Sherlock Holmes and the Chinese Junk Affair and Other Stories (14 page)

Holmes did not reply but continued puffing away, then asked, ‘Watson, describe to me the symptoms of a heart attack.’

I deduced it was in connection with the clockmaker’s death.

‘Well, Holmes, sometimes there are no warnings and the victim is struck down and within seconds is dead. At other times, the victim has many small attacks over as many months, culminating with a massive attack which causes death.’

‘Capital, Watson... they agree with my own layman’s knowledge. Now describe to me the symptoms experienced by the victim of a massive heart attack, just prior to death.’ I thought for a moment before replying.

‘The victim sweats and then feels pain in the region of the chest. The pains become worse, it is as though a steel band is tightening around it. This can last for minutes or in some cases an hour or so. The pain becomes excruciating, unbearable... then it is all over.’ Holmes made no remark, but just puffed at his pipe, the blue smoke keeping the evening midges at bay. I couldn’t help wondering what the morrow would bring, what game was afoot, or would it all turn out to be a mare’s nest?

There was something magical about lying down to sleep that summer night. The windows were wide open wafting in the smells of new mown hay, the sounds of the church bells striking the hour and the lowing of a cow in a distant field. All so different from London and Baker Street.

I heard Holmes bid goodnight to mine host, having had a further late-night walk around the village. His door closed and I soon fell asleep.

In the morning, Holmes was up before me, but only just. Our breakfast seemed enormous compared with Mrs Hudson’s, and it was only the country air and exercise that enabled me to clear my plate. Afterwards we packed our rucksacks, thanked our host and paid our dues. We smoked a pipe and waited for Jim to take us to Nether Froggatt to view the clockmaker’s cottage, the sun already promising a good day.

The village was awake, the milkmaids had already milked the cows which even now were sidling down the street, returning to their pastures. A young boy with a dog brought up the rear. At the smithy, the blacksmith was pumping up and down his bellows to heat the first iron of the day and a horse was tied up and waiting to be shod. As the clock struck the hour of nine o’clock our faithful carrier and guide, Jim, brought the trap to a halt and bid us good morning. Holmes threw his rucksack into the trap and clambered aboard. I followed but not as spritely.

I noticed Holmes looked ahead, but without seeing. His mind, I knew, was on other things, I recognised the signs. When Jim and I conversed, Holmes remained silent. I knew he could not wait to arrive at the cottage and get to grips with the case of the clockmaker’s death. It had been a pleasant drive, Jim setting us down on time outside the church. We gave him a generous tip and were genuinely sorry to bid him farewell. He turned the trap around, and waving goodbye was away at a good trot. We waited no more than a few minutes before the vicar could be seen walking through the churchyard towards us. ‘A fine morning, gentlemen. I see you have your rucksacks packed, ready to continue your holiday after viewing the cottage.’

Holmes eased his straps. ‘Yes, it is indeed a fine morning, vicar; the village is a hive of activity, I see.’

‘Yes, they believe in the old adage of making hay whilst the sun shines. This way then, gentlemen.’ We did not arouse much curiosity as we strolled with the vicar through the village. Attired in our rambling clothes and rucksacks we were just two more visitors, enjoying the views and fresh air, conversing with their vicar. The clockmaker’s cottage was on the periphery of the village, off the main road and by the side of a wood.

It was a very small cottage, just two rooms and no upstairs. Stone built and roofed with pantiles which had at some time replaced the thatch, it sat squat and solid. A single chimney and one door; the basic requirements, but several small windows on three sides, and ivy grew up the walls onto the roof giving it a pleasant rustic attraction. A privy stood at the end of the garden under the trees.

As we reached the door, the sound of ‘kwark, kwark’ was heard in the upper branches of the closest tree. ‘Kwark, kwark,’ cried the raven, followed by ‘tick tock, tick tock, tick tock’ and again that harsh guttural foreign word ‘Kiefernzapfen, kiefernzapfen, kiefernzapfen.’

