AN: Prompt at end of chapter.
The Case of the Innocent Dutchman
On more than one occasion, I have stated that not all of the cases my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, was involved with are suitable for publication. Some lacked a satisfactory result. Others were too delicate and could result in scandal. Still others, for varying reasons, were of no particular note. The case of Mr. Fons Beekhof falls into the latter category because my friend was involved only peripherally.
As I recall, the case first came to my attention one evening after dinner. Sherlock Holmes and I had settled in front of the fire, he in his usual chair and I upon the settee where I read through several articles of the latest medical journal. I had paused to fish my pipe from my pocket when the expression on my friend's face told me something had disturbed him.
"What is it, Holmes?" I asked.
"You recall Inspector Jones, Watson?" he asked, eyes fixed upon the newspaper in his hands.
"The tall man with the hooked nose and bushy mustache?" I asked. "The one you said was an idiot and should be relegated to some out of the way hamlet where he could do no harm?"
"The very one," Holmes said with a nod. His gaze did not leave the page, though his frown deepened.
"Holmes?" I prompted. When he remained silent, I prompted again. "Was he relegated to a hamlet?"
"What? Oh. No, Watson, though very nearly," said Holmes, folding the paper and casting it aside. His hand strayed to his violin, and he gave me a smirk. "Jones is now an inspector in Kilburn. Seems I was incorrect regarding his ability to cause harm, though."
"Holmes, perhaps you should explain." Having retrieved my pipe, I settled back to load it.
Holmes smiled apologetically and began, "According to that article, a rather brutal assault occurred two nights ago. Someone broke into the house of Mr. Lionel Martin, a gentleman farmer of some standing in the community. Mr. Martin was assaulted and nearly done to death with a bludgeon. Jones has come to the conclusion that it was a Mr. Fons Beekhof, an immigrant Dutchman now working as game keeper for Mr. Charles Grey of Grey and Magnus Steam and Boiler."
"A man of substance," I observed. "Was there some grudge between this Dutchman and the gentleman farmer?"
"Perhaps." Holmes lifted his violin into his lap and plucked at its strings aimlessly. "In June there was a shooting accident. Mr. Grey had invited Mr. Martin to go rabbit hunting on his property, and Mr. Beekhof accompanied them to carry their shotguns and game pouches. Mr. Martin is somewhat elderly and suffers from arthritis, so it was the part of Mr. Beekhof to cock the hammers for Mr. Martin. When he passed the weapon to the old gentleman, the gun went off. A pure accident, you understand."
"Terrible!" I said. "Was anyone injured?"
"Yes. Mr. Beekhof was struck in the leg about the knee. It was only rabbit shot and he was not struck with the full load, only several pellets. Not a life threatening injury. Regardless, he was unable to perform his duties for several weeks."
"And he held a grudge sufficient to warrant this beating?" I asked.
"According to Jones, yes," said Holmes.
"Do you find it likely?" I asked.
"Do you, Watson?" he returned.
I considered, finally shaking my head in the negative.
"I agree with you," said Holmes.
"Is that all Jones has?" I asked.
"No. I hesitate to call it evidence, but Jones claims a bicycle found in a hedge behind Beekhof's cottage somehow links the two," he said. "Beekhof's cottage is five miles from Mr. Martin's home, you see, and Jones claims the game keeper rode the bicycle to and from the crime."
"Can I expect a trip to Kilburn in the morning?" I asked. I confess I felt some eagerness to join Holmes on a new case. London, just then, was quite dull and I had little to occupy me.
"I think not, Watson," he said at length. "No. This is not a case to stir me. Mr. Martin was not killed and I am sure he will tell Jones it was not Mr. Beekhof when he comes around. No need for me to involve myself."
With that, the subject was dropped. Holmes took up his bow and contented himself with fiddling while I relaxed, enjoying the music.
Two days later, upon my return from a morning walk, Holmes met me at our door.
"It's murder, Watson!" he cried, shaking a special edition in my face.
"What is?" I demanded, attempting to grab the paper and see the headline.
"Jones's case!" he cried, thrusting the paper into my hand. "Martin has died of his wounds. It's murder and that fool is going to get an innocent man hanged!"
I scanned the page quickly, not really reading any of it.
"Holmes, can you be sure?" I asked. "I mean, I know you have no respect for Jones's abilities, but how can you be sure based on what has been in the papers?"
He spun on his heel and paced, shooting me a serious look. After a moment, Holmes stopped in front of the window looking out on Baker Street and folded his hands behind his back. Presently, he return his attention to me and nodded solemnly.
"You are quite right, Watson," said he. "I have allowed my prejudice to get in the way."
