44. THE CASE OF THE SMUGGLER’S SHIP

Maybe this is the first time a petrol engine was disabled in this way....

“This is the life, Watson,” sighed Holmes, lying on his hammock as our narrow boat slowly and majestically found its way down the river, with me at the helm and a faithful Birmingham steam engine plugging away so lethargically you got the idea it might stop at any moment.

“So you’ve said before, Holmes,” I replied, “though to tell the truth I’m still not sure why either of us is here, why this boat is here, why this river is here and what we’re doing while we’re here!”

“It’s peaceful, Watson,” he said, not answering my question.

“It is, Holmes, if you can ignore the rattle and hiss of the engine, but the gist of my question was why are we here?”

“Ah, Watson, the truth of the matter is we both need a break from the cut and thrust of life, and it was recommended to me that we hire this barge and spend a few days on the river where we will doubtless find ourselves free of any of the restraints forced on us by the City,” he murmured.

My suspicions were aroused. “Recommended by whom?” I asked, looking at him staright between the eyes.

“Ah, there you have me Watson! Let me see … who mentioned boating on the river and the joys of steam?”

“You know who, Holmes, you have a forensic memory!”

“Then it will come to me,” he sighed.

“Let me take a guess … it wouldn’t have been your brother Mycroft by any chance, would it?”

Holmes looked uncomfortable. “It might have been,” he conceded.

“Not only might have been, but was!” I exclaimed, knowing Holmes and his brother only too well. “So what’s afoot, Holmes? Or is this truly no more than a wild goose chase after peace and harmony, neither of which we will find amidst the smuts from the chimney and the rattle of pistons.”

“We can pull in shortly, Watson, and the engine can be allowed to cool down while we enjoy the twitter of the birds and the fragrance of the elder flowers that grow in such profusion here abouts,” he said, almost (but not quite) cryptically.

“And what will we be looking for?” I asked, knowing there must be something. There’s always something afoot when Holmes breaks from his normal 221b Baker Street routine and does something uncharacteristic. And there was, in my opinion, nothing more uncharacteristic than this jaunt we were having on the river, going, it seemed, further down stream. I had a sudden and irrational fear of finding myself in the middle of the North Sea, lost in a tumbling mist and blanketing fog.

“Nothing much,” he replied, “though Mycroft mentioned there may be a little smuggling going on, with rich rewards for the criminals who are bringing contraband into the country.”

“I thought you had somewhat liberal ideas about smuggling, Holmes,” I told him.

“It is the wealth of our country that’s at stake,” he said, louder, maybe even loud enough to be heard across the river. “Smuggled goods are, by definition, free of taxation, yet the smugglers sell them on as if tax had been paid, pocketing the difference! That way everyone’s being robbed: the original sellers, who probably had it stolen from them, the revenue office that would expect duty to be paid on the goods and the final purchaser who believes that nothing is wrong and buys what he sees as a perfectly legitimate bargain. And the smuggler makes a small fortune on the backs of all those losers.”

“All right, I’m convinced, Holmes. But that doesn’t exactly explain why we’re here,” I said irritably, though, in truth, I had guessed.

“We are to waylay the criminals until they can be apprehended, Watson,” he said, speaking as if we were a whole battalion ready for battle. “Now let me look at the map.”

He picked a slender volume from the deck next to where he lounged and flicked to what he considered to be the appropriate page. “Ah,” he muttered, pointing at something I was in no position to see, “we are all but there! Just round that bend ahead you will see a jetty and with more than a little bit of luck there will be a seaworthy craft tied up there. That should be the smuggler’s craft and we will have the simple task of disabling it.”

“Simple task, Holmes? Do you know how to disable a steam engine?” I protested.

“Possibly, but this one should be driven by an internal combustion engine, which presents us with fewer difficulties.”

“How fewer?” I asked, the despair of ignorance certainly showing on my face.

“You are aware of the workings of the internal combustion engine, Watson?” he asked, adopting his schoolmastery pose and addressing me as if I was a stupid schoolboy in need of a good thrashing.

“Vaguely,” I replied uncomfortably.

“Then you will be aware of the elementary way that petroleum fumes are ignited by a simple spark, thus providing an explosive force that is utilised by the engine in order to propel the vessel?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Then you will also be aware that any non-explosive additive that is mixed with the petroleum, let us say water or a derivative of water, will totally disable the engine and render the vessel immobile?” he smirked.

I nodded again.

“Now don’t be peevish and childish, Watson! Here, I have brought with us a quantity of fine ale in bottles. In order to celebrate we will pass the criminal’s vessel and tie up ourselves just round the bend beyond it, look here, on this map. It’s not a proper jetty but I have it on good authority that it can be used as one perfectly safely. But when we are secure we will celebrate by supping this ale and enjoying the rest of the day.”

“Sounds too good to be true,” I told him, remembering to lace my words with a great number of sarcastic undertones.

“You will enjoy this, Watson,” he grinned, and he climbed off his hammock. “There!” he pointed, “steer the vessel to that point over there!”

We did eventually get tied up, our ropes taught against the small current of the river as it flowed remorselessly towards the distant ocean. Then Holmes opened two bottles of ale and passed me one, together with a stone-glazed tankard that had come with the boat.

The ale did taste good, and the tankard helped with my appreciation of its flavour and hoppy body. Before long Holmes passed me a second bottle.

“For your patience and forbearance, Watson,” he said, and we both languidly sipped a second pint. This, I was beginning to think, was the life!

“Did you take note of the fuel tank on the criminal’s vessel as we passed it?” asked Holmes suddenly.

“No I didn’t!” I protested, “I had all on steering this vessel!”

“Then it’s just as well that I did,” he murmured.

“Well that’s all well and good,” I replied, “now let me enjoy the remainder of this pint before I have to slip onto the tow-path and into the undergrowth in order to dispose of it behind a tree.”

“Not behind a tree,” grinned Holmes, “our task is to disable the smuggler’s craft and we will do it by unscrewing the filler from the fuel tank on the ship and, er, emptying our bladders into the tank!”

“What?” I exclaimed, horrified.

“Fear not, Watson: there is nobody on board. It’s but a short walk to where it is moored, there is a plank leading to its deck, all nice and easy and presenting us with no problems, the tank is just there, right before us, and all we have to do is unscrew its cap and … you can imagine the rest!”

Half an hour later we had done as he described, and such is our sense of decorum and modesty that it took that long as we both, in turn, emptied what had become uncomfortably full bladders into the tank, but kept a decent distance from each other as we did so.

Then we returned to our own boat, which was no ,longer producing smuts and smoke as the fire had gone out, and helped ourselves to a third pint each of the fine ale that Holmes had brought with him.

“I hope that does the trick,” I mumbled.

“Oh, it will,” Holmes assured me, “They will get so f ar on the petroleum that is already in the pipe, and then they will try and fail to get the engine to pull on well-digested ale as fuel+, and it will go nowhere until Mycroft and his nautical chums turn up to tow them to jail. And your part in this adventure will be mentioned in dispatches, Watson, you can be assured of that!”

© Peter Rogerson 12.09.17