He is not/he is/trusteth him not.
The first phrase answered the question Is Richard Holloway an Old Alleynian? The second, Is Richard Holloway a member of Blackheath? The third was entirely Flemyng’s own work and sent a shiver down my spine when I read it. What did Flemyng know? What else had he found out? Or was he merely expressing an opinion from the evidence so far presented to me?
My heart warmed to such a successful, if unnerving, outcome to the whole process. I felt an intense sense of achievement. I sat there, silently thanking that bright fellow over in England, who had so studiously and effectively put my ideas into practice.
My only hope was that whoever was reading these scores did not know enough to realize how false some of the figures were. I also hoped that the Surrey and Nottinghamshire players never got to see the material in front of me. Abel out for a single run, forsooth!
And then I wondered what the true score was.
Unquestionably, there was something amiss about Holloway. Whatever it was, and my cipher did not allow sufficient latitude for that degree of elaboration, it was clear that I was up against a redoubtable adversary. He was plainly unstable. But he had also, it would seem, been invested, or had invested himself, with the skill, ingenuity and lethal guile of Sherlock Holmes. A more volatile mix in a human being I could scarce imagine. Moreover, and perhaps even more dangerously, he was in possession of a number of facts and hypotheses that placed me at the very centre of his murder investigation.
My imagination leapt once more. For a fleeting moment, despite myself, I even began to wonder about my own creation. Did his spirit actually exist? If so, had he been aware during these past few days and weeks that I was discontented with him, to the extent that I was considering plotting his demise? If so, had he taken it upon himself to hunt me down? I shuddered, and shook my head. I tried to cast off such nonsense. Yet somewhere, buried deep within my psyche, the wild fancy clung on. It resisted any effort on my part to dislodge it.
I took out my watch. It was the middle of the afternoon. I closed the shutters and lay down in the darkened room to think. It had been confirmed to me by a hopefully uninterested Flemyng that I should beware my antagonist. This was now my primary consideration. I needed to construct a plan to deal with this information.
However, lying down in a shuttered room in the middle of the afternoon was possibly the least helpful thing I could have done. I often thought through conundrums of work or writing in this manner. On this occasion, though, the hour at which I had chosen to embark upon this particular exercise was also the very hour in which I customarily took my forty winks.
I dozed off.
My awakening was as shocking as it was sudden.
In the blackness of the shuttered room a hand clamped itself over my mouth. At the same time, my chest was crushed, as though somebody was kneeling upon it. Terrified, I found myself unable to breathe.
Panic, which was the next emotion I experienced, has interesting and sudden effects upon the individual. Essentially, adrenaline is created by the body in such volumes that it courses immediately around the system like an electrical charge. This energizes the nerves and muscles which enable one to either fight or flee, according to one’s circumstances and needs. It also causes the cardiovascular and pulmonary systems to increase their work rate to an astonishing level. In short, the more my chest was crushed and my breathing passages were obstructed, the more urgently I wanted to breathe. Consequently, in my need to breathe, the more I struggled like a fellow possessed. I began writhing and twisting and emitting yells of distress. Yells which were muffled by the powerful hand that was resolutely fastened across my mouth. The more I felt I was being suffocated, the more I panicked. The more I panicked, the more pressure was borne down upon me. The more pressure, the greater I thrashed about.
Suddenly, in the midst of this tumult, whoever it was spoke.
“Shhh, shhh, shhh, doctor. Be quiet! Be still!”
I realized that had my assailant been of a mind to murder me, he could have easily done so while I dozed. He had no reason to wake me. It followed, therefore, that he was restricting me in this way in order that I would not raise an alarm. It further followed that if I were to survive asphyxiation long enough to discover what it was for which he had awoken me, I had better give him some indication that I did not intend to make a noise, if only he would take his hand from my face. I summoned up every last reserve, suppressed my pressing need to struggle for breath, and compelled myself to lie inert.
The scheme worked. Within a couple of seconds, the pressure upon my mouth relaxed. A couple more seconds and it drew back sufficiently to offer me the chance to inhale. I took a great heaving gulp of air, as if I had just surfaced from twenty thousand leagues beneath the sea. Presently, the pressure upon my chest was also withdrawn. It was indeed a knee. Thankful, I began to feel just a little more comfortable than heretofore. A few moments later and I had recovered sufficient oxygen in my bloodstream to venture a word or two. Or seven.
“You dashed fool! You nearly smothered me!”
“Sorry, doctor. I had to make sure you didn’t call out.”
The voice came from the region of the shutters. I heard a click as the fastening was turned, and a creak as the panel was swung open. It was still daylight, but the sun was low and colour had already begun to empty from the scenery.
I had been endeavouring to place the voice ever since he had first spoken. Now, framed by the open window, I added the voice pattern to the silhouette.
“Father Vernon?”
“What in heaven’s name are you doing? And why did you have to be so violent about it?”