Holmes slipped the rucksack off his back, placed it on the ground, opened it and took out a small parcel, the remains of his enormous breakfast we had been served. Sausage, liver, kidney and half a slice of bread. These he threw onto the ground under the tree. The raven who had been watching us with beady eyes, cocked its head on one side and flew down, walked with a sailor’s gait and began eating the scraps. It appeared even larger on the ground and that huge beak looked most formidable.

The vicar watched the scene with us and then turned to unlock the door, saying, ‘That bird has never once returned to the cottage. During all the time the doctor and I searched the cottage, we left the door ajar, but it never once came over the doorstep. Almost as though it knew its master was no longer here.’ He swung the door back and we followed him in.

The room appeared even smaller than I had expected. Perhaps it was the low ceiling and the crowded-in furniture which made it seem so. On the whitewashed walls a few religious pictures hung, the text beneath in German. A small table was pushed up against the wall, a sideboard of pine wood and a huge Windsor chair by the fire side completed the furnishings. Oh, yes, the stand which the raven used to perch upon was beside the chair, also a padded small box used no doubt as a foot rest.

A door led into the other room partitioned off into a bedroom and kitchen-cum-workshop. The bedroom area was tiny, a single bed allowed just sufficient space to get in and out of it. A chest of drawers at the foot was the only other furniture.

However, it was the kitchen-cum-workshop that was a complete contrast. The workshop was a mass of shelves holding innumerable boxes of every size, wooden and cardboard. The contents of each box was written in German in thick black crayon on the outside. The lower shelves held open boxes of springs, cogs and screws of every description. A lathe and racks of tools stood on a workbench under a north-facing window to benefit from the light. Every inch of wall space was used. Several Black Forest cuckoo clocks were now mute and forlorn. From nails in the wall hung various clock faces, pendulums and still more hand tools.

We stood and stared for a while, taking in the scene. But before we began discussing the situation, the sound of a horse and trap could be heard. It halted outside and a few moments later through the doorway came a bewhiskered middle-aged man: top hat and gloves and of very smart appearance. The vicar greeted him.

‘Good morning, Charles. Pleased to see you have not been delayed by some emergency or other.’ The vicar turned to us. ‘Let me introduce you, gentlemen. This is my friend and the local practitioner, Dr Charles Draycott, and this is Mr Soames and Mr Moxon.’ We all shook hands and stood around for a few minutes discussing the poor clockmaker’s demise, also the fact that no money of any great amount had been found. No bank account book, nothing.

The doctor placed his top hat carefully on a clear part of the work bench, saying, ‘We spent the whole of one day systematically going through box after box, shelf after shelf; very unpleasant work indeed, but not a thing of real value did we discover, correct, vicar?’

The vicar agreed and added, ‘We did find of course a few sovereigns in a box under the bench, and a few coins in his trouser pockets. But of the money he talked of, to build a row of almshouses and enough to keep them in repair in perpetuity, I am afraid there was none.’

There was silence whilst we all contemplated this.

I asked if he left a will.

The doctor answered. ‘Yes, he did, just a simple sheet of paper affair, written by the schoolmaster and witnessed by him and a local farmer. The schoolmaster died some ten years ago, if my memory serves me right.’ The vicar agreed.

I asked about the instructions in the will. Again the doctor replied. ‘Oh! He appointed whoever was the vicar at the time of his death, to set up a trust to oversee the building of the almshouses, and sanction future repairs as necessary.’

The vicar added his voice. ‘You see, this is why we wonder if he was robbed, bearing in mind the upset state of the living-room and of course the injury, although not serious, could have been caused when he tried to defend himself.’

I said, ‘That is why you wondered if the gypsy had suspected the old man had money, and had come back some days later to rob him?’

The doctor took up the point. ‘You see, he could have walked here from wherever they are encamped, done the deed, and made off, no one the wiser.’

We remained silent considering the theory. Meanwhile, during our conversation, Holmes had been prowling around, examining first the living-room, then the bedroom. Lastly of course, examining the black crayon writing indicating the contents in the boxes. One contained hundreds of cogs of all sizes. Another steel springs, an old shoe box was full of lengths of string for re-use: waste not want not.

