Sherlock Holmes and the Chinese Junk Affair and Other Stories (13 page)

‘It must have been a harrowing time for the village folk, a most frightening situation,’ I commiserated.

He made a half-circle motion with his hand indicating the countryside. ‘Yes, a few people packed up and fled, including the Bradshaw family from Bradshaw Hall.

‘It was then the heroes of the day stepped in, the rector, William Mompesson, and his non-conformist colleague, Thomas Stanley. They implored the village people to stay inside the village boundary, and thus prevent the plague spreading to the rest of the nearby villages, and to the whole county. A most courageous plea to make of anyone.’

Just then a flock of sheep came along the road being shepherded by an old man and a couple of dogs. ‘Excuse me a moment whilst I have a word with the shepherd.’ The dogs kept the sheep in a huddle, nervous and apprehensive. At last, with a wave of his hand and the touch of a forelock, the two parted company, the sheep eager to move on.

‘Sorry about that, but I wanted to ask about his wife, she is very ill. Where was I? Oh, yes. Rector Mompesson, with the help of the Earl of Devonshire, arranged for supplies of food, and other essentials needed by the village folk, to be left at the place called the “boundary stone”. Money payments for these provisions were disinfected by placing the coins in running stream water, or in vinegar.’ He rubbed his thigh, shook his leg and continued. ‘Touch of the screws.

‘The village folk, realising the seriousness of their plight, became frightened to gather together, even for Sunday worship. The rector therefore closed the church, and held open air-services instead. On August the twenty-fifth, sadly, Catherine, wife of the rector, died, she being the last victim of the plague.

‘The village folk had through their fortitude contained the disease, but at great cost to themselves; some two hundred and fifty-nine souls had made the sacrifice. They had shown true courage and Christianity.’

‘And yet while the great plague raged throughout England,’ recounted Holmes, ‘Parliament still found time to pass an Act, that all shrouds must be made of wool; said to help the expansion of the wool trade.’ Holmes and I were very moved by his account, thanking our historian friend for his time and information. We all shook hands.

‘Look around the church, you will find it most interesting.’ With a smile and a wave, he picked up his walking stick and strode away.

We did visit the church which was very close by, and found it to have been dedicated to St Lawrence, the Christian preacher, who was asked apparently to hand over the treasures of his church to the prefect of Rome. He presented his people instead. The prefect, angry at having been tricked, had Lawrence put to death by roasting him on a grid iron. ‘Not a very Christian act. But then, the acts of the Spanish inquisitors were all performed in the supposed name of religion,’ remarked Holmes drily.

In the north aisle of the church we discovered a cupboard reputedly made from the very box containing the plague-infested cloth, delivered to George Viccars the tailor. Poking around further, Holmes said, ‘Read this, Watson... being a medical man this should interest you.’ I went over to him and saw he had found among a dust-laden collection of ecclesiastical papers and worn-out hymn books, tattered and beyond repair, an old copy of how to cure a sore or carbuncle. It read:

Dated 1695 Remedy for Sores and Carbuncles.

Take Bay Salt, Rye Meal and Yolks of Eggs as many as will make them into a paste; then spread it on to a piece of leather and apply it to the Sore or Carbuncle and it will draw the poison to the Centre, so that the Sore will ripen; and being broke, the infection will come away; to expedite the Cure of which, when it is broke, put the Rump of a live chicken to the mouth of the sore, so that its vent may be placed on it, and will draw the infection into the body of the Chicken, in so much that it will dye, and so will one or two more if the infection be great; but when they cease to do so, it is a sign that the Poison is exhausted, and the party in a very fair way of recovering Health.

Another remedy, this time prescribed by the College of Physicians, no less:

Take a great Onion, hollow it, put into it a fig, rue cut small, and a dram of Venice treacle; put it close stopt into wet paper and roast it in the embers; apply it hot to the tumour; lay three or four, one after the other; let one lie three hours.

‘Most interesting, Holmes. I might be tempted to try it on some awkward recalcitrant patient when next I locum.’

