Chapter Five
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The Rose and Crown is one of those old establishments that seems to have been in existence since the beginning of time, and although not literally true, it would have been difficult for any of the current inhabitants of Sandhurst or their antecedents to have said just how long it had stood on the spot it occupied. To the best of the current innkeeper's knowledge, it had been founded somewhere in the neighbourhood of 1742, making it a most venerable and seasoned watering hole.
Sherlock Holmes and I joined the countless ranks of patrons who had sipped a pint on one of her stools, tucked away in a corner where we could have a private conversation and he could explain to me what the tooth, the clump of sod, the oak tree and scratched paint on the railing of the widow's walk all had to do with each other. He never got the chance however, for at that moment a few of the rougher-looking locals, who had been chatting amongst themselves and repeatedly glancing our way the whole time, stood up and made their way to our corner, most decidedly in an unfriendly fashion.
"Say nothing," Holmes said to me quietly, maintaining a calm outward façade. He glanced up benignly at the pair of grim-looking men who leaned menacingly over our table.
"You're sittin' in Matthews's chair," one of them growled.
"I beg your pardon," Holmes replied affably. "Might you be speaking of Mr. Henry Matthews? I hadn't realized he was here, and he's just the man I was looking for."
"He ain't 'ere," the taller of the two men replied gruffly, "e's dead. Shot in the head two nights ago."
"Oh dear!" Holmes replied, apparently surprised by the news, "that's quite a shock...quite a shock indeed. Well, he won't actually be needing his chair then, will he?"
The shorter of the two men leaned threateningly toward our table. "We keeps a spot open outta respect when a bloke around 'ere dies."
Holmes looked genuinely contrite and stood up. "My apologies, gentlemen. I had no idea that this was Matthews's regular spot, and I wouldn't want to disrespect his memory in any way." He gestured to me and we moved our drinks to the next open table as the two regulars walked beside us.
"I was wondering, though," Holmes said to the taller of the pair, "if one of you might be able to assist me. You see, Matthews had asked me to meet him here to discuss a matter he considered of some great importance."
The man looked us over suspiciously and appeared disinclined to help. "Well, 'e ain't gonna be discussin' nuffin' wiv yeh now, is 'e? Who the bloody 'ell are yeh, anyway?"
"Oh, my apologies, gentlemen," Holmes said pleasantly, offering his hand, "my name is Sherlock Holmes."
The name of my companion, once pronounced, has a curious way of changing the attitudes of people he is dealing with. Most often people suddenly find the desire to be as forthcoming and helpful as they can, but it periodically also induces some individuals to shut up tight as a clam, and on other instances to react in violent fashion; on more than one occasion we have found ourselves on the wrong end of a blade or a pistol once those three syllables have been uttered.
But on this particular occasion Holmes's calculated gamble had paid off, and after the looks of incredulity had passed from our two acquaintances' faces, and they had finished shaking his hand and congratulating him on his recent success in the Broadnax kidnapping, we suddenly found our new friends most anxious to be of assistance.
"Henry Matthews," Holmes continued on with his story, "merely said that he needed to speak with me about the issue of an arriving ship, and asked me to meet him here today. Might either of you have any notion as to what he might have been referring? He seemed rather troubled about the matter."
It has always been a bit disconcerting for me how quickly and adeptly Sherlock Holmes can immerse himself in a complete fabrication, and not for the first time I felt thankful that we were on the same side of the law. Neither man at our table ever suspected that Holmes had never communicated with their drinking comrade, but they had little in the way to offer in the way of information.
"Don't rightly know, Mr. 'Olmes," the shorter of the two replied. "Ol' 'Enry kept to hisself 'bout most things."
"Oh, that's rather disappointing," Holmes said genuinely. "You wouldn't by any chance know of any other of Mr. Matthews's acquaintances who might be able to help us?"
The two men at our table each seemed at a loss for a good long moment, and then the taller one spoke up again. "Y'know, yeh just might try down at the Oxford Club, Mr. Holmes. "'Enry were a member there, and someone there might know somethin'."
"Henry Matthews was a member of the Oxford Club?" I asked incredulously. Holmes gestured furtively to me that I should keep my disbelief in check.
"As long as we've known 'im," our shorter informant replied, seeming not to be put out by my incredulity of a moment before.
"Well, gentlemen," Holmes said, rising, "it's been a pleasure, but Dr. Watson and I do have a train to catch back to London. Thank you both for your assistance." With that we shook hands with our newest friends in the Rose and Crown and headed for our cab.
It wasn't until we were at least a quarter of the way back to London that I finally decided that I could bear it no more, and I interrupted Holmes's silent musings in the seat across from me to get the answers I so desired.
"Well done, old chap!" Holmes replied wryly once I had asked him to inform me of all that was apparent to him by that point. "You lasted ten minutes longer than I thought you might."
"You mean you've been sitting there just waiting to see how long it would take me to finally ask for an explanation?" I asked, somewhat indignantly.
