The Sensible Necktie and Other Stories of Sherlock Holmes (5 page)

“I am afraid it will be absolutely necessary, Miss Crabb. But if you feel uneasy please stay by Watson's side. He is well versed in the noble art of escorting.”

He winked at me and walked a few steps ahead of us until we encountered the first of the slaughtered beasts. We had been walking down a narrow path that led straight into a thick grove of trees. Right in front of us, a black cat, showing some signs of decay, was hanging from a piece of household string that was attached to a tree branch some three yards above our heads. Holmes moved close to it - a bit closer than I thought appropriate - and studied the animal and the rope.

“Interesting, very interesting. The cat appears to have been rather clumsily hacked to death with something similar to a kitchen knife. It is hardly the skilled work of a poacher.”

Miss Crabb winced at hearing his description.

“Holmes, please,” I begged. “Must you be so pathological?”

He did not appear to take any notice of me. “Hm… But the most striking thing is undoubtedly the knot. This has not been tied by an ordinary gardener. There is quite a different type of expertise in evidence here.”

I tried to get a close look at the knot while keeping a somewhat healthier distance than Holmes. It did not look very extraordinary to me. It was not a hangman's noose, that I could see, but other than that it efficiently kept the animal elevated from the ground I could conclude very little about it. The mere sight of it made me uneasy, and I hoped that Holmes' examination of it would prove brief.

“I don't think there is any need for us to examine the other animals,” said he to my great relief, then adding: “Let us continue into the woods.”

“Holmes,” I said. “Miss Crabb is starting to look pale.”

“Pale?” He said it as if it was a new word to him. “With all this fresh air and exercise? There is really nothing to be afraid of here.”

“Apart from a series of ritually slaughtered animals,” I added.

“Oh, hardly ritually. I think that the only purpose for these hanging animals is one that they have already served.”

“And what is that?” asked Miss Crabb with a curiosity that seemed to outrival her anxiety.

“To deter the people of Pettigrew Lodge from wanting to go through the woods.”

“Do you really think so?” I said. “It is not some form of perverse pagan ritual?”

“Watson, why would a lonely old man entertain himself by killing small animals in the middle of the night if there was no underlying motive to it?”

“You may be right. But why should people be hindered from going through the woods?”

“We shall have to see, won't we?”

Holmes led the way through the trees, and we passed a number of hanging animals that I took care to lead Miss Crabb past so that she would not have to lay her eyes on them again. In due time, the trees came to a halt, and a primitive old stone wall marked the border to the adjacent field that stretched out a good two miles ahead of us.

“Miss Crabb,” said Holmes, “you mentioned a point in the fence at the other end of the moor where there was a dead tree trunk. Do you think you can find it for us?”

“I am certain of it,” she replied. “I know this moor like the back of my hand.”

She strode fearlessly ahead, climbing over the wall without effort and starting the long trek across the moor without even looking back to see if we were keeping up. White clouds had been looming over the sky for the better part of the day, but now they were slowly dispersing, and as we came out of the shade the sunlight was rather hot on our necks. I felt obliged to remove the Norfolk jacket I habitually wore on excursions like this, realising that we were closer to summer than I had acknowledged. Holmes walked in silence, with a sense of purpose that he reserved for the most pivotal moments of his investigations, and I knew from experience that most of the links in the chain were in his head already, and that he only needed one or two to confirm his suspicions. What those suspicions were, however, I could not say. My own suspicions were as yet unspecified. But, like Holmes, I had the notion that what was missing in our picture of the scenario was possibly another player, someone from the outside.

We had almost arrived at the place where the moor ended, and the wooden fence marking the end of the estate extended along another forest, when Holmes suddenly stopped and looked about himself.

“Do you see the mounds, Watson?” he said and pointed, first in one direction, then in another. “Ancient pre historical burial mounds from the time before Britain had been Christianised. The Crabbs are not the first people to take up residence in this area.”

“Wilfred Crabb recognised that,” I said. “The question is if the history of this place has anything to do with our case?”

