The Shocking Case of the Nude Cyclist of Treperro

Chapter Two

The journey to Treperro was long and tiresome, made all the worse by Mr Tregrehan's longiloquence. To call it conversation would be to give it a grandeur it did not deserve, for it was almost entirely one-sided and my place in the proceedings was confined to little more than the occasional word of agreement or nod of the head. That he had a need to talk to stave off the effects of travel was evident and, willing or not, I had been assigned the role of listener.

As is often the case when a person finds a doctor at their mercy, he began by delving deeply into the matter of his health. He told me how he felt when he woke up in the morning. He told me how he felt when he went to bed. He told me how walking up hills made him breathless and how large meals made him feel sluggish. Finally, after an hour of these windy descriptions of comparatively normal symptoms, I was asked for a diagnosis.

I had scarce time to open my mouth before I was informed that in his considered opinion he was suffering from a strain on his constitution produced by over-work and worry. He had read somewhere that it was all due to his having an under-active spleen and as a precaution was taking a patent formula designed to encourage the organ into its proper function.

I would have been concerned had he not produced the bottle of pills for my inspection and I satisfied myself that they contained little more than a mixture of water, sugar and essence of mint. Since he said that he had never felt better, I decided against disillusioning him as the efficacy of the pills, not that he would have given me much opportunity to speak in any case.

After that, he fell into lecturing me about his other interests, which were many and omnifarious. Throughout, he demanded my full attention, calling me back to the conversation when he perceived that my mind was wandering, and always insisting that we maintain eye-contact. My only escape was by regularly excusing myself, which I did so many times that I fear I created the impression of a weakness. Even the enjoyment of a quiet smoke was denied to me, for the conductor rattled the door handle and told me bluntly that other people were waiting to use the facilities. I returned to our compartment with a heavy step and an even heavier heart, little consoled by the knowledge that I would not have to endure Tregrehan's company forever.

A little help from our fellow passenger would have been welcome, but Holmes had absented himself before we had left London by settling himself in the corner and closing his eyes. He was not asleep, for every now and then I saw his eyes open briefly to take in the view of the countryside that dashed past our window or for a surreptitious look at his watch. This was lost on Tregrehan, content as he was to have at least one person in his captive audience.

Only when the conversation turned to the events in Treperro did I detect a stir of interest from Holmes. I gathered that our garrulous companion had finally said something worthy of his attention.

"But how such wickedness can flourish in this day and age, Doctor, is beyond me," Tregrehan was saying. "The local police are worse than useless. Small Treperro may be, but we deserve more than the one constable assigned to us. And he is quite inadequate for the task. I would go so far as to say that he turns a blind eye to this fellow's activities. He won't lay a trap and he's never to be found when the cyclist is abroad."

I nodded in sympathy, having long ago given up trying to add anything meaningful to the discussion.

"What is worse is that his superiors at Looe condone this behaviour. When I complained not a week ago, I was told that we were making mountains out of molehills. Furthermore, they said that if we simply ignored him, he would go away. But I ask you, Doctor, as a reasonable man, how are we to ignore him when he casts such slurs on good people? Mrs James cannot show her face at the market after he said that her lace was shop-bought rather than made at home as she has always claimed."

"Was it?" I asked, not really expecting an answer.

Tregrehan paused for the first time since we had left London, and gave my question some thought. "Well, I don't rightly know. It was rather good lace, and some said it was machine-made long before this cyclist starting spreading rumours, but Mrs James always held that she made it with her own fair hands. I have no reason to doubt her. Still, a nod's as good as a wink to some people, and they'll believe what they will. As for Mr Daley, the landlord of the Treperro Arms, why, I've even heard his regular customers agree with the cyclist's claim that he has been watering down his ale. Our once peaceful community is in turmoil. All trust is gone. Meanwhile, we wait and fear what next this man will say. Who shall escape calumny, Doctor?"

"Who indeed," said Holmes, finally condescending to join our conversation. His voice sounded a little sleepy, although his eyes were as bright and clear as drops of seawater. "Of what did the cyclist accuse you, Mr Tregrehan?"

Any initial pleasure Tregrehan may have taken from having increased his audience by another member was soon blighted by the nature of Holmes's inquiry.