"It can happen to anyone, old friend," I said and removed my topcoat and hat. As I hung them upon the rack, Holmes came up beside me and grasped his own topcoat. I looked questioningly at him.
"A walk to clear my head, Watson," he explained nonchalantly. "I might stop at the museum. Back before dinner."
He was out the door, walking stick in hand, a moment later.
Upon his return that evening, I noted a certain smugness about his person. As dinner was soon to be on the table, I did not press him with questions.
"Have you guessed what I was up to this afternoon, Watson?" Holmes asked as soon as Mrs. Hudson was out of the room.
"If I know you, you went to Kilburn," I said.
"You do know me," he purred and smiled conspiratorially. "Watson, Mr. Martin was certainly not murdered by Mr. Beekhof. I know this because Mr. Beekhof had a visitor less than an hour after the assault took place."
"Less than an hour? How much less?" I asked, my full attention on Holmes.
"Between thirty and forty minutes after the assault, Mr. Grey paid the game keeper a visit," said he, touching the side of his nose with a slim index finger.
"What of Jones's bicycle?" I asked. "Beekhof could have ridden five miles in less than thirty minutes."
"An able cyclist might do so in broad daylight and fair weather," Holmes shot back. "The crime was committed at or about 8PM. The weather was alternating fog and mist all that day. More, there are no gas lamps on the lanes. I dare say, a truly determined man might brave such a journey at breakneck speed, but why would he? Mr. Grey's visit was unplanned. He had received word regarding some difficulty with a boiler being installed on a ship at Bristol and would leave the following morning. He had several instructions for Mr. Beekhof and rode his mare over to deliver them in person."
"Odd, the master going to the servant, is it not?" I observed.
"Exactly what I thought, Watson," agreed Holmes. "However, Mr. Grey is an unusually considerate man. Strange in one so successful in business, but I found each of his servants had very kind things to say about him. Apparently, he curries loyalty by being loyal to those who work for him. It seems that ever since the unfortunate accident in June; Mr. Beekhof has experienced great discomfort in cold and damp weather."
"I imagine so," I interrupted. "I experienced stiffness and aches in bad weather for more than a year after my leg healed. It sometimes still troubles me."
"Indeed. I have noticed you limp on occasion." Holmes paused as if considering something and then went on with his tale. "I also discovered that the owner of the bicycle was Miss Althea O'Hare. She is the daughter of Mr. Grey's head gardener and works on the estate as a milkmaid and shepherdess. The O`Hare cottage is next door to Beekhof's and the hedge in which the bicycle was discovered runs along the lane behind their gardens. According to Miss O`Hare and her parents, she keeps the bicycle in the hedge under an oiled tarpaulin. Her reason is that the lane is easier to ride on than the cart track in front of the cottages. I observed that it is certainly more level and regular than the cart track."
"Did Beekhof know it was kept there?" I asked.
"He did, as do most on the estate," said Holmes.
"So, he could have used it," I said.
"Technically correct, Watson, but I am all but certain he did not." He pursed his lips and regarded me a moment before saying, "Would you accompany me tomorrow? I need to pay inspector Jones a visit. I think you could help me to prove to Jones that he has the wrong man."
I readily agreed. Our conversation turned to other things, though my mind remained upon the crime and what I might do to convince the inspector that Holmes could not.
At 9AM the following morning, I found myself in company with Sherlock Holmes and Inspector Jones standing upon the even, hard packed earth of the country lane behind the cottages of the head gardener and the gamekeeper. After a perfunctory greeting, Holmes outlined his reasoning for why Mr. Fons Beekhof could not be the murderer of Mr. Martin.
"Holmes, you are wrong," said Jones stubbornly when my friend had done. "He knew where the bicycle was kept. He had reason to dislike the man. He had opportunity. Beekhof did it and I mean to see he hangs for his crime."
"Inspector, you are aware that my associate, Doctor Watson, was an army surgeon, are you not?" asked Holmes.
"Yes. Battle of Maiwand and all that. If you think your friend can convince me Beekhof's injury somehow absolves him," Jones said condescendingly, "you are mistaken. No offense meant Doctor."
"Are you a betting man, Inspector?" asked Holmes. I imagined this was some ploy on my friend's part. An attempt to get the man to listen to reason, perhaps.
"I might be. Why?" Jones's suspicion was clearly evident in his expression and posture.
"I am willing to wager that my friend Watson can beat you in a bicycle race," said Holmes, producing a crisp ten pound note.
You can imagine that my jaw nearly hit the ground. Inspector Jones gaped at my friend and was struck speechless for a heartbeat or two, his bushy mustache bristling.
"Ten pounds?" he eventually whispered.
Holmes nodded sedately.