“I have not ruled out that possibility.”

I looked out on the barren moor.

“I cannot see that there is anything here that the dead animals were meant to warn us about.”

Miss Crabb, who was a few yards ahead of us, called out and pointed at a large dead tree standing as a guard to the entrance of the forest.

“Capital!” Holmes exclaimed. “Now, remind us, Miss Crabb. What happened?”

“We were walking along this narrow little path that has been tramped up in the grass here, and it was about here that father stopped and looked into the woods.”

“And then he was attracted to the fringe of the woods?” I said.

“By the sound of a bird,” Holmes added. “A cawing crow.”

“Whoever would react to such a common sound? Especially here in the midst of the countryside.”

“Only a madman, surely.” Holmes peered into the darkness of the trees with a dreaming gaze for a few moments, then he turned to Miss Crabb. “What lies beyond the forest?”

“Bridle,” she said. “A very small village consisting of a small cluster of houses and a church.”

“Is that where the local vicar resides?”

“Yes.”

“Then we must pay him a visit.”

Holmes appeared most adamant in exploring every inch of the area, and although Miss Crabb and I were both tired and hungry, we indulged him, and so Miss Crabb led the way through the forest to the village of Bridle. I counted not more than five or six houses scattered around a village green. One of them was the vicarage, but we were spared the effort of knocking on its door, for just as we stepped onto the green, we were stopped by a man calling out to us and approaching. He introduced himself as Martin Flint, the vicar of Bridle. He seemed quite impressed by my friend's presence in his little village, but was more focused on Miss Crabb, at whom he directed a few comforting words.

“Mr Flint,” said Holmes, “did you see any preliminary signs of the lunacy that has inflicted Mr Crabb?”

“None at all,” said the vicar. “I spoke to him only a couple of days before his isolation, and then he was as normal and as sharp as ever.”

“You conversed on your common passion, I take it?”

“As a matter of fact, we did. He was taking an increasing interest in the pre historical remains of the area.”

“Was he planning any excavation work?”

Flint looked a bit startled by this question.

“I don't think so. Mr Crabb's interest was on a strictly literary basis.”

“I see. But you are yourself an amateur archaeologist, I understand? That dirt underneath the fingernails can be so hard to get rid of, can it not?”

Flint looked down on his hands and evidently realised that several of his fingernails had dirt under them.

“Oh yes. Well, I am quite enthusiastic about it. I have been conducting a survey of the moor, excavating some of the barrows there a few weeks ago, and right now I am doing some digging close to the church, where I have reason to believe there has once been a pagan temple.”

“How fascinating! Did you excavate all the barrows?”

“No, there are several of them. I only dug out two or three, but I found nothing spectacular. Mr Crabb was with me on one occasion, and we exchanged some interesting speculations upon the age and structure of these burial mounds.”

Holmes nodded and looked at the little cottages that surrounded us.

“Who lives in the village?”

Flint once again looked a bit vexed by this curious man's random series of questions. “Old folks, mainly. This community is slowly fading away.”

“And I presume the cottages have been in the same families for generations?”

“Precisely. Apart from the old smithy, of course, which was empty until a few months ago.”

“A newcomer?” I asked.

“An old man. Seemed like he wanted to come here for some peace and quiet. He was seen to arrive one day with a large trunk and then he settled into the little house. I went over there a few times to welcome him to the village, but he never opened the door even though I could see he was lurking inside. He seemed harmless nonetheless.”

“He never goes out?”

“Not that I have seen. Only I think he has left, for the place is starting to show signs of being deserted again.”

Mr Flint indicated a small dilapidated cottage that lay just where the village bordered onto the woods. Holmes gestured at us to stay where we were, and then he quickly went up to the house, walking stealthily up to the window to peer in. There he stood for a minute or two before rejoining us again.

“The place is empty. There is nothing more for us to do here. Let us return to the house.”

We bid farewell to the gracious vicar, and started on our way back through the forest. As we were nearing the moor, Miss Crabb suddenly stopped on the path and turned to us.

