Disclaimer: the Holmes brothers and Watson, belong to ACD; the rest are mine.

Chapter 6 - Investigation

I woke the next morning to the curtains in my room being thrown back to let in the early dawn light. Holmes had entered through the communicating door in a state of high excitement. Blearily I rubbed my eyes.

"What is the matter, Holmes?"

"The telegraph has been fixed, Watson. And our friendly host has just had delivered the reply from Mycroft."

I sat up. "And..?"

"I need to go to London, I fear," replied Holmes. "There are elements in the communication which raise further questions."

I got out of bed. "Wait for me, then, Holmes. I will be ready immediately."

He smiled with that irritating grin which I knew meant that I was to be given another job to do 'in the meantime'. Sure enough, he said, "No, Watson, I am afraid that there are some loose ends to be tied up here as well. I want you to have another word with Mr Taylor; then see if you can get another interview with Sir George. I think you will find him in the churchyard early this afternoon – I'll wager it is a regular pattern with him."

I sighed. "Very well. What am I looking for?"

"Everything and anything," he replied cryptically. Seeing my questioning look, he continued, "I will do the detection, Watson. I just want you to gather information – as much as you can. Just mingle with the villagers. You are supposed to be a famous dignitary after all."

"That is a secret, though, only Constable Phillips is aware – or should I say, mistakenly aware."

He smiled again. "I think, Watson, that in a village like this, something sworn to secrecy will not long be secret." He went to the door, and turned back to me. "I should be back this evening I hope," he said. "Please try to keep out of trouble." Then he was gone.

I did not rush down to breakfast; in fact it was the wrong side of ten o'clock before I left the Inn and made my way down the lane towards Upper Brook Farm. I had not reached there however when I saw what I thought initially was a dumped pile of clothing in the long grass beside the lane. But as I got closer I saw a slight movement and a groan. With a shock I realised that it was a person, and instinctively knew who it was. I ran across to where he lay.

Taylor was lying face down on the edge of the roadside ditch; his face was bloodied, and his right eye swollen so badly he could not open it. His right shoulder was clearly dislocated. As I started to tend to him he whimpered in pain. "This is … all your fault ..."

"Hush, man," I told him, looking around to see if the assailant was nearby. "That's rubbish."

"I told you not to tell anyone."

"I swear we did not. We must have been overheard."

He coughed, and blood came to his lips. "It's bad, isn't it?"

"I am a doctor," I replied. "I just need to get you back to the Inn..."

"No! To the farm. Help me get up."

"I really don't think that's a good idea..."

"Then I won't tell you who did this."

"Wait, then, whilst I at least attend to your arm." He nodded and I spent the next few minutes lashing the limb against his body to hold it in a relatively comfortable position. At last I helped him gingerly to his feet. He stood before me, bruised and filthy, but clearly not on the point of death.

"This way," he said, and led us onwards along the lane until after some half a mile we saw buildings in the trees off to the left for which we turned down an unmade earth track.

Upper Brook Farm was one of those places which if you did not know you were in the nineteenth century, would convince you of a date at least three hundred years earlier. Every possible amenity to modern life was missing, but not companionship; as we approached the farmhouse a young woman ran out to greet us. Seeing Taylor she screamed, but I reassured her that he was safe and we proceeded into the kitchen.

"My sister, Louise," he gasped as we sat him down in front of the fire. She smiled at me, a warm welcoming smile that spoke of thanks for helping her brother. "Thank you, Sir, for helping him." She turned to Taylor. "Now our Billy, what has you bin doin' now, getting yourself all messed up like this? Someone say summat about pa again?"

Taylor smiled at her, and reached out to hold her hand. "No," he whispered. "I was having a word with this gentleman and his friend last night and on the way back I was jumped."

"You said you knew who it was," I reminded him.

"Miles Furlingstone."

"It doesn't mean anything to me I'm afraid."

"Sir George's second footman," he explained. "Always does fancy himself. Always picking fights. Don't know why Sir George keeps him on. Nothing but trouble."

"Now, then, don't you fret yourself," said his sister. "The little ones will be home soon, and you don't want to have them upset. You go and get cleaned up."

"Not yet," I said. "Your shoulder. If children are coming I need to reset it now."

Taylor looked at he apprehensively, then nodded. "Go on, then."

"It will hurt."

"I know. Get on with it."

The process of relocating his shoulder was carried out quickly, and soon he was removed to the bedroom to have a wash and put new clothes on. Whilst he was absent, I asked his sister about the footman Furlingstone.

"Oh, he's not so bad really," she replied. "A bit of a bully; but if you has a pretty face..." She smiled that smile again. "Well, he's putty isn't he?"

I smiled. "You have the measure of him, clearly. But it is interesting why Sir George keeps him if he does indeed cause the trouble your brother says he does."

"It's six of one and half a dozen of the other if you ask me," she said. "If you expect someone to be trouble then they will be, won't they?"

"Why do you think he might have attacked your brother?"

"We are not a rich family, sir. Our 'pa is in Debtor's Prison at the moment. So we have to get money from somewhere, don't we? So Mr Furlingstone, well he lends people a few bob, see? But if you fall behind..." Her voice petered out.

I nodded. "Your brother said nothing of that aspect of their relationship."

"We have some pride."

At that moment Taylor rejoined us, clean and washed again, although his eye was still shut and the scratches from being dumped in the ditch were still on his face. "Thank you for your help, sir," he said. "I hear the little ones outside coming home, so it might be best if you leave us now."

