47. THE CASE OF THE BEGGARMAN BOMBER

Even on board a train Holmes and Watson can attract difficulties

“Holmes, have you forgotten?” I asked over a pipe and reasonably large measure of Scotch.

“Forgotten what, Watson?” he asked as he lovingly polished his violin, which bearing in mind the lateness of the hour, was a vast improvement on his playing it.

“That we’re off tomorrow to visit my aunt Priscilla in Tuscany and that the journey will be quite arduous unless we leave fully prepared for all eventualities. Have you, for instance, packed?”

“Tomorrow, Watson? You said we were going next Friday!”

“That was last Friday, so tomorrow is next Friday if then was the starting point,” I said, hardly surprised at his lack of preparation.

“Well, it may surprise you that I have packed the bare essentials into a suitcase and will be as ready as anyone tomorrow morning,” he said, smiling at the shocked expression on my face. “Tell me, Watson, you were expecting me to gave forgotten, were you now? You thought that I, so mentally stretched by the problems inherent in criminality, will have forgotten that we are catching the Dover train tomorrow?”

“So you have remembered your toothbrush and shaving gear?” I asked vaguely.

He paused and looked at me and shook his head. “You have me there, Watson. Maybe I should remember the true meaning of the word essentials!” he said. “Though small items like those can always be purchased en route, as they say in France! But I have remembered to pack a flask of the very best brandy I could find, for sea-sickness, you understand.”

“So you have forgotten that my aunt, who is as good as a native Italian having lived there for most of her life, will expect a clean shaven and fresh-breathed Holmes to arrive promptly and without the need for searching out personal items from Italian shops, and hopefully not smelling excessively of alcohol?” I murmured. I know Holmes only too well. He has a brilliant mind, of that there can be no doubt, and his powers of deduction are, in my experience, unparalleled, but his ability to attend to what he looks at as minor inconveniences is somewhat lax.

“Alright, Watson, I will check that I have every essential item before we leave tomorrow,” he said, “and if you are so uncertain of my mental state I beg that you check that I have indeed done what I say, here and now and decisively, that I will do.”

“Now, Holmes, you are no schoolboy who needs chivvying up before he goes off in the morning,” I joked, “enjoy your whiskey, do as you assured me you will do, and tomorrow we will depart for the train for Dover.”

“And then, Watson? Cart our luggage onto the ferry and catch another train in France?”

“There is a straight through train to Tuscany once we reach France, and it is only a matter of a few miles, or kilometres, to use the continental system of measurement, before we get to Priscilla’s vineyard.”

“And the promise of excellent wine?” he asked, teasingly.

“And that, Holmes.” I nodded. “But I’m going to bid you good night.” I emptied the last dregs from my glass and stood up. “This will take me back to my service years, crossing the seas to foreign parts,” I said, “though our journey should be considerably more peaceable. Goodnight, Holmes.”

Next day dawned bright and cheerful and both Holmes and I were up well in time for the cab booked to take us to the railway station, and it was there that the most unexpected part of our journey began.

It is not a particularly long journey from London to Dover, and we sat in our compartment reading the papers when we were disturbed by a furore from somewhere close enough to where we were to be troubled by it.

“What the devil!” I exclaimed.

“See what’s afoot, Watson?” suggested Holmes, and I leapt to my feet and raced into the corridor of the train, Holmes just behind me.

At first it was hard to tell if there was anything amiss. The corridor was crowded, with passengers who either preferred travelling that way or were on the way to the train’s conveniences. And then one of the compartment doors was flung open and a child raced out, white faced and shaking with, I suspected, fear.

“There’s a man with a bomb!” he shrieked.

The whole idea of explosives on a swiftly moving train scared me and I was struck momentarily dumb by thoughts racing through my imagination.

Holmes was more controlled. “Stop, sonny,” he ordered, “I am Sherlock Holmes and you may or may not have heard of me, but I can help in most situations. Tell me about this man with a bomb.”