"No, I admit not, but I did have a little wager with myself as to how long it might take you to pipe up," he said, taking a cigarette from his case and lighting it, and then sitting forward in an attentive manner on the edge of his seat. "Tell me what you wish to know, my good doctor, and I shall give you the answers I have."
"Why, everything!" I cried with a laugh. "Fanged earrings, tins of water, clods of grass..."
Not grass, my dear Watson, but moss," Holmes said emphatically. "Let us back up to the beginning, shall we?"
"Please let's," I replied.
"What we know is this," Sherlock Holmes began. "At some point in the past Mr. Henry Matthews, if that is his real name, which I am beginning to suspect it is not, by the way, was a sea captain who retired with a sizeable fortune, but from where it came we do not yet know. At some point also in the past, most likely in his travels, he was injured and yet survived an attack by a wild animal of no small size or ferocity. The imprints of its teeth are on his forearm and leg, and for a time the fang of this beast likely hung in his right ear after he killed it. Are you with me so far?"
I nodded.
"Good. Three years ago he bought the estate in Owlsmoor, immediately had a widow's walk build upon it with a concealed access way, and then hired Mrs. Clayton to work for him. Five weeks ago, he became quite agitated at discovering the notice of Admiral Sir Wellesley's birthday party, and set a young waif to work for him, reporting back at least once a week. Mrs. Clayton reports that Matthews became agitiated enough to mention the probable attempt on the flask he called a family heirloom approximately four days prior to his death, which would put us at about a week ago and the last time the young messenger would have reported to him -outside of today, of course."
"So, then clearly this waif brought him news of the thief and the murderer?" I asked.
"Exactly, Watson."
"And what of the tooth and the clump of sod?" I asked again, not at all confident as to how they played into the picture.
"Moss, Watson! That is a most important detail, my good fellow. When I was outside the house, observing as you may well have seen, the grand mess that so many Scotland Yard feet made all over the grounds, I did have the good fortune to find the one item that told me just how the intruder had got into Matthews's house. We already know from Mrs. Clayton's statements that all the windows and doors were locked and unmolested...how Lestrade can conclude this was a break-in with no signs of breaking-in is beyond me, although...in fact it is a break in, yet not one that Lestrade would be able to explain. But I digress.
"The house, as you will have noticed, Watson, other than the relatively recent addition of the widow's or captain's walk, as they are called, is quite old, and like so many old houses of its kind, has acquired its share of moss upon its walls, particularly upon the north wall, where the sun strikes the least. When I discovered the clump of moss, I could see that there was no nearby patch upon the ground from where it might have been torn up, and upon gazing up the carpet of moss that covers the majority of the north exterior of the house, I could easily discern a fresh gouge in it, some short distance from the roofline.
"It was as if a foot had dislodged the clump as someone scrambled to gain the roof," Holmes finished, "but clearly they hadn't climbed the wall, for there was but the one blemish upon an otherwise ancient and pristine blanket of old moss growth."
"So you climbed the tree," I conjectured, "to see if it would be possible to jump to the roof from the upper brances and thereby gain access to the platform."
"Good Heavens, no, Watson!" he continued on. "That space I knew to be too far to be covered in a jump when I paced off the distance from the wall of the house to the branches of the tree, but when I managed to climb up even with the roof, I did discover that it would be possible to throw a rope across the rail, and if anchored properly, it might hold a man's weight as he swung from the tree and across to the house."
I could picture it as he described it. "And that would mean that he might come in contact with the side of the house as he rappelled against it, disloging the moss as he pulled himself up and over the edge. The marks on the rail were those from the rope."
"From a grappling hook on the rope," Holmes corrected me, gesturing with two fingers to mimic two prongs of such an instrument. "Once the intruder had gained the roof, it would be a simple thing to pick the lock of the doors to the cupola and let himself down the secret passage."
"Still, it's no simple thing to throw oneself out of a tree and swing to a roof on a rope like that, Holmes. I don't think that even in my younger days I would have cared to try it," I remarked.
"But for someone who is accustomed to ropes and climbing and grapples and such, it would all be a run of the mill procedure!" Holmes continued on excitedly. "And what sort of person do you suppose would be accustomed to such things, my dear fellow?"
"A sailor?" I supplied.
"A sailor!" Holmes confirmed, sitting back in his seat with an air of finality. "I admit that I've been suspecting an old seafaring acquaintence of Matthews since I realized that he'd been at sea, but now everything is pointing in that direction."
"But how on earth do we figure out who the sailor is that killed Matthews, Holmes?" I asked, my head spinning as I thought of all the possible individuals in the port of London.
"I admit we have our work cut out for us, Watson, but what we do know about the man is this: he arrived in town last week, for Matthews's own reaction tells us that, and he came by ship."
"But there are ships from all over arriving in the city for the upcoming celebration!" I exclaimed. "How do we figure out which ship it is that this man arrived on?"
"My thoughts are that we can safely rule out any of the Navy vessels that are here for the jubilee," Holmes replied. "If Matthews was not a military man, then I very much doubt his assailant was."
"But that still leaves a good number of vessels," I commented.