Holmes chuckled. ‘If you do, I want to come and see you do it.’

I copied down the cure in my notebook for future reference. Wandering still around the church we came across the actual chair in which the Reverend Mompesson had sat. It was of good English oak with the legs firmly held by stretchers. Carved with the date 1665, it appeared good for many a hundred years to come. We could have stayed much longer absorbing the history of the lovely old church, but tore ourselves away reluctantly, and went out into the street, momentarily blinded by the bright sunlight.

Walking along we passed the actual cottage where George Viccars the tailor lodged, and from where the outbreak of the plague began.

‘See, Watson, nothing has changed, the same worn doorstep as Viccars trod, the same small windows he must have looked through, when the stage-coach delivered him his box of death. Yet over two hundred and thirty years have passed; truly these villages are timeless.’

We ate at the Miners’ Arms Inn where we were informed, when talking with the landlord, that a certain Reverend Joseph Hunt was involved in a mock marriage performed at the inn in 1683. Whether officiating or his own, the landlord was unable to say. Having drunk two pints of his good ale and eaten our beef sandwiches, we shouldered our rucksacks and ambled forth.

Following the landlord’s instructions we found yet another reminder of the plague, Merrill House. The owner, Humphrey Merrill, left the house during the plague to live in a hut in isolation out on the moor, and thus survived.

It was later in the afternoon, just walking along, when Holmes suddenly tugged my sleeve, and pointed to an encampment some distance away. ‘I think the gathering fits the description the vicar gave us, bell tent and all. The raggle-taggle-gypsies, oh!’

I looked, and in a clearing I could see a gypsy caravan. Not the lovely shaped ornate kind with decorations of swirls and gold leaf, but a plain box affair, akin to the type seen behind a steam-roller. It was constructed of vertical planks, and in need of a good paint. Beside it was erected an old tatty bell tent used, no doubt, to work in during inclement weather. A couple of lurcher dogs and several children ran around the site.

‘Can you feign a limp, Watson?’ I gave him a blank look, cudgelling my brain.

‘Perhaps not... put a pebble in your boot. You are going to limp over to the gypsies and ask if they have a bowl of water to soak your sprained ankle in.’

I still could not understand what Holmes had in mind; realising this, he explained further.

‘It is a ploy, Watson. We ask for their help putting them in a dominant position and, hopefully, allaying any suspicion. It will give us an excuse to speak with them.’

I now saw it all, and duly obliged. The pebble in my boot made it impossible to forget to limp, even for one moment. ‘And another thing, Watson, we must approach the site not from this direction, but from over there. We would hardly have limped through the village without taking advantage of the opportunity to get help from some cottager.’

As we approached the camp, the children stopped their play, and the dogs barked. On arriving, two women came to the door of the caravan and down the steps. They both wore blouses and dark skirts, their shining black hair tied in a bun.

Holmes introduced ourselves. ‘I wonder if we could elicit your help... my friend here has sprained his ankle, and we hoped you had a bowl of bowl in which he could bathe it?’ The young woman remained silent, but the older one smiled and nodded her head. ‘Certainly, sir, I will get you a stool each to sit on.’

She spoke to the silent shy children and there was a rush into the tent to fetch them. I can’t remember all the conversation, as I was busy taking off my boot and sock, easing my foot into the cold water. But Holmes seemed to have charmed the women, even the young one smiled and flashed her large dark eyes at him. I heard her reply to Holmes, ‘Oh, we get by. The men are away cutting wood for the pegs just now.’

‘You know, it’s wonderful how you make these pegs out of... nothing really,’ said Holmes, picking up a clothes peg from a nearby basket full of them. The younger woman threw back her head and laughed with a touch of scorn I thought. ‘Hardly nothing. We choose the wood; it has to be supple, scrounge the tins and cut them into thin strips.’ She looked proud, her figure slim and lithe, going on to explain, ‘We bind the top of the peg with the thin strip of tin, like this, and tack through it like so.’ Wielding a small hammer, she drove the tack through the tin and into the wood with one swift blow. Then taking hold of a knife, she held the peg and pressing downwards against the top of a barrel, made a cut. The clothes peg was finished. Free wood, scrounged tin and a tack became a peg.

