Sherlock Holmes and the Chinese Junk Affair and Other Stories (12 page)

‘His name was Hans Reitsch and he was middle aged when he arrived here thirty-odd years ago. Why he came here to this particular village we never knew. It was many, many years before his English was sufficiently good enough to hold a conversation with him, and by that time, the villagers had lost their curiosity and just accepted him as a nice old man with a foreign accent.’

Holmes pressed on, terse and to the point. ‘So you are saying, you and the doctor found no money in the cottage?’

‘That is so. We searched the cottage thoroughly both before and after the old man was buried, but found nothing...’ He paused, then uneasily I thought, continued, ‘I am not happy to disclose this, because it is casting a shadow of suspicion on a man who could be perfectly innocent, but I would be failing in my duty if I withheld this additional information. A gypsy family stayed for several weeks on the outskirts of the village, making pegs and weaving baskets. They moved on a few days before the old clockmaker died. Now, one of the gypsies was seen leaving the clockmaker’s cottage with a clock under his arm, a day or so before they upped and left. So you see, he would have talked with the clockmaker and would know the layout of the cottage. There, then, is the sum total of my suspicions, and I must stress, that is all they are, suspicions.’

Before either Holmes or I could reply to his disclosures, he looked at us both in turn and said, ‘Talking of suspicions... my own are that you two gentlemen are not ramblers on holiday, but policemen?’

Holmes spoke out in a clear, precise, but friendly voice. ‘I feel we should offer you an apology... we are not policemen, we are private detectives. We work for the government from time to time.’ Holmes and I exchanged significant glances. ‘We hold no official position and as such are free of restraints which exist in the constabulary... and of course, vice versa, the government are free of any embarrassment connecting us with Whitehall, should we... what shall I say... slip up.’ He laughed and continued, ‘It is said that fact is stranger than fiction... we are in fact, on holiday away from our London office, and really are rambling, enjoying the wonderful scenery of your county.’

The vicar looked less apprehensive as Holmes continued, ‘Unlike the old clockmaker, we can tell you why and how we came to be in your village.’ He then recounted how we had chosen to ramble Derbyshire, and the Peak District in particular, from all the many other lovely locations in Britain. ‘So you see, sir, that like your good self, who is never off duty when he sees the Lord’s good work to be done, so it is with we detectives. We can smell out a case, yes even in the air made sweet from the fields full of your wild summer flowers.’

The vicar was now placated by Holmes’s unusual but friendly explanation. However, I failed yet to see why Holmes introduced us as Soames and Moxon... in time I knew all would be revealed. Holmes quickly rose to his feet, I more slowly.

‘Just one more point, sir. I presume the watchmaker relied upon the trade brought in by carriers from nearby villages?’

The vicar placed his hands together as though in prayer. ‘That is correct. The carriers would bring them in and later, when repaired, return them. He never charged anything like the prices they would have paid in Bakewell or Baslow. This, of course, endeared him to the village folk. And, of course, when he had no repairs to carry out, he made the movements of clocks for several Cabinet makers in the area who in turn, when they too had no orders, made long-case clocks.’

‘Now, sir, could we impose upon your time and generosity just a little more, to ask if we may be allowed to look over the cottage, accompanied of course by your good self. Perhaps the middle of tomorrow morning?’ The vicar’s face showed relief and even pleasure at our proposed visit. His friend, the good Dr Draycott, could hardly object considering our connections with the seat of government administration, Whitehall.

However, owing to a previous appointment on the morrow, we had to arrange our inspection for the following day. After shaking hands and thanking the vicar for his hospitality, we made our way back to Tideswell.

There was little conversation between us as we made our way back. I think each of us was turning over in our minds the conversation we had had with the vicar. And then, of course, there was the strange behaviour of the raven.

We had made the mistake of misjudging the distance we had walked in the morning, each mile now seemed longer than the last. Needless to say, it gave us an enormous appetite. We were ravenous and ate all that was set before us, fried sweetbreads with vegetables followed by stewed rhubarb with arrowroot custard, stilton, port and coffee. After this a turn around the village we felt was called for, it being still daylight of course.

