A variation on a theme inspired by Driven to Distraction in the 'Plethora' series. As before, all the car facts are true, because I'm a secret enthusiast at heart. Does it show?

The Worst Passenger in England

Part One

It was in the October of 1907, when the weather reflected the wealth of gold still upon the trees and the country basked in the last gift of the waning year, when I set out to call on my old friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, late of London, now, so he was wont to tell me, happily ensconced on the South Downs with his bees.

I do not say that I disbelieved this assertion of his, but how a man who spent a good deal of his time warning me of the horrors of the countryside could ever find comfort in a lonely homestead was beyond me. He tells me it was always his intention to retire to some quiet, out of the way place and leave the travails of society far behind; however, I have evidence to the contrary in black and white on the printed page.

Still, we are all allowed to mellow with age, and I do not hold his departure from London against him, even if it does mean our contact has been reduced significantly. Letters and telegrams do not replace meetings in the flesh, and many is the day I have found myself traversing the Strand and gazing into Simpson's, remembering the times when the table by the window would have been ours at which to dine and to watch the ebb and flow of life in the busy street beyond.

Such were the fond remembrances that drew me to Sussex that bright Sunday. I left early, leaving behind the grey walls and dirty haze of the City, and soon found myself in pretty villages, where the church bells rang out and called the people to their devotions. Out here, the air was sweeter and, more refreshingly, the roads were empty so that I made good time to the coast.

I will not pretend that I did not have an ulterior motive in my visit. As pleasant as the prospect was of seeing Holmes again, I had the week before, taken possession of the handsomest motor car I had ever seen. Gleaming red paintwork, acres of brass, which demanded the utmost attention with polish and rag, and a shield-shaped radiator proudly bearing the name of the maker, Rover, were the outward features that had initially earned my admiration. Beneath the bonnet lay the real genius of the thing, a purring 4-cylinder engine, the first of its kind.

It is true that I was inordinately proud of it and, like any doting father, was never more pleased when others expressed their admiration also. I dare say there were better cars, but the 20 horse-power Rover Tourer suited me to a tee.

That such a car had won the International Tourist Trophy on the Isle of Man earlier in the year gave it the official stamp of approval. Here was an automobile that had proved its worth against others, speedy enough to satisfy that desire for excess acceleration often saw me daring to push the engine to its limits with its top speed of 50 miles per hour, and still practical for a doctor on his rounds. Today, however, I was using it as its creator had intended, for touring the English countryside, stopping along the route to impress Holmes with my purchase.

It was nigh on half past twelve when I pulled up outside his house. I paused to take in that great sweep of the Downs unto where chalk cliffs jutted perilously out over the sparkling ocean. Small fishing boats bobbed on the rise and fall of white horses that rushed to the shore to fall spent upon the beach, whilst high above seagulls filled the air with their calls and restless wanderings.

Again, I could not help musing on the disparity between the life my friend had chosen in his retirement and the peculiar character of his nature. His younger incarnation would have been driven to distraction and to vices far worse in such a place. I hoped for his sake that those old demons had been finally exorcised.

To my delight, I found that Holmes was at home, although temporarily engaged on the telephone. The door was opened by his old housekeeper, a woman who had lost the ability to distinguish thought from word, so that I was never sure whether I was supposed to answer her grumbles about irregular dining hours and the inconvenience of unexpected guests. Did I realise it was nearly lunchtime, said she. When I said yes, she gave me a sharp look as though I had rudely intruded on her innermost thoughts. I kept my own counsel after that.

Holmes was in the sitting room, deep in discussion with the crackling voice I could just hear coming from the earpiece. I fancied his face brightened when he saw me, although all he spared me was the wave of his unoccupied fingers in acknowledgement. I waited until finally he hung up the receiver with a sigh of exasperation.

"It's no good, Watson, I shall have to go," said he.

"Go? Where?"

"To Chichester, and this instant. There is not a moment to waste. Where is my Bradshaw?"

"Holmes, it's Sunday. There will be a limited service."

"I am quite aware of that. Now, let me see. Where did I put it? How are you, by the way, my dear fellow?"

"Well," I replied. "And yourself? You seem busy."

He gave a distracted shake of his head. "A matter of a miscarriage of justice," said he. "You've seen the paper?"

If I had, it would not have been the one to which Holmes gestured. The Sussex Gazette was not a newspaper usually to be found in London, and was certainly not among my daily reading material. However, I was interested to see what had roused him into such a state of agitation and so cast my eye over the front page. 'Brutal Slaying in Fulworth' ran the headline, followed by 'Nephew Arrested'.

I was not entirely surprised. To suppose that Holmes had given up all interest in crime simply because he had retired was akin to asking a bird to refrain from flying. Age may have clipped his wings somewhat, but the old instinct was as keen as it ever was.