“Did you hear that?”

“What was it?” said Holmes.

Miss Crabb started to smile to herself.

“I'm sorry, I am jumping at shadows. It was only a crow.”

“It is understandable that you should react to their sound,” I remarked.

“Yes, I suppose so. There it is again.”

“Indeed,” said Holmes.

We walked on. As I looked back, I saw that Holmes was standing still, looking up into the tree tops.

“Holmes, what's up?”

“What indeed, Watson,” he said furtively. “What indeed.”

It was impossible to get Holmes to sit down to dinner when we returned to Pettigrew Lodge. He was giddy and restless, and although Miss Crabb promised that she would try to let her father accept him after dinner, both she and I could not hide that we were very hungry after the afternoon's work. Holmes insisted that we ate while he lingered in the billiard room smoking a few cigarettes. I tried to keep up a decent conversation with Miss Crabb on commonplace matters as we dined on our own, but although she seemed to appreciate my effort and tried to chat politely with me, it was apparent that she was nervous, and, I suspect, started to doubt that my friend's presence would alter her unfortunate predicament. It was with relief, therefore, that I saw how the door into the billiard room flung open once we were finished with our dessert, and Holmes came rushing in, looking as if something both troubling and delightful was on his mind.

“Miss Crabb,” he said. “I must see your father immediately!”

“Mr Holmes,” she replied, “why the sudden hurry?”

“Because this is a most grave matter, Miss Crabb, and it must come out in the open once and for all.”

Miss Crabb rose from her chair. “Mr Holmes, will you tell me what you have discovered?”

Holmes looked at her, then at me, calming down slightly, as if my presence reminded him of his manners. “Will you both please come with me into the billiard room?”

He led us into the adjoining room, and walked across the floor to a small nook in the wall next to the opposite door.

“Do you know what this picture represents?”

He was pointing at a medium-sized oil painting of a ship, rather crudely executed in a manner that I had seen a hundred times, and which is quite common for marine paintings. It was placed in a dark corner nestled in between a bookcase and a door frame, and it was unassuming to say the least.

Miss Crabb studied it closely. “No, Mr Holmes, I cannot say that I do. This house is full of paintings, some of which come from my father's collections and some of which came with the house when we purchased it.”

“I see. And your father has never spoken of it?”

“No. I don't see why he should. He is not a sailor. As far as I know, he has hardly been on a boat.”

Holmes chuckled and looked at the picture. “I am afraid you have been slightly misled in that aspect, Miss Crabb. For you are looking at the vessel on which your father served as shipmate.”

The young woman frowned and took two or three steps back.

“Mr Holmes, what are you saying?” she said despairingly. “This is simply not true.”

“I'm afraid it is. You see, there never was a scholarship that funded your father's university education. He went through it on his own endowment.”

“I am sure I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Perhaps it would be better to sit down. Let us move over to these little easy chairs. There. Are you comfortable, Miss Crabb?”

“Please don't fret, Mr Holmes. Will you explain yourself?”

“I will. The name of the ship in the picture is the
SS Cordelia
. It is rather a famous ship, actually, which is why even I, who am not really much informed in nautical matters, have heard of it. I am an expert in crime, Miss Crabb, and I know of that ship because it was connected to a crime some years ago. It was before any of us were born, actually, but the story of it still lingers as one of the most ingenious swindles in recent history, and I remember making a close study of it in younger days when I was something of an amateur student of criminology. It was a merchant ship sailing in 1829 for Caracas, on a cargo of coal, and returning back to England with a cargo of rubber. The captain was a man named Morris Addleton, a promising young mariner who had already been on several trips to the Caribbean. He was a well-liked and skilled seaman with an experienced crew, which is all the more remarkable considering the outcome of the journey. For on its way back, the
Cordelia
went missing, and about a month after its expected return to England, it sailed into Liverpool Docks with only a third of its original crew remaining and one of the mates acting as a substitute captain.