"Well, it's rather embarrassing—"

"Only if it's true."

Tregrehan bridled. "Of course it isn't."

"Then you have no reason not to tell us."

Spots of colour appeared on the man's cheeks. "Since you insist, Mr Holmes, he accused me of being a pettifogger."

"Did he now?" Holmes's tone of voice suggested he was not altogether surprised by this revelation. "Well, well, that is not so bad. Many a solicitor has been called worse. But in relation to what exactly? From what you have said, your cyclist is specific as to details."

Tregrehan squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. "Ezra Trebah's cottage."

"Do go on, Mr Tregrehan. Rest assured that whatever you tell us will be in the strictest of confidence."

"There was nothing untoward about the business, I can assure you," said he hastily. "Old Ezra was a tenant, you understand, of William Trematon, who died last year. Under the terms of his will, any tenant residing in one of his properties at the time of his death was to be given the option of buying it. Well, it was obvious to one and all that Ezra was never going to find the money, what with his health keeping him from going out with the fishing fleet as often as he would have liked, so I gave him a week and then offered it to another party."

"Someone who could pay more?"

He cast a guilty glance at Holmes. "As executor, I was obliged to obtain the highest price possible for the property. Mr Wilderspin was willing to pay decent money and take on old Ezra as a sitting tenant. Naturally, he had to increase the rent. Trematon had been a wealthy man and had only ever asked Ezra for a tenth of what it was worth. Ezra couldn't pay and had to move out."

"What became of him?" I asked.

Tregrehan ran his tongue around his lips. "He died a few months ago in the Bodmin workhouse. Poor old man, he always said he'd die if he couldn't see the sea. But it wasn't my fault, I assure you."

"Your cyclist disagrees, Mr Tregrehan," Holmes remarked.

"But why, sir? It was done according to the law. Had I given old Ezra a year to find the money, the result would have been the same."

"Quite so. What has been the result of his claims?"

Tregrehan swallowed hard. A sheen of sweat had appeared on his forehead, which he took to dabbing away with a large red and white spotted handkerchief.

"It cost me the position of chairman on the parish council, of that I am certain. I had considerable support until this man cast these scurrilous slurs against me. Instead they voted in that butcher fellow, Bulstrode. It is unfair, Mr Holmes. I have done nothing wrong."

"I'm sure you did what you could for Mr Trebah," Holmes said coolly, his tone suggesting that he thought otherwise. "I take it Mr Wilderspin has come in for criticism?"

"He let the cottage after Ezra moved out to summer visitors. What else was he to do? Over the winter a lady has been living there. The cyclist has made claims that she is…" He cleared his throat. "Rather more than a friend of Mr Wilderspin's. Although," he added hastily, "she seems perfectly respectable to me."

"I take it she is not a villager?"

"Well, no. Mrs Rose Smith is her name. I understand she lived in Manchester before she moved to Treperro."

"Have all the cyclist's accusations been directed at outsiders?"

Tregrehan thought for a moment. "Now you come to mention it, Mr Holmes, yes, they have. But I was born in Treperro. Why have I alone been singled out for criticism?"

His voice had become strident and rattling with indignation. His agitation increased when Holmes took his time in answering, and under his level, disconcerting gaze, Tregrehan displayed signs of acute discomfort, finally manifesting themselves in his rising to his feet and excusing himself on a matter of some urgency.

"There seems to be a good deal of it about," Holmes said, smiling wryly at me when we were alone. "First you, Watson, and now Tregrehan. I do wish you had said before we left Baker Street that you were unwell. I would never have called upon your time had I known. Five times in the space of three hours is a little worrying, even under these trying conditions."

"It was merely a diversion, Holmes. But then you knew that."

His smile broadened. "Yes, I detected the distinctive smell of your usual mix of tobacco when you returned. Really, our Mr Tregrehan is a tiresome fellow. I wonder that you were able to tolerate him for so long."

"I had very little choice. We cannot all close our eyes and pretend to sleep."

He took my censure with good humour. "Then let us make the most of his absence. You took my point about the cyclist's victims?"

"That they were not villagers, yes. But I fail to see how you came to that conclusion."

