Chapter 10

Barney Dowsett

James Turner ducks his head as he walks into the tavern. Sherlock and Watson take a seat outside in the son. Behind the bar, Barney Dowsett dries the glasses with a cloth. He looks up as Turner enters. 'Hello James, you're bit early for your pint today aren't you?'

'Here on business Barney.' Barney lowers the glass in his hand.

'What type of business?'

'Kidnap.' Barney puts the glass on the bar.

'You don't think?'

'Nah, not you, remember what you saw yesterday.'

'What the carriage and Mr Holmes?'

'Yeah.'

'What about it?'

'Outside are Doctor Watson and Mr Holmes' son. Mr Holmes' has been kidnapped. They want to know who kidnapped him. And about your dad.' Barney glances around the bar.

'Mr Johnson?' An old man in the corner turns around to face Barney. 'Can you take your game outside? The fresh air should stimulate your appetite.' The old man groans and mumbles under his breath, but he and his friends take their game outside into the sunshine. He lowers his voice. 'Bring them in.' Turner pushes himself up from the bar and heads to the door. He beckons to Sherlock and Watson, who stand and enter the tavern. Turner closes the door.

'I presume, Mr Turner told you about why we're here?'

'Yes.' Sherlock glares at Turner who doesn't flinch. Barney walks around the end of the bar and gestures to a table. 'Have a seat.'

'Tell me exactly what happened.'

'I was clearing glasses outside, when I saw Mr Holmes striding into the square. It's not often he comes this way. I called out a greeting and he acknowledged it. Three men converged on him blocking every which way. He couldn't move and he was getting flustered like.'

'Calm it.' Watson mutters to Sherlock. 'It's not the boy's fault.'

'Mr Holmes likes a challenge and Barney here introduced me to him a couple years back and I sometimes go up to his house to see if he wants a chat or a game of something. Anyway Mr Holmes and the men had an angry exchange of words he gestures loads like "get out of my way" type thing. A carriage pulls up and the men start pushing Mr Holmes towards the carriage. I heard one of them say: "You're only going to see your son. Massa Holmes. Think of your son." They sounded like they were from London. They stuck him with something and he collapsed into their arms. They heaved him into the carriage and two got in with him the third climbed up beside the driver and they drove off. Not towards the station but towards the road to London.'

'What was the state of the horse?'

'Horses. They were fresh. Looked like they hadn't been harnessed long. And they went off at a swift pace.'

'What did you do after they left?'

'I came in here with the dirty glasses. The owner wanted me to do a couple of things but a managed to get them done very quickly then I rushed off up the Mr Holmes' place and told Mrs Hooper. I accompanied her to the station and paid for her ticket. It was the least I could do.' Sherlock rises suddenly and punches the wall. He grabs a chair and throws it across the room.

'Sherlock. Sit down.' Sherlock looks at Watson but reluctantly retakes his seat. Watson turns to Barney. 'I'm sorry about him. He hates not knowing.'

'It's okay, I understand. Mr Holmes was like a surrogate father to me.'

'Did you recognise any of the men?'

'I thought I recognised the man who climbed up beside the driver but I couldn't be sure. I thought he could have been a friend of my brother and father, well I say friend more like an acquaintance.'

'Go on.'

'I don't know much more than that. I make sure that I don't come into contact with their… associates when they arrive at the house.'

'Do these associates often go up there?'

'Three or four times a month. Most come from London but a come few from Eastbourne, Hastings, Brighton or Portsmouth. Apparently my father is some-' the door bangs open and a heavily built man stands framed in the doorframe. Barney winces. Turner, Sherlock and Watson all looked towards the door.

'What you doing 'ere?'

'Mr Miles Dowsett I presume?'

'Who wants to know?' Sherlock stares at him. 'You police?' Sherlock snorts.

'Do we look like Police?' Miles Dowsett looks at him. The two of them stare at each other. Mr Dowsett looks away first. Sherlock smirks.

'We are in the middle of an important discussion. Please leave us alone.'

'Discussion about what exactly?'

'My father, if you really want to know.' Sherlock turns his back on Mr Miles Dowsett. 'Barney, you were telling me about the woodland walks.' Turner glances at his father then concentrates on Sherlock.

'Yes, umm, right, your father often challenges me to work out on which trees the leaves would be fully out or where the fish would be in the river or he'd show a track in the mud and make me guess the age and size of the animal. I would usually get it wrong and he would get it exactly right. We would track the animal and see if who was right.' Barney chuckles. 'I've learnt a lot about deer and their tracks.'

'What's he like to walk with?'

'Not too bad once you've gotten used to him and his-'

'Eccentricities. Yes they seem to run in the family.'

'I've met his brother too. Didn't him that much. I felt that he was too full of himself.'

'That sounds like my uncle, he is a like him/loathe him man. Although Uncle doesn't really like leaving his usual haunts coming down here if rather strange behaviour.'

'Excuse me.' A woman edges past Miles Dowsett and into the tavern. She hands out a piece of paper to Turner. 'A telegram for Mr Turner.'

'Thanks.' He takes it, opens it and reads it. He hands it to Sherlock. Sherlock takes one glance at the telegram and swears loudly.

'I'm going to kill him.' Barney and Turner look at him bemused. 'John stay here.'

'Siger, what is it?' Sherlock looks confused for a second before a stubborn expression settle into place in his features. He crumples the telegram in his fist and shoves it in his pocket. He barges past Mr Dowsett and out into the square. He strides across the square towards the station. Watson, Turner, Barney and Mr Dowsett watch him leave and the woman who brought the telegram follows him out and she heads to the post office.