I agreed and bade them both good day, and as the children ran into the farmyard I made my leave. In the lane outside the farm I paused and jotted down the conversation in my notebook so that I could report the details to Holmes on his return.

The unexpected turn of events had eaten up the morning and early afternoon, so remembering Holmes' words I made my way to the church and sure enough, sitting next to the grave was Sir George. I respectfully joined him.

"Ah, our illustrious visitor," he said, slightly coldly.

"I am sorry?"

"I understand from Constable Phillips that you wish to remain incognito."

"That would be useful, yes." I considered it best to continue the charade until such time as Holmes advised otherwise.

"It might have been better to tell me at the start," he continued gruffly.

"We did not consider it appropriate."

"So you say. Good manners, I call it. Well, what do you want? This isn't a chance meeting I'll wager."

"I have just come from Upper Brook Farm."

"What of it?"

"Do you know William Taylor?"

"Yes, although I'm on the verge of throwing them out. One more missed rent and that's it."

"He was attacked last night."

Sir George met my eyes steadily. "That is .. unfortunate. It seems there may be plenty for you to write about, doctor. Look, just a word of advice. This is not London. Things are done differently here. You might not understand, but believe me it works."

"He has a complaint against one of your staff."

"Furlingstone?"

I could not conceal my surprise. "How did you know?"

"Those two haven't seen eye to eye for years," he laughed. "Even at school they were at each others' throats. Hated each other. I bet he told you Furlingstone had lent him money didn't he?"

"Well, yes he did as a matter of fact."

"I suggest you check your facts. Furlingstone is a character, as we say around here, but he isn't a lender or a bailiff."

"How can you be sure?"

"I am also the bank around here," he replied. My expression must have shown my puzzlement. "This is a poor community," he said in explanation. "I try to help as far as I am able. I look after the villagers' money – any that they try to save – and their pay comes out of my pocket too. This is a tied village, Doctor; that means that all the money in it either comes from me, to me or passes through me in some way or other. I can tell you assuredly that Furlingstone has not lent money to Taylor. I would know."

"But if Furlingstone had his own money?"

"He hasn't. Poor as a church mouse."

"So Taylor is lying?"

"That's the measure of it, yes. He's going the same way as his father; drinking the money, or spending it on unnecessary fripperies – did you know he wants that sister of his, that Louise, to go to London and have an education? Ridiculous."

"I see nothing wrong with that, Sir George."

"Everyone has their place, Doctor. In this village at least. Everyone knows where they stand and what is expected of them. His sister will go into service at the Hall when the time comes. Like all the others."

I was starting to realise that my initial liking for this man was waning. I tried to remind myself that he had experienced such tragedy that would drive many lesser men mad with grief, but as he stood before me I thought him heartless. After a moment I decided there was nothing more to be gained from pursuing the enquiry regarding Taylor.

"You said yesterday that Phillips thought Williams had no reason to be where he was the night he died."

"Yes, that is my belief, and that is what I recorded at the Inquest," he replied. "Williams came back from Africa and immediately started stirring things up, trying to mend the wrongs he thought he had done. He came to see me; I told him in no uncertain terms to stop what he was doing and just get on with settling his life out – what was left of it."

"How long was it considered he had before the illness took him?"

"A year at the most. But he died eight months after his return from Africa. He must have swooned and fallen."

"Yes, so you say, but why was he there?"

"I have had enough of this," replied Sir George. "You have been speaking to Phillips too long. Did you know he is moving from here?"

"No. Where to?"

"Devon."

I thought to myself, and I'll wager you have had a hand in that.

"You don't like him, do you?"

"I expect the old ways to continue. My family has tended this acre of England for hundreds of years. All has continued smoothly for years, but now with Phillips there are all sorts of claims being made."

"About Williams."

"And Kennedy."

"What did he say about Kennedy?"

"You ask a lot of questions, Doctor," he replied coldly. "Is this for your next book? Your next Sherlock Holmes adventure? Well let me tell you, you'll have no more from me. Please, leave me to my thoughts, sir."

With that he turned his back on me and pointedly started to tend the grave of his wife and son. Bemused and confused, I wondered what to do next, but after a few moments decided to take my leave. Wishing him good day, I returned down the lane into the village to be met by Holmes at the door of the Inn. His face said it all.

"A most productive time in London, Watson," he smiled. "Now, to our rooms and tell me what you have discovered."

Half an hour later found us in our familiar nook in the bar to which we had become accustomed. Holmes was deep in thought from what I had told him.

"So, Taylor apparently has a grudge against this Furlingstone. Who Sir George says is a trustworthy fellow, more than Taylor certainly?" I nodded in affirmation. "And yet Sir George is the person who could have saved his father from Prison."

"Yes, but that is the way of things around here, as he reminded me forcefully," I replied. "He is in effect the 'Lord of the Manor', Holmes. His word goes. He can't show favour but neither can he show weakness where that is not deserved."

"Perhaps, and the responsibilities he carries are heavy," mused Holmes.

"What of your findings, Holmes," I asked eagerly. I could not help but feel that my day's work had been of little consequence.

"A couple of interesting pieces of information," he replied. "The most significant of which was that both Williams and Kennedy are old boys of Eton."

"I can understand Kennedy, but how on earth could someone like Williams' family afford sending him there?"

"Oh, Watson, just because a man chooses to farm doesn't make him a pauper!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, I agree, but for an Eton-educated man life on a village farm in Hampshire is not what one would expect."

"Which leaves what the admirably misnamed 'young' Ted said on our first night here, Watson."

"I'm sorry, Holmes. Remind me."

"Secrets."