“Shhh. I will explain all…” He completed opening the windows, and returned to my bedside. I was, by now, sitting up. He drew the ladder-back chair from the escritoire. As he did so, I realized that my workings-out concerning the cricket scores lay higgledy-piggledy beside me on the bed. I gathered them up and shovelled them into my trouser pocket. He brought the chair closer to where I lay, as a visitor beside a patient.
“You have not much time. So you had better listen carefully. They are after you. The Swiss here. I do not trust them. They are likely to take matters into their own hands, if the mood takes them.”
“Like they did with Brown?”
“No. I do not believe that was the affair of any villager. In your case, however, I am just certain that here alone, among these remote mountains, where nothing untoward happens, folk come to their own conclusions very quickly. With tragic consequences.”
“You cannot believe that this is likely, surely?”
“I have heard about such things occurring once before. Maybe forty years or so ago. But nevertheless… It was an unmarried mother. They did not intend any harm. But the village advanced en masse late at night and, fuelled by beer and preposterous speculation, fell upon the unfortunate woman’s house. It became a witch-hunt. Flaming torches lit, they came for her in order to evict her from her home. She took fright, ran, fell down a ravine. She survived, but she lost her child. Such a pitiful tale.”
“I would not run.”
“On the contrary, that is precisely my point. It is best you leave, or you will aggravate an already volatile situation. Get out of the way; let everyone come to their senses. By all means, return in a week or so. You can give notice that you propose to return. You may then come back with embassy officials so that everything can be done calmly and above board.”
I considered the matter. Before I had time to reach any conclusion, Father Vernon spoke again, urgency now creeping into his voice.
“I beg you. Take your money and your travel documents. In Bern you will find powerful friends and lawyers to help you. Here, you are alone.”
“Not completely.” I looked at him; he smiled. “But where would I go? I cannot go down into the valley for fear of meeting the authorities coming up. And anyway, it is more inhabited, the nearer I get to Interlaken. Word may already b
e out for me.”
“I agree, which is why I brought this.” He lifted, from the floor, a satchel.
“Which is…?”
“I have brought a couple of loaves and a flagon of Fendant wine. Don’t ask where I got it from. Some cheese, an oilcloth and a thick blanket. Enough provisions for a whole day’s walk, rain or shine.”
I eyed the leather pack with its shoulder straps. “Won’t running away be some kind of admission of guilt?”
“You will not be running away. You will be continuing your holiday elsewhere. They do not know that you know all of this. The only thing they will know for sure is that they did not see you leave. That is all.”
“Are you sure that you are not simply trying to escort me off the premises?”
He let out a deep sigh. “The longer we discuss this, the more time we waste… Tell me, my dear fellow, why would I want to get rid of you?”
“I do not know. And I am not likely to know, if that is your purpose.”
“Then, if it helps, I shall come with you.”
“You?”
“I.”
I surveyed him, in his sandals and brown habit. “You are not dressed for a ramble over the mountains.”
“All the better. If I were looking like I was going a-wandering, then my own part in this would come under scrutiny. Besides, the habit is useful for all manner of purposes; in this I rejoice that I follow my brother Francis.”
His words brought to my mind’s eye the founder of his Order. I remember being introduced to St Francis of Assisi at Stonyhurst. He had been named Giovanni – John – by his mother. His father, a wealthy cloth merchant, newly returned from his favourite country, France, renamed him “Francesco”, the little Frenchman. Despite his upbringing, Il Poverello, the Little Poor One, eventually renounced everything. Inheritance, wealth, comfortable life. He spent the rest of his days wandering the hills and mountains of Umbria in his ragged brown habit and grubby, worn sandals. I looked at the man sitting by my bed. The mendicant life would certainly suit him far better than the one he was currently leading, in my view.
“But won’t you be missed in the village?”
“There is a retired priest; I use him as my locum. I have been known occasionally to just suddenly set off for a couple of days. I am something of an enigma in these parts.” He smiled ruefully at some memory, the tale of which I suspected would probably never be told. I wondered, though, if it were in any way similar to that of St Francis. Born privileged, well-to-do. Renouncing all to follow God, to follow Il Poverello…
I considered all he had told me.
“Thank you so much for your solicitude, Father Vernon. I have to admit, your arguments are most convincing. However, I regret to say I remain unconvinced. Arthur Conan Doyle does not run. He stands and fights. Right is on my side.”
“You will not go?”
“I will not go.”
He heaved a sigh. “Then, as I see it, you have two further options.”
“Which are?”
“Stay and be judged by those not able to judge you fairly. Right may be on your side. But they aren’t.”
“Or…?”
“Lay low, while we think of a better policy.”
“Lay low?”
“There are plenty of places around here where you would be safe. Get yourself a little breathing space. This would in turn allow me to create the right conditions into which you may emerge and plead your case in safety. I could perhaps go to the police in the valley on your behalf. If I can engineer it so that your interview is with the police and the police alone, well, then you may be able to convince them of your innocence. Without any excitable rabble-rousers confusing the issue.”
It took me no time at all to assess this latest proposition.
“Admirable. Where should I go…?”