“Mister, I must get away...” wept the boy, “I must get away from the bomb.”

“Tell us swiftly then, what man is it?” asked Holmes.

“It’s a beggarman, a raggedy old beggarman,” the boy cried, “and in his hand he has a bag and he says, this beggarman says, in the bag he’s got a bomb!”

“This I must see,” said Holmes imperiously.

And without apparently caring for his own safety he barged into the compartment that the boy had charged out of, this time with me slightly behind him.

An unshaven, disreputable creature of a man was standing between the opposing seats, holding a disgracefully tatty leather bag in front of him.

“Get down!” he shouted at Holmes as he saw him entering the compartment just behind him. “I warn you, I warn all of you, I’ve got a bomb in this bag, and if I let it off, if I explode it, we all will surely die, and I doubt you fine folks want that! As for me, I don’t care whether I live or die. I’m at the end of my tether, I am, with every sodding thing under the sun going wrong for me, and I can’t take no more. That’s the truth of it. I can’t even get a seat on this here train, and me with my back wounded fighting in the wars for this country!”

“You seem to be standing there quite soundly,” observed Holmes. “What does your doctor say of your injuries? What aid has he given you when you have told him how you find it difficult standing still even though, I observe, you appear to have no difficulty supporting yourself on a moving train.”

“Doctor? Quack, you mean, and how do you reckon one as I can afford to consult one of them!” demanded the beggarman, turning suddenly to face Holmes. Then his eyes fell on me, and the light of recognition lit them up with a suddenness that surprised even me.

“Doctor… Doc. Watson...” he exclaimed in a shocked voice. “Where you come from, squire? And what have I done...”

“Sherwood, isn't it,” I said, recognising him. “From the tenth. Wounded by a stray bullet that somehow managed to miss both lungs and your heart, though it was devilishly difficult fishing it out, I recall. It’s good to see you, man! What are you doing on this train and … tell me, what’s in that bag of yours?”

“Doc … doc...” the beggarman stammered, “the man as saved my life! The man as sat by me as I wept at night, from the pain that racked me whole body… those were hard times, sir, hard time indeed and it might have been better had you left me to die, to bleed in enemy soils, to be carrion for the birds and wolves...”

“Don’t talk nonsense, man!” I barked, “and what’s all this talk of a bomb?”

“I only want a seat, sir, I only want a seat...”

The beggarman was clearly yielding to the hopelessness of his situation. The other occupants of the compartment started stirring, the fear of sudden annihilation seeming to recede.

“It’s a disgrace, threatening folks like that!” declared an overweight woman in a large feathery hat and with a septic boil on her chin.

“He ought to be hanged!” declared a second passenger, this time a skinny man in a threadbare jacket and trousers a good two sizes too small for him.

“What? You would dangle this stranger on a rope?” asked Holmes, butting into the conversation. “You would treat him like that when he bled for you when none of you would go and fight for yourselves? This is appalling! Come, my fine fellow, you can have a seat in my compartment, and be most welcomed!”

And Holmes led the beggarman who I had recognised as Sherwood from the tenth out of the compartment and towards our own.

“I’d best take this,” I told him as in a clearly confused state he let Holmes guide him towards our own compartment, and I took his battered leather bag from his hands.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Holmes, “I have a flask in my luggage, a nip or two for the raging seas should Watson or myself feel the need of fortification. How about you having a sip, old soldier, while I work out what to do for you...”

He handed a silver flask to the old soldier and they both sat down.

“And you’d best let me check your bag,” he added when the man had quaffed a large mouthful of what I knew to be the best brandy available anywhere.

“It’s me mate,” he said as Holmes opened the bag, “Me only mate on the earth...”

Poor man, I thought, looking into it with Holmes. Poor, poor old soldier if your only mate on a planet the size of the Earth is a dead kitten. A very dead and very foetid dead kitten.

“We’ll bury him,” said Holmes sombrely. “Will at sea do?” he asked.

© Peter Rogerson 15.09.17