Holmes took the peg from her and examined it. ‘As I said, hardly nothing, but a lot of skill involved.’ He turned to me, ‘Is it feeling any easier, Watson?’

‘Yes, Holmes, in fact the water feels so good I’m going to put my other foot in too.’ So saying I unlaced my other boot, took off my sock and immersed it.

Holmes addressed the younger woman. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know the time, would you? My friend here forgot his watch in the rush to pack for our holiday, and I had the misfortune to drop mine. It hasn’t gone since.’ I nodded agreement, guessing the ploy.

The older woman was busy taking down some of the dried washing off the clothes line. The children sat, wide eyed and fascinated by their unusual visitors. The young woman replied:

‘Of course I can tell you the time, sir; my husband got our clock repaired only a few weeks ago when we were camped outside Nether Froggatt.’ She looked inside the caravan and came back down the steps. ‘It’s nearly four o’clock. Ours had broken its spring, but it’s all right now. The old clockmaker made a good job of repairing it... he was a lovely man, my husband said, lived in a cottage with a raven for company of all things. Wouldn’t take a penny for repairing it either. When he learned we had three children, he gave my husband a sixpence to share between them. If you are walking near there, it would be worth your while to see if he could repair it.’

‘I’ll try to put my boot on, Holmes. It feels much better now.’ So saying, I dried my feet on a small hand towel from my rucksack and put my socks and boots back on, not forgetting to drop a pebble in one of them to make me limp away.

We thanked the gypsies who refused our offered money, insisting it was the least they could do to help a fellow traveller. As we passed the children, still sitting on the ground, Holmes whispered into the ear of each one and slipped something under each little round bottom.

As I limped away, Holmes hissed, ‘You’re limping with the wrong foot.’

I replied in some agitation, ‘I know, but I only realised my mistake when I stood up to move off... perhaps they won’t notice. By the way, Holmes, what did you whisper to the children?’

Holmes turned around and waved to them. ‘I told them to sit tight until we were out of sight and then discover what they were sitting upon.’

‘And what are they sitting upon?’

‘A florin each, Watson,’ and with that we turned around once more to wave our last farewells, the children waving back, wide eyed and smiling until we were out of sight.

I quickly found somewhere to sit and removed the offending pebble.

‘Well, Watson, we can discount the gypsies as having anything to do with the old watchmaker’s death... agreed?’

‘Absolutely. Ah! That’s better,’ as I stood up and made a few short strides.

‘’Pon my word,’ remarked Holmes, ‘I was impressed by the women’s speech. Each spoke well, but moving around the countryside, and never staying long enough to be influenced by any local dialect, may be the reason.’ I agreed and could not help thinking that in any situation, these women were more than capable of holding their own. The young one certainly impressed Holmes, I could tell. As we walked along, I pondered on the way Holmes had obtained his information, admiring the simple ploy which had achieved a perfect result.

Our faithful Jim was waiting for us at the appointed time and place to take us back to the George, tired but pleasantly so.

It was later that evening when I thought to ask Holmes why he had become Soames and I, Moxon. He puffed at his pipe and leaned back against the rough wood of the garden seat we both sat on. Above us the swifts kept up their wheeling and diving, in a constant search of the skies for insects.

‘As I see it, Watson, we are on holiday and if we are to benefit from it, we must be seen as just two gentlemen taking a rambling holiday. Yet when we spoke to the vicar yesterday, I felt he was uneasy about something, and out of habit, fell into my line of questioning, which I admit went beyond ordinary casual interest, so much so, he suspected we were policemen, correct?’ I nodded. ‘I didn’t want to reveal our true identities, so I became Soames and you became Moxon... you didn’t mind, did you, Watson?’ He looked at me with genuine concern.

‘Of course not, Holmes, but you surprise me by sensing there is a mystery connected with the old clockmaker’s death. It all seemed to begin when we heard that raven, tick tocking.’