"You have some information about this business?" I asked.

"Indeed. The nephew, Martin Pringle, is quite innocent." An exclamation of frustration escaped him as he tossed the Bradshaw onto the sofa. "The last train left an hour ago!"

"Will it not wait?"

I knew before I said it what Holmes's response was likely to be. He had the bit between his teeth, as the racing expression has it, and every determination to see the business through today. Of course, the answer to the transportation problem was elementary.

"No, Watson, it will not wait. Young Pringle is a good enough lad, though something of a wantwit. He must be liberated this day, or who knows what damage may be done to his fragile state of mind?" He sang out for the housekeeper. "Inform Mr Carter that I need carriage to Chichester."

"He's away seeing his daughter in Chepstow, Mr Holmes," said the elderly lady.

He banged his fist on the table. "Confound the fellow, so he is! In the heat of the moment, I had forgotten. Well, my dear fellow, are you equal to the challenge of a twenty-three mile walk? Since we cannot ride, then we must provide our own transport."

"I have no objections, although it would make greater sense if I drove us there. I have the car outside."

Holmes paused and I noticed a wary look come into his eye. "You have purchased a motor car?"

"Indeed I have. Come and see."

"I'm afraid I cannot congratulate you, Watson. You of all people I wish long life and happiness, which I fear you will now never attain."

I scoffed at this overly-dramatic statement. "Really, Holmes, it is quite safe. I am a competent driver."

"How long have you had it?"

"A week."

"No one was ever competent at anything in a week, Watson."

"I have known people meet and marry in less time than that."

"And regretted it at their leisure, I dare say." Holmes tutted impatiently. "However, the parallel is not exact. The taking of a wife does not ultimately result in serious injury and death."

I could not contain my amusement. "You say that, after all the cases we have investigated where wives have killed their husbands?"

He shrugged lightly. "I concede that you may have a point. However, my reservations remain."

"Well, if this business is as important as you say, it may be worth the risk of trusting to my four wheels instead of your two feet."

He clearly retained his misgivings, although he was gracious enough to at last acknowledge the truth of my statement. All the same, he did not go without a fight. Never has a man been dragged so unwillingly into a motor car as Holmes was that afternoon.

First, he insisted on checking that all four tyres were inflated and firmly attached to the vehicle, watched with much amusement by myself and his housekeeper. Then he stood before it and remarked that it seemed to him that one wheel was out of true. I assured him it was nothing of the sort. This led onto the question of whether I had a spare tyre should we get a puncture. I pointed to the spare mounted on the driver's side. By the time he had got round to asking whether I had a spare to replace the spare, I had quite lost patience.

"Holmes, are you coming or not?"

"It is important to be sure about these things," said he. "I am now quite satisfied."

"Good. Get in."

He obliged and I went to the front to turn the starting handle. The engine growled into life with a lion-like roar proclaiming its readiness for the journey ahead. I clambered into the driver's seat and spared a glance at my passenger, whose face had suddenly become ashen. I grinned as I released the handbrake and engaged the gears, only to see his expression become ever more troubled, and before he could raise a protest, we were on the move.

We chuffed through the little village that lay a mile or so north of his cottage, causing a great stir as we did so. Children left their games to stare and point, and women paused in their gossip to follow our progress with wondering eyes. Even the landlord of the village inn came to the door and waved cheerily as we passed by.

"Keep your hands on the steering wheel," said Holmes tightly.

I noted that his posture was as rigid as a wash board, and that his fingers were turning white where he was gripping the dashboard with some force.

"I am quite in control," I sought to reassure him. "Do try to relax a little."

"I dare not drop my guard for one second," said he. "And you would be well advised to slow down before you earn yourself a penalty for excessive speed."

"I am allowed to travel at 20mph under the terms of the 1903 Motor Car Act."

"That maybe so, but these people are my neighbours, Watson. I have no wish to become labelled as a public nuisance because I allow my friend to charge up and down the High Street in his noisy motor car. They are quite particular about such things here. One digression is liable to see my weekly delivery of groceries terminated."

"Goodness, Holmes, what a thrilling life you must lead. Threats to cut off your supplies indeed – whatever next?"

I felt his gaze turn upon me. "Do not imagine I miss the sarcastic tone of your voice," said he. "Such flippancy does you little credit."

"If so, it is because I cannot imagine you being satisfied by such trifles as whether or not your groceries are to be delivered. It's hardly the stuff of our previous adventures, is it?"

"Ah, there you are mistaken. The observance of trifles is as important here as it ever was in Baker Street. I was not here a month before I realised that village life is a microcosm of the wider world. I dare say that anyone with a deep understanding of its dynamics would be able to apply the same principles to any given situation in city life and come to a satisfactory conclusion."