"I am not the Commissioner of Police, Mr. Holmes!" sputtered Jones. "Just an inspector."
"Very well, Jones. Ten pounds to your one that Watson can outrun you in a bicycle race."
Jones narrowed his eyes and squared off in front of Holmes.
"Holmes?" I said uncertainly.
"Come, Watson," said he. "You have kept in good training. I trust you will not let me down. What say you, Jones?"
"What's this to do with the case?" the inspector fairly growled. "If you think you can make a fool of me, you're wrong. I am not going to ride five miles down this or any other lane!"
"Not nearly so far," Holmes said soothingly. "Only some hundred yards. Down to that twisted yew that overhangs the roadway."
Jones cast his suspicious gaze upon the tree and then back to Holmes. Holmes held up the ten pound note and raised an inquiring brow. At that, Jones spun to glare at me. I remained silent, baffled as to what Holmes was up to.
"I would take that bet," said Jones, returning his glare to my friend. "I would take it, Mr. Holmes, only there ain't but one bicycle. Otherwise, I think it would be fair easy money."
"Would you take it with me also?" I demanded, stung by his remark.
"I would, Doctor," he sneered. "Like I said, though, there ain't but one bicycle."
"Miss O`Hare?" Holmes called loudly. "Would you come out here, please?"
At his words, an attractive country girl of some twenty odd years stepped from a narrow gap in the hedge pushing a sleek black bicycle with brand new tires. Jones gaped at the young woman and shot me a glance. I produced my wallet and extracted two five pound notes, holding them challengingly out to the inspector.
"As you can see, Jones, there are now two bicycles," said Holmes, taking my notes and placing them with his. "Twenty pounds to your two says Watson can beat you."
After some sputtering on Jones's part, the notes were handed to Miss O'Hare for safekeeping, and she was dispatched to the old yew to act as judge. Jones inspect both machines, finally choosing the new one. He and I mounted and lined up alongside each other. Holmes raised a kerchief above his head, made certain we were ready and dropped his hand.
I was first off the mark and pulled half a wheel ahead of the inspector. I strained and pushed, pumping the pedals as rapidly as I was able. Within fifteen feet, however, my leg began to burn. At twenty, it was afire. The old Jezail bullet had done its evil work years ago and I was now paying the price for my temerity in making such a foolish bet. Jones began to pull away from me and though I pumped hard as I could, I was no match for him on a bicycle. In sad fact, I was unable to complete the course; so much pain was I in. Three quarters of the way to the tree, I had to stop. Jones sailed pass Ms. O'Hare with a victorious whoop and upraised hand. Grinning, he circled around, took the notes from the girl and rode back to me. Holmes soon joined us.
"I told you I could beat him, Mr. Holmes," Jones said. "You had me worried, Doctor, the way you started. A fair run. No shame to you. No shame."
I said nothing, disgusted with myself. Stepping from the bicycle, I let it fall to the roadway and nearly collapsed when the pain shot up my leg. Holmes handed me his walking stick and I took gladly. Jones narrowed his eyes upon me, his mirth subdued.
"Watson, why were you discharged from the army?" Holmes asked, though he was looking at Jones.
"I was wounded by a Jezail bullet," I said.
"And where were you wounded?" asked Holmes, still looking at Jones.
"In the shoulder and the leg, here," I said, patting my trouser where it covered the years old scar. I saw Jones glance at Holmes and then back to me.
"That's about where Beekhof was shot," Jones said. "Wait a minute. You could be having me on. Doctor, did you truly try to win? On your honor?"
"Yes," I said. I am afraid there was more than a little heat in my reply.
"Imagine, Inspector, Watson trying to pedal five miles at even a sedate speed," said Holmes. "I doubt he would be able to walk normally for days. And consider that his wounds are seven years healed. Can you imagine that after a mere three months Fons Beekhof could do it?"
Jones sat astride the bicycle, an expression of deep thought upon his hawk-nosed features. Holmes and I remained silent.
"That's something to consider, isn't it?" the inspector said. "But, if it was not Beekhof, who murdered Mr. Martin?"
"I do not know, Jones," said Holmes. "I only know that it could not have been Fons Beekhof."
Jones saw to it that Mr. Beekhof was released and returned to his cottage and his duties as Mr. Grey's gamekeeper. In spite of my best efforts, I could not rouse Holmes to hunt down the old gentleman farmer's killer. He explained that the clues were too badly disturbed, and the crime was slap-dash and pointless. He believed it was likely committed by a tramp. With such an unsatisfactory outcome, I never included it among the cases publish in the Strand. Sadly, the murder remained unsolved.
Prompt from YoughaltheJust: Watson, with his bad leg, just can't seem to get the hang of bicycles.