"True, and I hope to narrow down the number with Miss Hastings's help," Holmes replied. "You see, Watson, the other ships that are joining in the celebration are those from the two posts that Admiral Sir Wellesley held while he was serving: India and the West Indies. If Miss Hastings can identify the beast from which that tooth came, it may very well be from one of those two locales. Although not foolproof, it is my theory that the man who shot Matthews will have sailed from the same place as the beast comes from; playing the odds, it is likely that Matthews was attacked in a place he spent some fair amount of time, and also that there it was he most likely made such an enemy."
"So you hope to narrow down the number of ships we have to investigate in this manner?" I asked.
"Yes,"Holmes replied. "I admit that there are holes in the theory, but we haven't time to pursue all avenues, nor all ships. The jubilee is in a few days, and after that all will return to their assigned stations and ports of call. We might then lose any opportunity to catch our murderer."
I couldn't help but point out one of the holes Holmes had referred to. "And what if this creature that attacked Matthews was neither from India nor the West Indies?"
Holmes gave me a subtle smile. "Then I shall have to rely upon my contingency plan, to be set in motion the moment we arrive back at Baker Street."
~~o~~
Young Wiggins thundered down seventeen stairs and out the door onto Baker Street, coins and mission in hand as he flew down the road to meet up with his ragtag band of cohorts.
"It shall be interesting to see who fulfills their assignment first," Holmes said as he watched the gang of urchins through the front windows, "Miss Hastings or those boys. I rather think that my Irregulars will make short work of finding that red-headed lad amongst the docks, don't you?"
"You're most probably right," I agreed, knowing how efficient Holmes's little band of unconventional informants was.
"Still, we must pursue all avenues vigorously, for time is short," he added, disappearing into his room for some few moments. When he reappeared, he had changed his shirt and tie and donned a fine frockcoat, and quickly grabbed up his best hat and stick and headed for the door.
"And just where is it that you are off to now?" I asked, looking him over once.
"I thought it best to investigate the Oxford Club and see if there is anything to be gained from its members," Holmes replied over his shoulder. "I shan't be more than a couple of hours I think, Watson, but if I am, pray don't wait up for me."
With that, I heard the door close and his energetic step following the path down the stairs that Wiggins had taken moments before.
Less than an hour later he returned, clearly amused at something, and I looked up from the book in my lap to see what had him laughing.
"Just what is so amusing?" I asked, watching him fall into the chair opposite mine in helpless mirth.
"Apparently, my dear Watson," he began, once he had composed himself, "there are two Oxford Clubs, and they could not be any more diverse. I should have known what I was getting into, if I had but thought about it when our two friends from the Rose and Crown told us of the location of the one to which they referred. Let me just say that the one to which I nearly went has nothing whatsoever to do with University alumni, and that the manner of patron there, stout seafaring fellows to a one, might have found it just as amusing to beat me to a pulp as look at me, simply because of the way I am dressed."
"Lucky thing for you that you didn't go in," I replied, relieved to hear that no incident had occurred.
"Yes, it was a very lucky thing indeed, Watson," Holmes said, climing to his feet, "for not only is my prominent nose still centered squarely on my face, but I also learned by observation that in order to gain access to the club that you need to have on your person some manner of symbol which allows you entry; a sort of pictoral password, if you will."
Holmes disappeared into his room again for a short while, and when he stepped back out into the sitting room, there was no doubt that with the grizzled sideburns and beard and peacoat that he'd acquired, that he was going to have a much better chance of blending in with the crowd at the less reputable of the Oxford Clubs.
"Having another go at it, are you?" I asked, even though the answer was quite obvious. "You're sure you don't want me to accompany you?"
"No, my dear old friend, password or no, that earnest face of yours would never get past the front door, and I think you shall do me a greater service being here to put me back together should I be mistaken," he said with a light laugh, not inspiring a great deal of confidence in me.
"Mistaken about what?" I asked, starting to become rather concerned about Holmes's safety, and not for the first time.
"That this," he said, holding up the piece of notebook paper with his pencil tracing upon it, "is what I need to be admitted. Now, Watson, if you would be so kind?" He held in his other hand a bottle of Kandahar ink.
"What do you propose to do with that?" I asked, beginning to regret asking.
"I need to re-create this device convincingly on my arm," Holmes replied, quite obviously amused at the look that was crossing my face as he rolled up his right sleeve, "and who might have a steadier hand than an experienced surgeon?"
"You want me to tattoo the Jolly Roger on your arm? Are you mad?" I asked, taking the bottle he handed me.
"Just a temporary one, Watson," Holmes replied, setting his arm down on the desk to steady it while I went to sit across from him. "Although I must say that I don't relish being stuck with it for the next several weeks, it will be well worth it if I can gain admittance to the Oxford and obtain any vital information."
I gave him one last look of doubt, but he nodded in reassurance, and seeing he was set upon his course, I picked up the nib, steadied his wrist, and slowly began drawing Matthews's skull and crossed swords across Sherlock Holmes's arm.
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A/N: The Rose and Crown is a real public house in Sandhurst established in 1742.