"Nonsense," I scoffed.

"Then let me give you an example. The butcher's boy came to my door with bloodied knees only yesterday and I startled him with the reassurance that his parents' disagreement would not last long and he should not trouble himself unduly."

"Was it any of your business?"

"There is no such thing as privacy in the countryside. Everyone knows everything about everyone else. The marital troubles of the butcher and his wife are common knowledge. Warfare is their usual state. I myself gauge the state of their relationship from the condition of sausages they sell."

"And what do they tell you?"

"If they are plump and generous, then all is well. If they are on the lean side, then you may rest assured that matters are far from cordial. In the instance of the butcher's boy, it was obvious to me that he had fallen from his bicycle in delivering my order. He is an able cyclist, but prone to make mistakes when hurrying. Thus, that morning he had been hurrying. He only hurries when his father is out of sorts and is late packing the orders. What should cause such a state? Well, the obvious, naturally. I had no doubt that peace would reign again in their household by evening. Do watch out for Farmer Giles's sheep, my dear fellow. It would be unconscionable to run one over."

The sheep in question were safe in a field behind a thick hedge and with five-bar gate. He was worrying unnecessarily. Indeed, Holmes was proving to be one of the worst sort of passengers, who, although not able to drive themselves, think they know better than the person behind the wheel. It would have been amusing had his constant remarks not started to become tedious. Now I was anxious to take his mind off the twenty miles that we still had to travel.

"Do you like it, Holmes?" I inquired.

"Retirement? One gets used to a slower pace of life, although I have not entirely abandoned my former interests."

"Actually, I meant the car."

"Oh, I do beg your pardon. Yes, Watson, it's most…"

"Impressive?"

"I was going to say expensive. How much did this much-vaunted collection of nuts and bolts cost you?"

"£450."

"Good heavens," said he. "The price of folly rises every year."

"I consider it a good investment. I shall be saving a small fortune in cab fares."

"But what of the poor cab driver? These mechanised monsters will be the ruin of his business. If the rest of the population think as you do, then we shall soon see the complete removal of horse-drawn vehicles from our roads and what a loss that will be."

"Like it or not, Holmes, it is the future. A motor car makes less mess than a horse."

"Although the smell is as equally objectionable in both cases. Mind that tree."

"I am nowhere near the tree, unless you imagine it is about to leap out into the road in front of us?"

"Do not be crass, Watson. I merely point it out, nothing more. Have we picked up speed?"

"No," I lied. We were in fact touching 35mph in third gear with very little strain on the engine at all. "Why do you ask?"

"It seems faster. I wish now I had had the foresight to bring a hat."

"It is a quite lovely day," said I. "Surely you do not feel the cold?"

He shrugged. "More than ever these days. I seem to be plagued by draughts, an unhappy condition that worsens with every passing day." I sensed he was smiling, although I dared not look round to confirm my theory. "Well, tell me."

"About?"

"This chugging brute, your pride and joy. This is the reason why you came down today?"

"Not exactly. I came to visit you."

Out of the corner of his eye, I saw him shake his head. "My dear fellow, there is no need to prevaricate. You are proud and rightly so. This is the fruit of all those hours spent tending worrisome patients and toiling over your writing desk. It may not be the reward I would have chosen, but I will not deny that it does have its merits."

I risked a glance at him. His posture had relaxed somewhat and I had the distinct impression that he was starting to enjoy the ride.

"I thought you disapproved?"

"You do not need my approbation, and I will admit that this is not entirely unpleasant. But do keep your eyes on the road."

"It's a handsome thing, isn't it?"

"An observation that proves conclusively that old maxim that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. If you say so, I am perfectly willing to take your word for it."

"The real genius is that the engine is a load-bearing part of the framework."

"Fascinating," said he, in a voice which lacked any real sincerity.

"Along with the suspension and the gearbox, it can be unbolted and removed for servicing."

"Most commendable."

For some time now, I have been aware that Holmes does not share my interest in automobiles. For a while, he diligently studied the literature on the subject and listened to my explanations about camshafts and the advantages of having separate casings for each cylinder head. I was not entirely ignorant of the fact that, for most of the time, he was merely being polite.

The basest instances of human nature are of the greatest fascination for him, but mankind's successes less so. I have yet to see him roused by the news of a racing triumph or the latest development to come out of the Coventry factories. Give him murder and misery and he is the happiest fellow on the planet. Give him the details of the construction of a four cylinder engine and his eyes glaze over, as they had done so now. I decided a little test was in order to wake him from his stupor.

"Yes, I've got four trained puppies beneath the bonnet running as fast as they can," I said lightly.

