Frank Thomas - Sherlock Holmes and the Sacred Sword

Some distance from Mayswood, I diverted from the main road to the neighboring village and started a wide circle round the breeding farm. Now Fandango introduced another little trick in her repertoire. Since we were not moving away from Mayswood, at every crossroads she chose to veer in the direction that would return us to its pastures. After some urging on my part, we reached a meeting of the minds and my mount abandoned visions of her stall, oats, and a rubdown.

The winding country roads were in good condition considering the spring rains, and the whole area, in contrast to Mayswood itself, was heavily timbered. Hemlock, chestnut, and elm were in profusion, and it occurred to me that the coloration of Fandango blended well with the surrounding trees. My riding apparel was beige, and were I to pull off the road and remain motionless in the timber, I fancied my mount and I would be difficult to spot. The lane I had chosen inclined upwards after a while, and soon I was on a bluff looking down on a pleasant valley. The gleam of rails was discernable to the left, and as I followed them visually I noted a freight terminus of some size with a variety of tracks on which boxcars and freight carriers stood, many empty and with their doors open. This puzzled me somewhat, being removed from Litchfield, until I realized that the rails I had first noted were probably a branch line and that sizable freight trains were assembled at this terminus and then dispatched for the run into the metropolis of London.

It was a country freight yard that I had chanced upon. Well, Holmes had drawn my attention to the railroad so I abandoned my proposed circuit of Mayswood and rode a little way along the path until I found a trail leading down from the bluff and into the valley. I made note of the area in case my side journey turned into a dead end and I was forced to return this way. Once on level ground, I followed the rails towards Litchfield. When we turned away from Mayswood, Fandango again showed a disposition to sulk, but she finally became reconciled to the situation and mustered a presentable single-foot that did not bounce me too much in the saddle, though certain portions of my posterior gave promise of tenderness.

The single-foot segued into a canter, and I realized that Fandango was a gaited horse when she accelerated into a rack that ate up ground with a gentle rapidity. The horse, like Deets, sensed my ineptitude and seemed to be making things easy for me, or perhaps she was in a hurry to get the matter over and get back to a nosebag.

On the outskirts of Litchfield Fandango decelerated into her single-foot, probably her most showy gait, and I fancy we made a sporty pair as we entered the hamlet, which was little more than one street of about two city blocks in length terminating at the railroad station.

As I suspected, there was a cable office adjacent to the station, and I drew up before it and, carefully and slowly, quitted my saddle with no more than a few grunts. I led Fandango to the horse trough in approved style and then secured her reins on an adjacent rail right next to a mounting box. I'd gotten off without falling on my face, and perhaps I could resume my seat with dignity as well.

At the cable office I entered and made a show as though inquiring about a message. Actually I just exchanged some words with the telegrapher about the weather, and he must have thought I was a lonesome soul indeed. Vacating these premises, I noted that the local inn, a small establishment, was named "The Red Lion." Were I to possess a pound note for every inn by that name in Britain, I might well have a box at the races next to Lord Balmoral! "The Red Lion" had to be the center of Litchfield's limited social life, so I set my feet towards it resolutely. Then I saw them! Two Chinamen on the opposite side of the street and coming towards me. Well, I had not been friend and biographer of Sherlock Holmes for so long without recognizing the makings of a shrewd move. Orientals don't just happen in the depths of Surrey. Contrary to the experience of our American cousins, English hands iron English shirts, and most of our railroads were built with the assistance of the Welsh and the Cornish. The Chinese had to be visitors and, hence, had to be residing at the inn.

I hastened my steps and preceded them into the edifice by way of the pub door conveniently available. Being already on the premises, they could not suspect me of following them should they make an appearance. Chinese spelled Chu San Fu, and while the grip of the former crime czar on Limehouse had been broken, it made sense that many of the retainers he still had left would be of his race.

I assumed a stance at the empty bar and wished I had a riding crop to tap against my boots as I ordered a stout.

The barkeep was a man of few words, but when he filled my order he summoned seven of them, revealing in the process his Scots ancestry.

"I ken you're nae from these parts."

"A visitor, my good man, as you have discerned."

I felt that a sop to the Scot's powers of observation might lead to more discernment on other subjects, but he indicated little interest in my length of stay, point of origin, or anything else.

After giving the polished wood surface a perfunctory swipe with a bar rag, he retired to the end of the room to throw darts at the inevitable board. Keeping his eye sharp for some bets with the evening trade, I thought. However, said practice was interrupted, to my delight, by the entrance of the Chinese. In very broken English, they requested tea and retired to a side table and low conversation in their native tongue. The barkeep relayed the order through a service window in the back of the bar and resumed his dart activity.

I was considering ordering another draft and wondering how I might get closer to the Chinese, a fruitless task since I could not understand one word of their conversation. Then there was another entry, a disconcerting incident to the barkeep, who had just scored two center hits and was intent on making it three. As it happened, his services were not required. A thin little man in nondescript clothes found his way inside with some difficulty, holding his throat with one hand and gesturing at his mouth with the other. When he spoke, it was in a croak and with some effort.

"Is there . . . is there a doctor round?"

Lifelong training took over. "I am a doctor," I said, promptly crossing to him.

"Got somethin' stuck in my windpipe," he wheezed.

I removed his hand from his throat and, using two fingers, pried his jaws apart, peering down his gullet, but the light in the pub was dim. I ran a finger in an exploratory move past his tongue, for this could be serious, but he started to choke and I removed my digit while I still had it.

He gestured towards the door and I seized him by the arm with a gesture of agreement, leading him outside and into the afternoon sun. With his back to the door, I started to open his mouth again when things took a singular turn.

"Just give it a fake look-see, Doctor Watson, for it's a dodge. Me throat's tip-top."

I started to draw back from the man with a shocked expression, and alarm bells rang in my ears.

"Keep lookin', Doc," he urged in a low voice, raising his chin as though to aid my efforts.

As I made a dumb show of peering into his orifice, he spoke quietly and distinctly, no mean feat with his mouth wide open.

"Pay no attention to the Chinks, Doc. Mr. 'Olmes don't want those boyos to get a wind up. Just make yer way back to Mayswood, and we'll watch for your signal tonight."

"Then you are—?"

"—Slippery Styles, Doc."

Good heavens, I thought, the human shadow! I'd never seen him close to before, but when Holmes wanted someone followed, Styles was the man he called for. My friend contended that Slippery could follow a sinner into hell without getting his coat singed!