Outside a bow-fronted shop selling new and second hand books, a young man was unloading stock from a dogcart, and obligingly let us meander around, whilst he continued to unload.

With an eye to my possible future needs, I bought a book titled ‘Small Business Accounting Made Easy’. Holmes, I noticed, engrossed himself all the time in one book, German/English translation, but did not purchase it, instead buying a tatty book from the ‘Bargain Shelf’ without even opening it, as a means of patronage.

We arranged through the offices of mine host at the George to hire the same trap and driver to take us on the morrow to the village of Eyam, the plague village. We were determined not to make our holiday into a marathon hike, so travelling by horse and trap saved a lot of walking time which we used to better advantage, stopping, admiring the views, talking to the locals, and generally making our holiday an enjoyable occasion.

The trap next morning was on time, driven by Jim, who we learned later, was the son of a local stone mason. Stone and stone masonry is a big trade and industry in Derbyshire. He added to what he had already told us yesterday, about stone being found, only a few inches in some places, below the surface of the soil. This was confirmed by the outcrops we saw by the roadside; most of the dividing walls having been built of it. We were both educated and entertained by our young driver, and encouraged the young lad to chatter away, learning much of the local history and about the lovely village we were to visit.

It transpired that in 1665, when London was devastated by the worst plague ever, a stage coach from the city delivered a box of clothes to a journeyman tailor, called George Viccars, who lived in the village.

There must have been a flea, which carried the plague germ, among the musty damp clothes, because within four days the poor man was dead. No one of course realised that fleas carried the plague.

‘’Tis said, sirs, that afore winter twenty-three more tipped up their toes an’ died,’ Jim informed us.

We drew into the side of the narrow road to allow four huge shire horses pulling a heavy load of limestone to rumble by. ‘That’s stone for a big new house; ’tis being built in Tideswell. It’s a growing village is Tideswell; they calls the church you knows the cathedral of the Peak, ’cos it’s so big.’ He shook the reins and we moved off again into the middle of the road at a smart pace. The roads were kept in reasonable repair by roadmen. We came upon one outside his cottage, sitting on a low stool, breaking stones into small pieces with a hammer. His donkey was nearby, cropping the lush grass. The lad stopped and had a word with him. The roadman got up and went inside his cottage, to return a few moments later with a dead rabbit. The lad took it and dropped it on the floor, between Holmes and me. The roadman grinned, a missing front tooth giving him a jovial expression. ‘He’s a big buck, but young, shud mek a reet good dinner.’ The lad thanked him and we continued on our journey.

I wanted to keep the lad talking, wanting to learn more about their way of life in the country, compared with ours in the town. Holmes always reasoned you learn more from talking to people, than from books. With people, you can obtain further information by coaxing the conversation in the right direction, but with a book, it is restricted to what is printed. A good point I suppose.

He illustrated this maxim by saying to the lad, ‘I see no money exchanged hands. Was the rabbit a gift?’ The lad took his eyes from the road ahead to look at Holmes and grinned. ‘Sort of, more an exchange really. We country folk use barter a lot, not only wi’ goods, but in doing jobs for each other like.’

‘So what did you barter for the rabbit?’

‘Me dad’s brother lets him glean from the corn stubble after harvest. ’E gets enough corn to feed ’is ’ens through winter. So niver gus short a eggs does Joe. ’Is missis exchanges the eggs she don’t need for summut from the grocer man, when he cums by every wick.’

The lad certainly educated us in the ways of how the economy in the countryside worked. Barter we knew had existed long before money. In the countryside, it still played a most useful role it seemed.

We careered down the hill at a good trot and saw spread before us the lovely old village of Eyam. The limestone cottages, their colour mellowed by centuries of the elements, were now bathed in sunshine, as tranquil a scene as one could ever wish to see. We arranged with the lad a suitable time to take us back again, before setting out on foot to explore.