"Ingenious," Holmes murmured. An instant later, I saw his expression change. "Puppies?"

I laughed. "You are not paying the slightest of attention to what I am saying, are you?"

He nodded. "Forgive me, my mind is on other things."

"This business that necessitates a trip to Chichester?"

"Yes, that. I was not altogether surprised when they arrested young Pringle for the murder of his aunt, for he stands to inherit her considerable fortune. However, I find myself in a position to be of some assistance to the young fellow, thanks to The Duchess of Malfi."

"Someone you know?"

"The play, Watson, put on last night by the Fulworth Amateur Dramatic Society, amateur being an apt description for their efforts. The fellow playing the brother was most ill-chosen in my opinion, and one suspects that his being the local magistrate had something to do with it. The man was obviously nervous and fairly mangled his lines when he could remember them at all. But that is beside the point. I was passing the Pig and Whistle public house on my way to the theatre when I happened to notice Pringle at the window seat with a young lady."

"And the significance of this?"

"Well, he could have hardly been in two places at once. At the time his aunt was being murdered, he was otherwise engaged with a member of the fairer sex. I should mention that it is my considered opinion that murder was not done in this case at all. Mrs Wood, the aunt, was a most peculiar woman, fiercely jealous of other members of her sex and fixated with the idea that she was alluring to all men."

"She was not?"

"She was eighty-six and toothless. Her nephew was her only relative and she guarded him most closely. I suspect that mental decline had begun to addle her senses. By some means, she came to hear of her nephew's fondness for the lady I saw him with, and decided on a course of action to punish her faithless nephew."

"You mean, suicide? That's a bit drastic, isn't it?"

"She believed she had lost him to another woman. In her own confused way of thinking, she had lost her reason for living. What she could not have, nor would anyone else. Mind you give this fellow on the bicycle a wide berth, Watson."

"He's on the other side of the road, Holmes. Don't fuss so. You deduced all this just from reading the paper?"

He nodded. "That, and an intimate knowledge of my neighbours. I do not say I actively seek cases, but I have had the good fortune to have several drop unbidden into my lap, as it were. Under the circumstances, it seemed churlish to refuse to investigate. Why, only in July, a young science master from the local school was found dead on the beach."

"You investigated?"

"Naturally."

"And brought the murderer to justice?"

"After a fashion."

I sensed there was more to this story than he cared to mention. "Well, do go on."

He sniffed. "I'm afraid I cannot. Please do not take this personally, my dear fellow, but I intend to write this story up myself. It seems the logical thing to do, seeing as how I was on the scene."

"You are always on the scene."

"But you were not, and therein lies the rub."

"In that case, I shall look forward to reading it. Ah, here we are."

I guided the car to a stop outside Chichester County Prison and waited while Holmes went inside. Several young men clad in their Sunday best with ladies on their arms stopped to express their praise for my vehicle, so that the time seemed to pass very quickly indeed. When Holmes did return a little over half an hour later, it was with a thin, nervous young man of about twenty at his side.

"My friend, Dr Watson," said Holmes, making the introductions. "Watson, this is Martin Pringle. Lucky for us, Inspector Bardle of the Sussex Constabulary was on hand. We had some dealings a while back and he was ready to accept my word on the matter without a second thought. Sorry to keep you waiting, my dear fellow, but I insisted on making a statement. There's much to be said for observing formalities in such cases. It saves misunderstandings at a later date."

"I am indebted to you both," said Pringle. "Especially to you, Dr Watson, for I understand you took the time to drive Mr Holmes here. But for his timely intervention, I might have had to spend another night in that awful place. May I say," he added, "that I am something of an automobile enthusiast myself, although my dear aunt never approved. That is the Rover 20, is it not?"

I could not help the smile of delight that came to my face. "It is indeed."

"A most handsome vehicle. You are most fortunate, sir."

Holmes cleared his throat. "All's well that ends well, I'm glad to say. Good day to you, Mr Pringle."

"I must not keep you," said the young fellow. "After close confinement, the walk to Fulworth will be most welcome."

I sensed he wanted transportation to his destination, but was too polite to ask directly. After the gracious remarks he had made about my new car, I was inclined to feel kindly towards him.

"Fulworth? Well, that's on our way, isn't it, Holmes?" said I.

A scowl settled on Holmes's face that I assiduously ignored. He may not have approved, but until the day came that he purchased his own motor car, who I invited into mine was no business of his.

"That's very kind of you, Dr Watson," said Pringle. "Are you sure you don't mind?"

Holmes opened his mouth to protest, but I quickly cut in. "Of course not. We'll have you home in no time at all."

At least that was my intention. The reality, however, proved to be somewhat different.

Continued in Part Two!