Father Vernon described to me a circuitous route right into the centre of the village. He then set off, carrying the satchel he had prepared for me, as if it were his. I followed about a minute later to ensure we were not connected. I stepped out brazenly, as if I hadn’t a care in the world. As if I had merely wandered out from my hotel to take the air and would presently return there for my evening meal. Walking as I did in full view of the village, I could not believe that he was genuinely directing me to somewhere safe to hide. Until, that is, I emerged from among the houses into the open space at the centre of the village. Here was common land. I strolled across the sward as one taking a Sunday stroll over South Norwood park. Suddenly, the friar appeared from behind the village hayloft and beckoned me. I made as if to continue, and then sprang to one side, into the shadow of the hut. He thrust me inside with the satchel. Promising to return first thing the following morning, he set off for his church.
I secured the door and climbed up the rough inner ladder to the upper, boarded level. Here was piled bale upon bale of hay and some loose sacking. A short while after, I made my supper and ate it. I was surprised how hungry I was. Having dined informally but well, I arranged for myself a temporary bed with the hay bales and lay down to rest.
I slept the sleep of the just.
Father Vernon returned in the cool light of a grey dawn. The air was misty. But experience told me that the sun would burn that off by mid-morning. Then it would be another kiln-hot day. Were I here for my health, I would have exulted in the notion. As it was, the thought of being choked up in a close, dusty and constricting casserole of a hayloft, my thoughts were less than bright.
He had brought coffee, bread and cheese, and watched me with evident satisfaction as I fell to my breakfast with relish. The coffee was sweet and bitter, and lifted my spirits considerably.
We talked about Holloway. About my belief that the young man probably indulged in opium, in the form of resin chipped and mixed with tobacco and smoked in a pipe. I had thought, in some way, to stimulate my companion with this information. Inform him of certain habits with which he and his community up here in the middle of nowhere were unfamiliar. However, he appeared unperturbed. I realized that he had lived a dozen lives prior to his present incumbency. He would no doubt have encountered such practices elsewhere.
Offering his apologies, he then left again to take care of his parish. He promised a swift return. We needed to explore more fully my options beyond this interim position in which I now found myself.
Having nothing better to do, it was but a short step for me to fall to pondering the nature of Brown’s demise itself. If it were murder, I wondered, what would have brought it to such a crisis? Find that and one would find the motive. Find the motive and one would be on the way to finding the criminal.
Was there a sexual motive, perhaps? Holloway was right: there was a general innocence to my Holmes stories; asexual. Some, I don’t doubt, especially considering my central character’s confirmed bachelorhood and need for Watson’s manly company, may even have suspected him of homosexuality. This was neither the case nor my intention; although I have no antipathy towards the orientation itself, despite society’s prevailing attitude.
Having reached that stage in my train of thought, I was brought up short by another, completely astounding and wholly unbidden, insight.
Anton.
Of course. His particular care and attention upon my and Holloway’s arrival was because he thought that he recognized kindred spirits. This was why he had made the unusual suggestion of sharing a room. Why he looked oddly at me when I denied any relationship with my erstwhile companion.
Was that why there had been family tears? Had he, encouraged by my apparently bohemian behaviour, decided to reveal all to his parents? To the detriment of family harmony? Eva would have taken his side.
It was possible, I thought. In fact, it was more than possible. Surely, that was why he had so taken against me ever since? To all intents and purposes I had encouraged him and, in his view, subsequently betrayed him. Betrayed, as he saw it, “our kind”; that is to say, his kind. I determined to broach this subject with him the very next opportu
nity I had.
I returned to my consideration of Holmes’s character as I had contrived it. He was not unlike Father Vernon. A celibate. Someone who put all his psychic and physical energies into his work, his calling. He simply had no time and no desire to apportion any of his life to women on a social basis. Judging by the van Engelses imbroglio, that was perhaps a wise decision.
Before I had come away, I had been reading in my medical journals of the beginnings of exploration into sexuality as a motivator of who we are and why we do things. Aristotle tells us that character is defined by what we do. Could there be a sexual motive for the murderer still waiting around? It was a thin thread, but it was at least a thread.
And, I argued with myself, was there more than just the miscreant’s motive to consider? It was important that one should explore the mind of the perpetrator. But one may also be well served by examining the motive of the victim. Why should he put himself in a position whereby he is liable to get himself murdered?
Because he wants to? Because he trusts?
When we explore a person’s illness, sometimes in the medical profession we do not always first look for the cause, we look at the symptoms. Then we delve into the root of the problem. After which, we consider how they may have actually acquired that problem. Only by following this process may we discover the actual cause of the illness. Especially if we are not acquainted with that particular illness in the first place.
So then, concerning the anise-seed – absinthe, ouzo, or whatever it turned out to be. How would someone manage to make another person drunk? A person who is unaware that this is the purpose of such drinking?
A man who is, perhaps, captivated by a woman.
This brought me right back to the matter of sexuality. I realized that I needed to know exactly who Brown was. Married, single? Confirmed bachelor? Roué? I knew that he had been described as a dry old stick. But that did not mean his private life was not rich with sensuality.