The village will always be remembered for the way the god-fearing folk contained the pestilence, preventing it spreading to other nearby villages by isolating themselves. At the centre of the village, there was a bull-ring set in a block of stone in the ground. A reminder of not so many years past, when a terrified bull or bear was chained to it, and dogs were encouraged to attack the tethered animal. Dogs and beast were terribly injured: blood, hair and flesh; a gory sight, all in the name of sport and as a spectacle during Wakes Week. It was declared illegal in 1835. Now all that is in the past, the bull-ring just a reminder of those bad times.

As we walked through the village, we passed the time of day with the folk we met, many of whom were sitting outside their cottages, knitting, sewing, pegging rugs, or just enjoying the warmth of the sun.

Walking the length of the village we came to a building, not much larger than a barn, which sported a painted board proclaiming it to be the ‘Townhead Factory’. Upon making enquiries from a passing local, we learned of its unique history. It had been built in 1735 as a silk-weaving mill. Now, a certain Mr Ralph Wayne had discovered how to weave on both sides of the material. His silk was therefore much sought after.

However, it was the apex of the factory wall that Holmes and I found to be most interesting. There were pigeon holes leading into the loft. The pigeon holes were for carrier pigeons to take messages between the factory and the silk supplier in Macclesfield. One could not help but admire the initiative of the idea, when one considers the time it would have taken to travel the thirty or so winding miles, up hill and down dale, compared with a pigeon completing the distance in perhaps thirty minutes.

As we walked through the village, Holmes and I discussed the need for the silk supplier at Macclesfield to also have a loft of homing pigeons, to send back the reply. Pigeons only fly in one direction, that is, back to their home loft, so presumably the pigeons were returned by road carrier, when they next made a delivery, thus enabling them to be available for use next time.

We were in deep discussion about this arrangement, when we came across an open space that had once been the market of the town, because, as villages go, Eyam is large and would have been considered in times past as a small town. There still remained a village hall and a set of stocks, used no doubt in the past to punish drunkards and others for petty misdemeanours.

It was whilst we were examining them that we became aware of a gentleman bidding farewell to someone at the upstairs window of the Hall opposite. No doubt, from her appearance, she was a member of the family who lived there. Eyam Hall, we observed, was a wonderful seventeenth-century building built by the side of the road, with wide steps leading up from lawned gardens. We averted our eyes from the couple, but were pleasantly surprised when the gentleman came across to us and introduced himself as a friend of the family.

‘You are ramblers, I presume, enjoying the good clean air and exercise?’ We agreed we were, and that Derbyshire was a delightful county, especially for visitors like ourselves. The woods, tumbling streams and tiny hamlets were a complete contrast to London town. We said how interested we were to learn more about the plague which had been inflicted upon the village all those years ago. Our gentleman friend was only too pleased to acquaint us with the history, he being a native of the village and a local historian.

‘Well, gentlemen, as you are probably aware, it was the bubonic plague which came to England because of our trade with the Orient. The fleas carrying the bubonic plague came from the black rats, which ships carrying silk and spices brought from China. It was not very long before the plague was rampant in London. This was in the year 1665, and the rich people who could afford to leave, fled. Those who remained died in their thousands.’ Holmes and I sat on a low stone wall enjoying both the sunshine and the historical account. He continued.

‘Late in August of that year a parcel of clothing was delivered to one George Viccars, a local tailor from London. When he saw the cloth was damp, he put it in front of the fire to dry. Two days later he developed a fever, swellings and a rose-red rash blotched the skin. Two days later he died, the first victim in the village.’

I looked towards Holmes. This tallied word for word with Jim’s account of the plague. Our historian continued with more facts.

‘Two more people died and, as the disease spread, the numbers increased. The dead were buried in rough graves close to their homes, in an effort to contain the spread of the infection. One villager, a Mrs Hancock, carried out seven members of her family and buried them in the field next to her house.’