"How does the old saying go? 'By Tre, Pol and Pen, shall ye know all Cornishmen'. James, Daley, Wilderspin, Smith – they are not typically Cornish names. It was reasonable to assume that they had come late to Treperro."

"Ah, but not Mr Tregrehan. There your theory falls down, Holmes."

He shook his head. "By his own admission, he has not lived in Treperro for a very long time. And when he did return, his actions may have suggested that he was not working in the best interests of the remaining villagers."

"Yes, I thought that pretty heartless, having an old man thrown out of the home he'd inhabited all his life."

"It adds weight to my belief that the cyclist is not mad. As to his motive, we would not go far wrong in stating that he has appointed himself as Treperro's conscience. Certainly there is a case to answer. An old man loses his home and ends his days in the workhouse. The landlord sells watered-down ale to his customers. A woman attempts to profit from the labour of others by passing off the work as her own. It is important to him that these things, however small, do not go unnoticed."

"I can appreciate that, Holmes, but why does he have to do it naked?"

"Can you think of any better method of making people take notice? You will have often observed that it is the costermonger who shouts the loudest and the longest who invariably attracts the most customers. So it is with our cyclist. His nakedness is a means to an end, nothing more."

I could not agree with him. "There must be more respectable methods of achieving his aims. Why does he not write letters to the press to state his case or publicly denounce these people?"

Holmes, however, was no longer listening, and his eyes had taken on that introspective glaze that spoke of the stirring of his thoughts.

"One would always wish to stand on the side of the angels," said he, when my inquiry brought him from his brown study. "The difficulty is in knowing which side that is. I find myself in something of a dilemma, Watson. I have a mind not to interfere. Our cyclist appears to be doing an admirable job of keeping Treperro honest."

"You cannot condone his running about in the altogether."

The light of amusement danced in his eyes. "Delicately put, my dear fellow. But, yes, you are quite correct. One must consider the detrimental effect of his actions on the community as a whole, and the consequences to himself if he is caught. His intentions are good, but his method irregular. I must intervene, if only to save him from himself."

This line of reasoning seemed preposterous to me. "If you can make him see sense, which I doubt," I said. "However, it seems to me that anyone who would take to the highways and byways without a stitch of clothing between his bare—"

"Watson, I do believe I've had occasion to remind you about that pawky humour of yours before."

I shook my head impatiently. "I was going to say that anyone who goes about without a stitch of clothing between his bare flesh and a gritty country road can't be entirely right in the head."

"I have every confidence he will see sense."

"Assuming you are able to apprehend him in the first place."

A faint smile touched the corners of his mouth. "It has been many a year since I have heard you express doubt about my abilities, old friend. Age, it seems, has staled my infinite variety. If you consider that I am not equal to the task of discerning the identity of a naked man on a bicycle, then it is high time I left the stage and took up gentler diversions."

"All I meant, Holmes, was that the good people of Treperro don't appear to have had much success in catching him."

"Perhaps they were not trying too hard."

"Well, the matter seems simple enough to me. Find the bicycle and you have your man."

"My dear Watson, that remark is worthy of Scotland Yard," said he, shaking his head. "Were all problems so transparent, I should find myself out of work and my occupation obsolete."

I tried not to take offence at his off-hand dismissal of what seemed to me an excellent suggestion.

"Your mistake is starting from the erroneous position of assuming that it is his bicycle. The man has intelligence and a keen sense of justice. Now, I ask you, would such a man who has taken such pains to conceal his identity then ride about the village on a machine which would immediately identify him?"

"What if he does not live in the village?"

"Ah, but he does. How else would he be aware of the landlord's activities, or Mrs James's shop-bought lace or the relations between Mr Wilderspin and his lady tenant? There is little in a village that is not known to its residents. Remember what Thomas Hood said about the 'prattling, tattling village of Tringham'."

"Then why does this man feel the need to make the gossip public if it is already known?"

Holmes tapped his fingers on his chin thoughtfully and gazed at the view. "I believe we will find that the old and new residents of Treperro do not rub along together as happily as our companion would have us believe. Nor should we expect any co-operation. We will be seen in the company of Mr Tregrehan and so assumed to be allying ourselves with the new villagers, the outsiders as it were. If nothing else, Watson, discovering the identity of our nude cyclist will certainly present a challenge!"

Continued in Chapter Three!