16. THE CASE OF A GYPSY CARAVAN

A story of family ties, the expectation of sons and a romantic caravan

“You’ll never know what you think about it unless you’ve had a real go at it, Watson,” said Holmes to me as he sat on the front bench of a borrowed caravan, reins in hand and with that self-satisfied smug expression he often adopted when he wasn’t quite sure of something.

“But why a gypsy caravan, Holmes?” I asked. “It may look pretty in an idealised image of the good old days when men were free and children played in mud round their mother’s skirts, but today…?”

“And today we’re off into the sunset, you and me, tasting the sweetness of your much vaunted freedom of old and finding out exactly what it’s like to sleep with very little between our fragile flesh and the stars...”

“It’s not like you to be so poetic, Holmes,” I protested as we jolted long. “And talking of freedom, this jolting is beginning to affect my sit-upon!”

“Then select another cushion, Watson, and breathe the free air,” he said, and he directed the horse to pull into a right turning, but had yet to manage accurate communication with that noble beast, and it continued in a straight line, ignoring the right turn as if it wasn’t there.

“I’ll get the hang of it, Watson,” he hissed when I suggested I took the reins for a while.

“I’ve had more than a little practise driving wagons,” I told him. “In service, in Afghanistan, I was the usual driver of the medical wagon. There are ways and means and skills to be learned...”

But Holmes was determined to master the horse himself, and to his credit I must admit that by lunch time he had managed to coax the beast into pulling our wagon to the edge of a patch of uncultivated waste ground where we could light a fire and prepare a light meal.

“That was easy enough once I got the hang of it, Watson,” he murmured as he turned some sausages in a sizzling pan and added a handful of mushrooms. The horse that had reluctantly pulled us thus far contented itself with devouring a selection of greens from the hedgerow nearby.

“I hope they’re not toadstools,” I muttered, having little faith in some aspects of the Holmes education.

“Mrs Hudson provided them, and she knows her mushrooms,” he assured me.

“Then maybe you’ll be good enough to tell me why you’ve got me and that horse in the wide open countryside with rain threatening and a cold wind getting up,” I said.

He laughed at me. “The trouble with you, Watson, is you lack the adventurous spirit,” he said.

“I had enough of that in the wars,” I told him. “Afghan bullets take away the need for adventure, I can assure you of that. And if the bullet doesn’t then the subsequent fever does!”

He softened for a moment. “Yes, I see that, Watson,” he murmured. “You’ve adventured enough for any man.”

“So why are we here, Holmes?” I asked as at first one then a dozen large drops of rain splashed down, threatening both sausages and fire.

“I thought we both needed a holiday, and as Rover Bowless was laid up and his wagon and Nobby were going nowhere for the duration I asked if I could borrow the two of them, and here we are!”

“Is that it? Just a holiday, Holmes? I don’t believe you!” I said. “And didn’t Rover Bowless die? That’s a little more permanent than being laid up for a while! After all, I went to his funeral.”

“Ah, Watson, there are more aspects to funerals than are dreamed of in your philosophy,” he grinned.

“Now you’re being your usual obtuse self! Surely a man dies, is placed in a wooden box which is then buried six feet down, and that’s a funeral,” I protested.

“That would seem to be the sum of it, Watson,” he said. “But come … let’s get these sausages inside us, and a plate of mushrooms, before this rain soaks everything through! At least old Nobby has a bit of sense and is happy eating half the countryside whilst sheltering under that tree.”

“You’ve hit the mark there, Watson,” he said, and we set about demolishing the pan of sausages before leaping into the caravan and sheltering from what was showing signs of becoming a steady downpour.

“You were being cryptic about funerals,” I said when we had dried ourselves off, “and when you’re cryptic about anything there’s usually a story to be told.”

“You knew poor old Bowless, then?” he said.

“You know I did, Holmes! A ruffian, there’s no doubt about it, and he lived a hard life, but he had a heart of gold buried somewhere inside him.”

“Rover was no ruffian, Watson! He was born a gentleman,” said Holmes, “the third son of Lord Hempsey of Bow. “And you know the system. The first son inherits the business, the second son enters parliament and the third son becomes a cleric and makes his living preaching.”

“It was like that once,” I concurred, “though times have marched on somewhat.”

“It still is in some families,” he said brusquely. “It takes no account of the individual and his capabilities unless one of them is truly a simpleton, and then he finds his way into an asylum for gentlefolk. Anyway, Hempsey of Bow is a fine example of the good old fashioned system, and true to form his eldest son, called Dandy, was put into training and eventually inherited the business and all the lands of Bow. The second son, Aldred, fought in the Indian wars until an unexpected blow separated his head from the rest of him ... and the third son renamed himself as Rover Bowless, and took to the road with his beautiful, faithful dog, also called Rover.”

“I didn’t know any of that!” I exclaimed.

“And he was perfectly happy until his elder brother died during the cold of last winter. The Bow mansion might have had above thirty rooms, have fireplaces in all of them, but Dandy was little more than a miser and burnt little coal in his many hearths, and succumbed, as did many poorer people, to death that winter. It would have been better had he burned his riches in his hearth. Maybe he’d still be alive!”

“It is foolish to challenge the elements,” I agreed. “And it was a cold winter!”

The rain battered down onto our caravan, which was snug and warm inside with a fire burning in a stove although the fire on which we had cooked our sausages was little more than steaming ashes.

“The political Bow, you recall, dies some years ago in a scandal involving a call girl and a dose of the pox,” murmured Holmes. “And that left the third son to inherit all.”

“I think I see...” I frowned. “All three sons dead...”

“Almost, but not quite,” said Holmes, knowing that he’d left out the greater part of the story and teasing me with its absence.

“I counted three sons,” I frowned. “What of Rover Bowless, then? He died too, and it was around the winter period.”

“It was Christmas day,” confirmed Holmes. “He breathed his last on Christmas day. You can confirm that, for you attended his funeral. Remember?”

“I can,” I said.

“And now we get to the nub of the issue,” said Holmes, virtually twinkling. “We come to why I have borrowed poor old Rover’s caravan this fine but rather damp summer.”

“We do indeed,” I said.

“The answer must be obvious to you, Watson. We are delivering this cosy and some might say almost extravagant home...”

“Extravagant, Holmes? I said, “it seems to be too rudimentary to be called extravagant!”

“It is still relative luxury, Watson, and we are delivering it to the rightful owner, the Lord Rover Hempsey of Bow, where he will probably park it somewhere on his extensive grounds and occasionally spend the odd hour in it whilst he’s thinking of his poor dead best friend, the friendly and lovingly faithful dog that travelled with him down many a long road in this wagon, Rover, who he named after himself, of course...”

“Ah, I see,” I mumbled. Then: “And the funeral?” I asked.

“That was Rover,” sighed Holmes. “the man Rover thought it somehow appropriate to provide a funeral for the dog Rover. To give his best friend the burial he deserved, for that dog deserved to be honoured and was far more worthy of a good Christian burial than many a man who has crossed swords with me down the years, you can take my word for that...”

© Peter Rogerson 02.08.17