
had to be visitors and, hence, had to be residing at the inn.
I hastened my steps and
preceded them into the edifice by way of the pub door conveniently
available. Being already on the premises, they could not suspect
me of following them should they make an appearance. Chinese
spelled Chu San Fu, and while the grip of the former crime czar on
Limehouse had been broken, it made sense that many of the retainers
he still had left would be of his race.
I assumed a stance at
the empty bar and wished I had a riding crop to tap against my boots
as I ordered a stout.
The barkeep was a man of
few words, but when he filled my order he summoned seven of them,
revealing in the process his Scots ancestry.
"I ken you're nae
from these parts."
"A visitor, my good
man, as you have discerned."
I felt that a sop to the
Scot's powers of observation might lead to more discernment on other
subjects, but he indicated little interest in my length of stay,
point of origin, or anything else.
After giving the
polished wood surface a perfunctory swipe with a bar rag, he retired
to the end of the room to throw darts at the inevitable board.
Keeping his eye sharp for some bets with the evening trade, I
thought. However, said practice was interrupted, to my delight, by
the entrance of the Chinese. In very broken English, they
requested tea and retired to a side table and low conversation
in their native tongue. The barkeep relayed the order through a
service window in the back of the bar and resumed his dart
activity.
I was considering
ordering another draft and wondering how I might get closer to the
Chinese, a fruitless task since I could not understand one word of
their conversation. Then there was another entry, a disconcerting
incident to the barkeep, who had just scored two center hits and was
intent on making it three. As it happened, his services were not
required. A thin little man in nondescript clothes found his way
inside with some difficulty, holding his throat with one hand and
gesturing at his mouth with the other. When he spoke, it was in a
croak and with some effort.
"Is there . . . is
there a doctor round?"
Lifelong training took
over. "I am a doctor," I said, promptly crossing to him.
"Got somethin'
stuck in my windpipe," he wheezed.
I removed his hand from
his throat and, using two fingers, pried his jaws apart, peering
down his gullet, but the light in the pub was dim. I ran a finger in
an exploratory move past his tongue, for this could be serious, but
he started to choke and I removed my digit while I still had it.
He gestured towards the
door and I seized him by the arm with a gesture of agreement, leading
him outside and into the afternoon sun. With his back to the door, I
started to open his mouth again when things took a singular turn.
"Just give it a
fake look-see, Doctor Watson, for it's a dodge. Me throat's tip-top."
I started to draw back
from the man with a shocked expression, and alarm bells rang in my
ears.
"Keep lookin',
Doc," he urged in a low voice, raising his chin as though to aid
my efforts.
As I made a dumb show of
peering into his orifice, he spoke quietly and distinctly, no mean
feat with his mouth wide open.
"Pay no attention
to the Chinks, Doc. Mr. 'Olmes don't want those boyos to get a wind
up. Just make yer way back to Mayswood, and we'll watch for your
signal tonight."
"Then you areâ?"
"âSlippery
Styles, Doc."
Good heavens, I thought,
the human shadow! I'd never seen him close to before, but when Holmes
wanted someone followed, Styles was the man he called for. My
friend contended that Slippery could follow a sinner into hell
without getting his coat singed!
Momentarily inspired, I
whipped out a pocket handkerchief, holding it to Styles's mouth
and slapping him on the back. The little man made a nice show of
apparently coughing up a chicken bone or some such object. There
lurks in all of us the desire to perform, even in an empty theatre,
and I was so imbued by this adventure that I had a happy inspiration.
"My room is on the
front of Mayswood," I mentioned as though I were telling the
chap that he was all right now.
"Got yuh, Doc. Till
tonight."
With the feeling that
all was not amiss, I returned to the pub to pay for my drink and
departed full of self-approval since I had not cast a single glance
at the mysterious Chinese.
As I managed, with the
help of the mounting block, to straddle Fandango and get my feet into
the irons, I reasoned that Holmes must already be alerted to the
presence of Orientals in the vicinity of Mayswood. No doubt from
Gilligan's cable.
Going down the street,
Fandango gave indications of following a different route and
seemed to harbor definite ideas about it. It occurred to me that the
horse would take me back to the breeding farm in the most direct
manner if allowed to, so I was content to let her take charge. After
all, there is a limit to the patience of a five-gaited show horse.
Such she had to be to successfully transport a middle-aged doctor of
sedentary habits safely up hill and down dale through the Surrey
countryside.
Back at Mayswood Stud, I
had ample time to wash up and change for dinner before joining Deets
in the drawing room. His Irish whiskey was on a par with his
burgundy, and seated next to a pleasing fire, my blood running faster
from the day's ride, I resolved to treat said spirits with respect.
My host had a pleasing personality, as I had noted before, though he
was not as loquacious or rapid in his speech as he had been during
our first meeting at Baker Street. I informed him that my afternoon
had produced no results and considered mentioning the two Chinese but
abandoned the thought. It could do no good and might do the reverse.
I tried to lead the
conversation to horse breeding. Deets spoke easily and fluently on
that subject, and I resolved to give more attention to the bloodlines
of my racing choices in the future. Whenever the conversation
dragged, I resorted to previous cases of Holmes's, a conversational
crutch that I could use with facility and that always found ready
ears. I did mention that I thought Holmes would conclude his London
investigation shortly and would join us in the country. It seemed the
sporting thing to do and apparently this proved welcome news.
Butler Dooley, like all
of his rare breed, appeared with seeming omniscience whenever needed
and gave indication of having a sharp pair of ears to boot. His
master had absented himself for a moment for some undisclosed
reason, and the butler inquired with concern if it were possible for
Mr. Holmes to share my room should he be arriving shortly. He
explained that Mrs. Deets had been in the process of redecorating all
the other bedrooms, save the master suite, prior to her sudden
departure for her sister's home on Tuesday. The reference to "sudden
departure" rather pricked up my ears, and then the day of the
week mentioned caught my attention. It now being Thursday, this would
mean that Deets's wife had been bustled off to her sister's on the
day that he visited us at Baker Street.
I forestalled the
servant's departure with the indication that a refill would be
acceptable, and thought furiously.
"Was it Tuesday
that your mistress left, Dooley?" I asked, with what I hoped was
a casual air. "I was of a mind that it was Monday."
"Oh no, sir, the
mistress left on Tuesday all right, for it was the same day that Mr.
Deets went to London."
Well, our client had
specified that his wife had taken her trip before the incident of the
intruder. I also thought it singular that the lady was removed from
the estate immediately following the happening. Obviously, Deets
was more concerned about the matter than he had indicated, or
possibly his wife was of a nervous nature, though this did not
coincide with my picture of an English lady satisfied with the rural
life of a country estate, as high-toned as it might be. I decided to
abandon this subject when I realized that, for all I knew, Mrs. Deets
was not English at all and her life at Mayswood might not be a happy
one either.
"Dooley," I
said, accepting a refill that I noted was liberal. "Mr.
Deets tells me you have been with the family for some time."
"I had the honor of
serving his father."
"After his
travels?"
"His travels, sir?"
The question to my
question was delivered so immediately and honestly that I almost
spoke of the famous Captain Spaulding and his explorations, but
drew back in time. I was getting in too deep and was rather glad that
the present master of the house returned at this moment.