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charleygirlTitle: Jack In The Green 4/10
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 3521
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
Genre: Mystery, Drama
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me. Hope Barton and its inhabitants do, however.
Summary: Holmes and Watson have an unpleasant encounter and explore Hope Barton...
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three
JACK IN THE GREEN
CHAPTER FOUR
Now Jack In The Green he’s a very strange man
Though he dies every Autumn he’s born in the Spring
And each year on his birthday we will dance through the streets
And in return Jack he will ripen our wheat
- Martin Graebe, performed by Magpie Lane
I reached Holmes as he stopped halfway down the gravelled path that led to the house. Coming towards us was a tall young man with dark hair and an even darker expression on his angular face, a gun slung over one shoulder and a mastiff straining on a lead. His whole posture was belligerent, shoulders squared as though he expected a fight with some poor visitor to be in the offing.
“Did you not hear me?” he demanded when he neared us. “You are trespassing. Clear off!”
“I do apologise,” said Holmes smoothly, not intimidated by the newcomer’s attitude in the least. “We understood that this was an extension of the public path.”
“Well it isn’t,” the youth snapped, glaring at us both. “Be off with you at once.”
Samuel had joined us by now, and said, “I’m sorry, Mr Jack, I should have been with them. This is Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson, from London. They’ve come to pay a call on Sir George.”
“I don’t care if they’ve come from Balmoral, Foster, they are not welcome. My godfather is unable to receive visitors, you should know that. Or rather you would if you were doing your job properly.”
“Oh, now that is a shame,” Holmes declared before Samuel could respond to the insult. A suitably downcast demeanour had come over my friend’s face. “I am something of an eighteenth century portrait enthusiast, particularly the work of Sir Joshua Reynolds, and I had been told that the hall boasts several excellent examples of that artist’s work.”
The young man stared at Holmes with a peculiar expression, as if he had just been spoken to in Urdu, before he replied curtly, “You are mistaken. We have nothing by Reynolds, only a Gainsborough, and it is not a very good one.”
Holmes’s look of dejection increased, and he sighed. “Ah. It seems I must have been misinformed. I was so looking forward to viewing some eighteenth century paintings today…may I see your sub-standard Gainsborough?”
There was a pause, during which the dog continued to growl and pull at the lead that was restraining it, and I almost held my breath in anticipation.
“I have no time to show idle tourists about the house,” the young man declared at last. “Foster, kindly take your friends back to the path and do not bring them near the house again. You have overstepped your authority.”
Samuel looked shocked at being spoken to in such a manner. “I am sorry, sir. I was not aware that Sir George had placed such restrictions.”
“No doubt he would have informed you of them, in good time. You had best remember that though you may have been steward for some years, things change, and no one is indispensable.”
Anger surged up within me at that moment, and I took a step towards the arrogant young upstart to demand exactly who he thought he was and what gave him the right to berate an excellent man like Samuel in that domineering manner. I opened my mouth, the words on the tip of my tongue as the lout brushed past me, but Holmes’s hand on my arm and a slight shake of his head held me back.
“Oh,” he called after the young man, “If I were to have some business with Sir George, when would it be convenient to call?”
“Sir George does not receive strangers. Mr Foster deals with the estate business, and if you have any other enquiries to make the tradesman’s entrance is at the rear of the house,” came the unpleasant reply.
When he had gone, thankfully taking his snarling dog with him, I allowed free reign to my indignation. “Insolent puppy!” I exclaimed. “Who the devil does he think he is?”
“That is a question to which I would also like an answer,” said Holmes, looking after the departing youth with interest.
Samuel’s honest face flushed with embarrassment. “I really must apologise, gentlemen. Sir George has never placed restrictions upon access to the house before - ”
“He has evidently changed his mind. Or someone has changed it for him. That delightful young man is the squire’s godson?”
“Mr John Prior. He appeared on the doorstep six months ago, and since then he’s wormed his way into Sir George’s affections. It’s hard to see why as he’s not a pleasant lad by any means.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” I muttered.
“Unfortunately, he’s got interested in the running of the estate, and plagues me constantly wanting to know about this and that. He’s got it into his head that I’m fiddling the books somehow.”
“Good God! I hope you put him in his place.”
“I can only go so far in that, John. I have my situation to think of, and he knows it,” said Samuel with a grimace. “He enjoys the power, and Sir George has given him plenty. He’s been changing things, hiring and firing the staff. Several have left rather than deal with him, gone to find work in Banbury. He’ll kill the estate, the way he’s going.”
“And yet his godfather allows this to happen,” I said. “It seems a rather odd way to run things.”
“Very odd indeed. I take it that there is no chance of seeing inside the hall today?” Holmes asked. When Samuel shook his head, he swung his stick over his shoulder once more and began the trudge back up the slope to the public path, his long legs accomplishing the incline with little effort. “In that case, there is little more we can do here.”
At the top of the rise, however, he stopped, looking back at the house, his attention apparently upon the high gabled windows in the roof. From this position, and in such bright sunlight, it was impossible to make out anything that might be behind the glass.
“Could it have been a trick of the light that made Molly think she saw someone there?” I wondered.
Holmes stared for a few more seconds, and then abruptly turned his back on the hall. “Perhaps,” was all he would say on the matter.
***
Samuel had to leave us shortly to attend to his work, and so, after walking with him to the estate offices, we spent the rest of the morning engaged in a leisurely ramble about the district, breaking at last for lunch at the Green Man in the village. The tavern was a small but welcoming establishment, its sign portraying a strange, fairytale creature made of leaves which attracted Holmes’s attention for a few moments, as did – much to my surprise - the photographs of a local cricket match that hung on the wall of the public bar. We sat outside with our drinks, watching a group of lads erecting the maypole on the green for the celebrations on Monday.
Holmes took the opportunity to smoke several cigarettes while we rested companionably upon a big wooden settle by the door to the public bar, managing to almost stifle the occasional cough the tobacco still produced. I forbore to comment, knowing that, while he might have given up the cocaine for me, I would never lure him away from tobacco in all its forms. I was not exactly an example in that direction myself. He sat there, apparently quite contented, wreathed in blue smoke while he made a series of apparently random deductions about the various passers-by.
As strangers in the village, our arrival had inevitably occasioned some comment, and several people stopped to pass the time of day, from the butcher to the baker (“No doubt the candlestick-maker will be along in a moment,” Holmes remarked dryly). There was one man, however, sitting on the opposite side of the door and nursing a pint glass, who did not speak to us, and who therefore naturally interested my friend. He was reasonably young, perhaps thirty, with wild curly brown hair and blue eyes which blinked owlishly from behind heavy spectacles. His dress was sober and respectable, the only relief from the warmth of the afternoon he allowed himself being the unbuttoning of his jacket and a slight loosening of his tie. As we sat there, he gazed constantly across the green, occasionally withdrawing a fine gold watch from his waistcoat pocket to check the time. A bicycle was propped up against the wall of the tavern beside him, and I realised that I had seen no one else with one all day.
This was evidently what piqued Holmes’s curiosity, as he called out to the man. “Good afternoon! A keen cyclist, I see.”
Our silent companion looked startled, and turned to peer myopically at us both. After a brief hesitation, he said, “Yes. It is the easiest way to get about in these parts.”
“You have a very fine machine there. A recent purchase?”
“Fairly recent. I have had it for two months.”
Holmes nodded. “You must have been overjoyed with such an expensive present. I doubt if you could afford a bicycle so fine on a schoolmaster’s wage.”
I might have been surprised by this remark had I not just then spotted, as Holmes had evidently done before me, the exercise books in the bulging saddlebag of the bicycle. The young man, however, looked astonished. “However did you know that, sir?”
Holmes smiled, gratified as always that his deductions had secured the intended reaction. “It is quite simple. You have the slightly harassed look of all those found dealing with a group of unruly children. Your air is bookish, but in this community there is no library so you cannot be surrounded by literature on a regular basis, yet there are still a number of volumes in your bag. When I see chalk on your sleeve and ink on you fingers, the matter becomes a simple one.”
“And there I was thinking I must have my profession written upon my face. I am indeed the schoolmaster, sir, Henry Edwards is my name. You must be the gentlemen from London.”
We introduced ourselves, but Edwards showed no sign of having recognised our names. Holmes’s presence had caused little comment amongst the villagers to whom we had spoken, which produced a mixture of relief and irritation in him. Now, however, he used his lack of celebrity to his advantage, discussing cycling with the young schoolmaster with a knowledge that might have surprised anyone unaware of his eclectic range of interests. Edwards was happy to enthuse upon the subject, and I sat back with my glass, enjoying the view. A few children had come out of the houses that bordered the green, and were experimentally skipping around the maypole, its lack of ribbons not deterring them in any way.
“I suppose you use the lane past the hall a good deal,” Holmes said, bringing me out of my contented reverie.
“Once or twice a week, yes. It is the quickest way into town,” Edwards replied.
“Do you ever meet Mrs Foster when you travel that way? I understand that she is also fond of bicycling.”
The young man frowned slightly. “I meet many people on that lane, Mr Holmes. It is used by the whole village.” There was defensiveness in his voice which had not been there before. After a moment or two more, he drained his glass and got to his feet, pulling his bicycle from behind the table. “I must leave you, gentlemen – I have an appointment with Jack. It has been pleasant conversing with you.”
Holmes smiled. “Yes, a delightful…” He trailed off, and grimaced, rubbing his forehead, his eyes quite suddenly vague and unfocussed. “I must apologise, my mind seems to have…wandered. I have not been well lately.”
Edwards looked uncomfortable, as some people are wont to do around those who are ill. I, however, knowing Holmes as I did and that he was almost completely recovered by now, could see that this sudden ‘illness’ was an act, and wondered at the reason for it. Before I could say anything, my friend’s eyes closed, and he toppled from his chair onto the floor. I jumped up and crouched at his side, going along with whatever he was doing despite being aware that there was no danger. He convulsed several times, quite convincingly, before he lay still. I made a show of examining him for the schoolmaster’s benefit, since it was obviously he at whom this performance was directed, and pronounced that the fit was past.
“Is he all right?” Edwards asked worriedly. “Should I fetch someone? If the illness is serious - ”
“It comes and goes,” I replied, as Holmes made a great show of disorientation as he ‘came round’. “He will be fine with rest.” I leaned over him, saying loudly, “Holmes? Holmes, can you hear me?”
He swayed for a moment, blinking up at me. “…Watson? What…what happened?”
“You fainted, Holmes. I’ll take you back to the house.”
“House…yes, good idea…”
I helped him to his feet, though he could have easily risen without my aid, thanking Edwards for his offer of assistance but politely declining. The schoolmaster, giving Holmes one last concerned glance, mounted his bicycle and pedalled off to his appointment with ‘Jack’. The curious eyes of the landlord of the Green Man, who had emerged from his domain for a breath of air, spurred me to hurry Holmes away as fast as his suitably halting gait of an unwell man would allow.
Once we were out of sight, he straightened and ceased to lean upon my arm, laughing with satisfaction at his little charade. I cannot say I shared his enthusiasm, and I told him so.
“I do apologise, my dear fellow,” he said, though the smile lingered around his lips, which continually twitched upwards.
“I take it you accomplished whatever your aim was with that performance?”
“Perfectly. My position upon the ground gave me not only an excellent view of Mr Edwards’s bicycle tyres, but of his shoes as well. It was he to whom your cousin stopped to speak on Tuesday – I observed his footprints in the mud.”
“But,” I said, “If that is the case, why have neither of them mentioned it?”
“Edwards was becoming suspicious of my line of questioning, and had no reason to share his personal business with me,” Holmes mused. “Mrs Foster, however, is another matter. I am not used to being engaged in a case and then have the principal keep facts from me. If such a meeting was innocent, she might have mentioned it in passing. Her omission leads me to believe that is was not innocent. There is no other reason to conceal it. I also,” he added, holding up a hand when I opened my mouth to object, “managed to pick out the Dunlop tyre tracks of Edwards’s bicycle coming up the path that leads to the house. The gravel has evidently not been raked recently.”
“Why did you not put that to him?”
“We are guests in this community, Watson. No crime that I can see has been committed, and as your cousin has not seen fit to inform Mr Edwards that she has engaged me in this matter, we should tread carefully. I have the impression that were we to pry too far into the lives of the locals we would find ourselves swiftly hounded onto the next train back to London.” His tone was one of levity, but I could sense the seriousness that lay behind it. Even had a crime taken place, Holmes’s position as an unofficial investigator was somewhat precarious, especially in an area such as this where his name was not generally known. Unprotected here by the kind of cooperation from the local authorities he enjoyed in London, he could quickly find himself in difficulties.
“What should we do now?” I asked.
Holmes pointed with his stick to the roof that was just visible above the trees ahead of us. “I am led to believe that the church contains some rather fascinating decoration. Shall we take a look?”
I am always curious to see new places, and so I followed him down an avenue of yew trees to the tiny church. Built from crumbling grey stone, it was a low building with a porch and small windows, leaning gravestones marking the borders of the path along which we stepped. The graves were well-kept, the grass neatly cropped and fresh flowers lying upon some of the plots. Holmes ducked under the low lintel of the porch, remarking that the building was quite obviously Saxon with later alterations. As I moved to follow him I had the curious sensation of being watched, and looked up to see a most malignant face staring down at me from above the doorway. It might have been human to begin with, but its features were twisted, obscured by the greenery that trailed around its head. I had never seen anything like it before.
Realising that I had not followed him, my friend retraced his steps and joined me before the porch, looking up at the strange decoration. “Ah,” he said, nodding, “the Green Man.”
I blinked in surprise. The thing had more the appearance of a monster than a man. Foliage sprouted from its mouth and nostrils as though in some bizarre approximation of facial hair. Its eyes glared at us in hostility. I had not expected to see such a thing adorning the entrance to a house of God. “The Green Man?” I repeated.
“Indeed. I assume this is the fellow from whom the tavern takes its name. Surely, Watson, you will have heard of the legendary Green Man, forest sprite and symbol of fertility and spring?”
“No, I can’t say that I have. Isn’t it a bit…well, heathen for a church decoration?”
Holmes shrugged. “Such things are a relic of paganism, when religion was far more mystical than it is now. I assume that the face is a symbol of protection, a little help towards a successful harvest.” He slipped back into the porch and vanished into the shadows of the doorway. After another glance at the glaring Green Man, I followed.
Inside things were a little more as I would have expected, though the theme of greenery still invaded, leaves and vines curling around the pews and across the rafters. I spotted with a start another face peering at me from a corner: there was another Green Man in the roof. This one looked a little more friendly than his counterpart outside, however. The interior of the church was small and apart from this decoration somewhat plain, enlivened only by the stained glass added to the window behind the altar, and the ancient, somewhat crude, wall painting of the Last Supper. Holmes strolled about, examining this carving and that memorial plaque, until I began to find myself growing rather sleepy within the stuffy confines of the building. I sat down for a moment upon one of the old pews, and the next thing I knew, he was shaking me by the shoulder and calling my name.
I awoke, startled, to find him looking down at me in amusement. There was a crick in my neck and the interior of the church seemed darker than it had been just a few minutes before. “Wha…what is it?” I mumbled, rubbing my bleary eyes.
“Nothing important, old man, but the vicar would like to prepare for his service,” Holmes said. I realised that there was an elderly man in a cassock standing behind him, his hands folded behind his back and a kindly smile on his face.
I felt myself colour in mortification, realising that I must have fallen asleep. “Oh, good heavens, I am so sorry…” I began, but the vicar raised a hand and shook his head.
“Please, don’t apologise, Doctor. I have done the same thing myself more than once over the years. Mr Holmes and I have been having a most pleasant chat while you were in the arms of Morpheus.” He turned to my friend. “I will dig out those records if you wish to view them tomorrow.”
“Thank you, vicar; that will be most helpful.” Holmes took my elbow. “Come along, Watson – your cousin will be wondering what has become of us.”
I said a hurried goodbye to the man and found myself bustled out of the church. When we were a little distance from the building, Holmes let go of my arm, striding on ahead. I could tell from the way that his head was bent and the fierce driving of his stick into the ground as he walked that he had discovered something.
“You have advanced in your investigation?” I asked, jogging to catch up.
“A little, Watson, a little! Don’t dawdle, man - we shall be late for tea!”
TBC
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 3521
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
Genre: Mystery, Drama
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me. Hope Barton and its inhabitants do, however.
Summary: Holmes and Watson have an unpleasant encounter and explore Hope Barton...
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three
JACK IN THE GREEN
CHAPTER FOUR
Now Jack In The Green he’s a very strange man
Though he dies every Autumn he’s born in the Spring
And each year on his birthday we will dance through the streets
And in return Jack he will ripen our wheat
- Martin Graebe, performed by Magpie Lane
I reached Holmes as he stopped halfway down the gravelled path that led to the house. Coming towards us was a tall young man with dark hair and an even darker expression on his angular face, a gun slung over one shoulder and a mastiff straining on a lead. His whole posture was belligerent, shoulders squared as though he expected a fight with some poor visitor to be in the offing.
“Did you not hear me?” he demanded when he neared us. “You are trespassing. Clear off!”
“I do apologise,” said Holmes smoothly, not intimidated by the newcomer’s attitude in the least. “We understood that this was an extension of the public path.”
“Well it isn’t,” the youth snapped, glaring at us both. “Be off with you at once.”
Samuel had joined us by now, and said, “I’m sorry, Mr Jack, I should have been with them. This is Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson, from London. They’ve come to pay a call on Sir George.”
“I don’t care if they’ve come from Balmoral, Foster, they are not welcome. My godfather is unable to receive visitors, you should know that. Or rather you would if you were doing your job properly.”
“Oh, now that is a shame,” Holmes declared before Samuel could respond to the insult. A suitably downcast demeanour had come over my friend’s face. “I am something of an eighteenth century portrait enthusiast, particularly the work of Sir Joshua Reynolds, and I had been told that the hall boasts several excellent examples of that artist’s work.”
The young man stared at Holmes with a peculiar expression, as if he had just been spoken to in Urdu, before he replied curtly, “You are mistaken. We have nothing by Reynolds, only a Gainsborough, and it is not a very good one.”
Holmes’s look of dejection increased, and he sighed. “Ah. It seems I must have been misinformed. I was so looking forward to viewing some eighteenth century paintings today…may I see your sub-standard Gainsborough?”
There was a pause, during which the dog continued to growl and pull at the lead that was restraining it, and I almost held my breath in anticipation.
“I have no time to show idle tourists about the house,” the young man declared at last. “Foster, kindly take your friends back to the path and do not bring them near the house again. You have overstepped your authority.”
Samuel looked shocked at being spoken to in such a manner. “I am sorry, sir. I was not aware that Sir George had placed such restrictions.”
“No doubt he would have informed you of them, in good time. You had best remember that though you may have been steward for some years, things change, and no one is indispensable.”
Anger surged up within me at that moment, and I took a step towards the arrogant young upstart to demand exactly who he thought he was and what gave him the right to berate an excellent man like Samuel in that domineering manner. I opened my mouth, the words on the tip of my tongue as the lout brushed past me, but Holmes’s hand on my arm and a slight shake of his head held me back.
“Oh,” he called after the young man, “If I were to have some business with Sir George, when would it be convenient to call?”
“Sir George does not receive strangers. Mr Foster deals with the estate business, and if you have any other enquiries to make the tradesman’s entrance is at the rear of the house,” came the unpleasant reply.
When he had gone, thankfully taking his snarling dog with him, I allowed free reign to my indignation. “Insolent puppy!” I exclaimed. “Who the devil does he think he is?”
“That is a question to which I would also like an answer,” said Holmes, looking after the departing youth with interest.
Samuel’s honest face flushed with embarrassment. “I really must apologise, gentlemen. Sir George has never placed restrictions upon access to the house before - ”
“He has evidently changed his mind. Or someone has changed it for him. That delightful young man is the squire’s godson?”
“Mr John Prior. He appeared on the doorstep six months ago, and since then he’s wormed his way into Sir George’s affections. It’s hard to see why as he’s not a pleasant lad by any means.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” I muttered.
“Unfortunately, he’s got interested in the running of the estate, and plagues me constantly wanting to know about this and that. He’s got it into his head that I’m fiddling the books somehow.”
“Good God! I hope you put him in his place.”
“I can only go so far in that, John. I have my situation to think of, and he knows it,” said Samuel with a grimace. “He enjoys the power, and Sir George has given him plenty. He’s been changing things, hiring and firing the staff. Several have left rather than deal with him, gone to find work in Banbury. He’ll kill the estate, the way he’s going.”
“And yet his godfather allows this to happen,” I said. “It seems a rather odd way to run things.”
“Very odd indeed. I take it that there is no chance of seeing inside the hall today?” Holmes asked. When Samuel shook his head, he swung his stick over his shoulder once more and began the trudge back up the slope to the public path, his long legs accomplishing the incline with little effort. “In that case, there is little more we can do here.”
At the top of the rise, however, he stopped, looking back at the house, his attention apparently upon the high gabled windows in the roof. From this position, and in such bright sunlight, it was impossible to make out anything that might be behind the glass.
“Could it have been a trick of the light that made Molly think she saw someone there?” I wondered.
Holmes stared for a few more seconds, and then abruptly turned his back on the hall. “Perhaps,” was all he would say on the matter.
***
Samuel had to leave us shortly to attend to his work, and so, after walking with him to the estate offices, we spent the rest of the morning engaged in a leisurely ramble about the district, breaking at last for lunch at the Green Man in the village. The tavern was a small but welcoming establishment, its sign portraying a strange, fairytale creature made of leaves which attracted Holmes’s attention for a few moments, as did – much to my surprise - the photographs of a local cricket match that hung on the wall of the public bar. We sat outside with our drinks, watching a group of lads erecting the maypole on the green for the celebrations on Monday.
Holmes took the opportunity to smoke several cigarettes while we rested companionably upon a big wooden settle by the door to the public bar, managing to almost stifle the occasional cough the tobacco still produced. I forbore to comment, knowing that, while he might have given up the cocaine for me, I would never lure him away from tobacco in all its forms. I was not exactly an example in that direction myself. He sat there, apparently quite contented, wreathed in blue smoke while he made a series of apparently random deductions about the various passers-by.
As strangers in the village, our arrival had inevitably occasioned some comment, and several people stopped to pass the time of day, from the butcher to the baker (“No doubt the candlestick-maker will be along in a moment,” Holmes remarked dryly). There was one man, however, sitting on the opposite side of the door and nursing a pint glass, who did not speak to us, and who therefore naturally interested my friend. He was reasonably young, perhaps thirty, with wild curly brown hair and blue eyes which blinked owlishly from behind heavy spectacles. His dress was sober and respectable, the only relief from the warmth of the afternoon he allowed himself being the unbuttoning of his jacket and a slight loosening of his tie. As we sat there, he gazed constantly across the green, occasionally withdrawing a fine gold watch from his waistcoat pocket to check the time. A bicycle was propped up against the wall of the tavern beside him, and I realised that I had seen no one else with one all day.
This was evidently what piqued Holmes’s curiosity, as he called out to the man. “Good afternoon! A keen cyclist, I see.”
Our silent companion looked startled, and turned to peer myopically at us both. After a brief hesitation, he said, “Yes. It is the easiest way to get about in these parts.”
“You have a very fine machine there. A recent purchase?”
“Fairly recent. I have had it for two months.”
Holmes nodded. “You must have been overjoyed with such an expensive present. I doubt if you could afford a bicycle so fine on a schoolmaster’s wage.”
I might have been surprised by this remark had I not just then spotted, as Holmes had evidently done before me, the exercise books in the bulging saddlebag of the bicycle. The young man, however, looked astonished. “However did you know that, sir?”
Holmes smiled, gratified as always that his deductions had secured the intended reaction. “It is quite simple. You have the slightly harassed look of all those found dealing with a group of unruly children. Your air is bookish, but in this community there is no library so you cannot be surrounded by literature on a regular basis, yet there are still a number of volumes in your bag. When I see chalk on your sleeve and ink on you fingers, the matter becomes a simple one.”
“And there I was thinking I must have my profession written upon my face. I am indeed the schoolmaster, sir, Henry Edwards is my name. You must be the gentlemen from London.”
We introduced ourselves, but Edwards showed no sign of having recognised our names. Holmes’s presence had caused little comment amongst the villagers to whom we had spoken, which produced a mixture of relief and irritation in him. Now, however, he used his lack of celebrity to his advantage, discussing cycling with the young schoolmaster with a knowledge that might have surprised anyone unaware of his eclectic range of interests. Edwards was happy to enthuse upon the subject, and I sat back with my glass, enjoying the view. A few children had come out of the houses that bordered the green, and were experimentally skipping around the maypole, its lack of ribbons not deterring them in any way.
“I suppose you use the lane past the hall a good deal,” Holmes said, bringing me out of my contented reverie.
“Once or twice a week, yes. It is the quickest way into town,” Edwards replied.
“Do you ever meet Mrs Foster when you travel that way? I understand that she is also fond of bicycling.”
The young man frowned slightly. “I meet many people on that lane, Mr Holmes. It is used by the whole village.” There was defensiveness in his voice which had not been there before. After a moment or two more, he drained his glass and got to his feet, pulling his bicycle from behind the table. “I must leave you, gentlemen – I have an appointment with Jack. It has been pleasant conversing with you.”
Holmes smiled. “Yes, a delightful…” He trailed off, and grimaced, rubbing his forehead, his eyes quite suddenly vague and unfocussed. “I must apologise, my mind seems to have…wandered. I have not been well lately.”
Edwards looked uncomfortable, as some people are wont to do around those who are ill. I, however, knowing Holmes as I did and that he was almost completely recovered by now, could see that this sudden ‘illness’ was an act, and wondered at the reason for it. Before I could say anything, my friend’s eyes closed, and he toppled from his chair onto the floor. I jumped up and crouched at his side, going along with whatever he was doing despite being aware that there was no danger. He convulsed several times, quite convincingly, before he lay still. I made a show of examining him for the schoolmaster’s benefit, since it was obviously he at whom this performance was directed, and pronounced that the fit was past.
“Is he all right?” Edwards asked worriedly. “Should I fetch someone? If the illness is serious - ”
“It comes and goes,” I replied, as Holmes made a great show of disorientation as he ‘came round’. “He will be fine with rest.” I leaned over him, saying loudly, “Holmes? Holmes, can you hear me?”
He swayed for a moment, blinking up at me. “…Watson? What…what happened?”
“You fainted, Holmes. I’ll take you back to the house.”
“House…yes, good idea…”
I helped him to his feet, though he could have easily risen without my aid, thanking Edwards for his offer of assistance but politely declining. The schoolmaster, giving Holmes one last concerned glance, mounted his bicycle and pedalled off to his appointment with ‘Jack’. The curious eyes of the landlord of the Green Man, who had emerged from his domain for a breath of air, spurred me to hurry Holmes away as fast as his suitably halting gait of an unwell man would allow.
Once we were out of sight, he straightened and ceased to lean upon my arm, laughing with satisfaction at his little charade. I cannot say I shared his enthusiasm, and I told him so.
“I do apologise, my dear fellow,” he said, though the smile lingered around his lips, which continually twitched upwards.
“I take it you accomplished whatever your aim was with that performance?”
“Perfectly. My position upon the ground gave me not only an excellent view of Mr Edwards’s bicycle tyres, but of his shoes as well. It was he to whom your cousin stopped to speak on Tuesday – I observed his footprints in the mud.”
“But,” I said, “If that is the case, why have neither of them mentioned it?”
“Edwards was becoming suspicious of my line of questioning, and had no reason to share his personal business with me,” Holmes mused. “Mrs Foster, however, is another matter. I am not used to being engaged in a case and then have the principal keep facts from me. If such a meeting was innocent, she might have mentioned it in passing. Her omission leads me to believe that is was not innocent. There is no other reason to conceal it. I also,” he added, holding up a hand when I opened my mouth to object, “managed to pick out the Dunlop tyre tracks of Edwards’s bicycle coming up the path that leads to the house. The gravel has evidently not been raked recently.”
“Why did you not put that to him?”
“We are guests in this community, Watson. No crime that I can see has been committed, and as your cousin has not seen fit to inform Mr Edwards that she has engaged me in this matter, we should tread carefully. I have the impression that were we to pry too far into the lives of the locals we would find ourselves swiftly hounded onto the next train back to London.” His tone was one of levity, but I could sense the seriousness that lay behind it. Even had a crime taken place, Holmes’s position as an unofficial investigator was somewhat precarious, especially in an area such as this where his name was not generally known. Unprotected here by the kind of cooperation from the local authorities he enjoyed in London, he could quickly find himself in difficulties.
“What should we do now?” I asked.
Holmes pointed with his stick to the roof that was just visible above the trees ahead of us. “I am led to believe that the church contains some rather fascinating decoration. Shall we take a look?”
I am always curious to see new places, and so I followed him down an avenue of yew trees to the tiny church. Built from crumbling grey stone, it was a low building with a porch and small windows, leaning gravestones marking the borders of the path along which we stepped. The graves were well-kept, the grass neatly cropped and fresh flowers lying upon some of the plots. Holmes ducked under the low lintel of the porch, remarking that the building was quite obviously Saxon with later alterations. As I moved to follow him I had the curious sensation of being watched, and looked up to see a most malignant face staring down at me from above the doorway. It might have been human to begin with, but its features were twisted, obscured by the greenery that trailed around its head. I had never seen anything like it before.
Realising that I had not followed him, my friend retraced his steps and joined me before the porch, looking up at the strange decoration. “Ah,” he said, nodding, “the Green Man.”
I blinked in surprise. The thing had more the appearance of a monster than a man. Foliage sprouted from its mouth and nostrils as though in some bizarre approximation of facial hair. Its eyes glared at us in hostility. I had not expected to see such a thing adorning the entrance to a house of God. “The Green Man?” I repeated.
“Indeed. I assume this is the fellow from whom the tavern takes its name. Surely, Watson, you will have heard of the legendary Green Man, forest sprite and symbol of fertility and spring?”
“No, I can’t say that I have. Isn’t it a bit…well, heathen for a church decoration?”
Holmes shrugged. “Such things are a relic of paganism, when religion was far more mystical than it is now. I assume that the face is a symbol of protection, a little help towards a successful harvest.” He slipped back into the porch and vanished into the shadows of the doorway. After another glance at the glaring Green Man, I followed.
Inside things were a little more as I would have expected, though the theme of greenery still invaded, leaves and vines curling around the pews and across the rafters. I spotted with a start another face peering at me from a corner: there was another Green Man in the roof. This one looked a little more friendly than his counterpart outside, however. The interior of the church was small and apart from this decoration somewhat plain, enlivened only by the stained glass added to the window behind the altar, and the ancient, somewhat crude, wall painting of the Last Supper. Holmes strolled about, examining this carving and that memorial plaque, until I began to find myself growing rather sleepy within the stuffy confines of the building. I sat down for a moment upon one of the old pews, and the next thing I knew, he was shaking me by the shoulder and calling my name.
I awoke, startled, to find him looking down at me in amusement. There was a crick in my neck and the interior of the church seemed darker than it had been just a few minutes before. “Wha…what is it?” I mumbled, rubbing my bleary eyes.
“Nothing important, old man, but the vicar would like to prepare for his service,” Holmes said. I realised that there was an elderly man in a cassock standing behind him, his hands folded behind his back and a kindly smile on his face.
I felt myself colour in mortification, realising that I must have fallen asleep. “Oh, good heavens, I am so sorry…” I began, but the vicar raised a hand and shook his head.
“Please, don’t apologise, Doctor. I have done the same thing myself more than once over the years. Mr Holmes and I have been having a most pleasant chat while you were in the arms of Morpheus.” He turned to my friend. “I will dig out those records if you wish to view them tomorrow.”
“Thank you, vicar; that will be most helpful.” Holmes took my elbow. “Come along, Watson – your cousin will be wondering what has become of us.”
I said a hurried goodbye to the man and found myself bustled out of the church. When we were a little distance from the building, Holmes let go of my arm, striding on ahead. I could tell from the way that his head was bent and the fierce driving of his stick into the ground as he walked that he had discovered something.
“You have advanced in your investigation?” I asked, jogging to catch up.
“A little, Watson, a little! Don’t dawdle, man - we shall be late for tea!”
TBC