He crouched down and examined a box full of clock weights he had pulled out from under the workbench. They were heavy weights, the type that hang on the chains of long-case clocks and cuckoo clocks. The weights were assorted shapes and sizes, dusty and dirty. He stood up and dusted his hands, pulled out a drawer and began examining the end, then reached inside the cavity, in case a note or something had been hidden.

Suddenly the vicar exclaimed aloud, ‘I know of a place we have not looked... the chimney.’ We followed him into the living-room. The grate was full of dead ashes. We stood around and watched as the vicar bent forward and peered upwards. Being very careful not to touch the encrusted soot of many years, he looked around, then withdrew his head. ‘It’s really difficult to examine it properly... it should be swept first. I think we should get old Ted to come and sweep it. We shall have to be present of course. If there’s anything up there, Ted will find it.’

Just then I looked out of the window and caught sight at the end of the garden of the privy and garden shed. ‘I suppose they have been searched?’ They followed my gaze and the vicar replied slowly, ‘No!’ The doctor adding in a patronising tone, ‘I can hardly imagine any sane person hiding anything of great value in a privy or garden shed.’

‘Still we ought to look, I suppose,’ persisted the vicar.

The three of us went up the path and examined the privy, which was of the two sitting side-by-side arrangement. The second seat contained a bucket of torn-up newspaper, ready for use. We removed both buckets and looked beneath, then replaced them. The garden hut was a small affair almost covered with ivy. A barrow, seed boxes, spade, fork, rake, a ball of twine, together with other small gardening paraphernalia completed the inventory. The doctor appeared more and more frustrated by the whole affair.

As we returned down the garden path, myself leading, he kept the vicar back and talked in whispers to him. I stood out of sight behind the door listening. I could not hear all that was said, only the odd word or two, here and there. But from the tone of the doctor’s voice he appeared most agitated.

The doctor strode in, the vicar followed. His voice was loud and said with great authority, ‘We should contact the police again and have this gypsy fellow tracked down.’ The doctor glared at me as he spoke.

The vicar looked rather subdued. ‘I suppose we should. After all, the old clockmaker must have had some money, or why would he have talked of almshouses, and made a will?’

The doctor, who was obviously the more dominant of the two, replied in a brisk tone, ‘Of course we should. We should have done it the day after we searched the place. The police were lax. They won’t be very pleased, but I will insist they find this gypsy fellow,’ scornfully adding, ‘that is if they can, the fellow will be miles away by now.’

The vicar looked crestfallen. Although the doctor had not said so in as many words, it was plain the vicar had been the one who had stayed the hand of the doctor at the time.

The voice of Holmes from the workshop called out, ‘I wouldn’t bother trying to track the gypsies down, they had nothing to do with it.’

The doctor looked even more annoyed and we followed him into the workshop to find Holmes leaning back against the clockmaker’s workbench in a most casual manner. He said, ‘We observed them in a clearing near Eyam village yesterday and spoke with them. I assure you they are completely innocent.’

The doctor I could see was quietly seething, but in a controlled voice asked, ‘What reasons substantiate your view that they had nothing to do with it?’

Holmes smiled. ‘If they had, doctor, they would hardly have stayed in the area, but would have put as many miles between themselves and the scene of the crime as possible. Would have walked the horse to exhaustion to achieve it.’

The doctor made no reply, no doubt inwardly agreeing with the very valid point Holmes had made. The vicar, I thought, looked relieved that the gypsy family had been exonerated.

Holmes continued, ‘Shall I tell you what did happen here that night?’ He paused dramatically. ‘You, doctor, diagnosed death was caused by heart failure, and you were quite correct.’ I looked towards the doctor and his expression softened slightly. ‘The clockmaker had eaten his supper, evident from the crumbs on his plate and dregs of cocoa in his cup. Sitting in his chair, with the raven by his side, he felt the beginning of the heart attack. Within minutes he was suffering the most excruciating pains in his chest. They grew worse, too painful to bear. It was then he realised death had come to take him. In his agony, though still able to reason, he remembered that in all his talks with you, vicar, he had never hinted at where the means to carry out his last wishes, his wealth, was to be found.’ Holmes, who had been filling his pipe during this time and, striking a match on a nearby iron vice, continued: