46. THE CASE OF THE BULGING BULLSEYE

Sometimes even criminals must take a break, and then what do detectives do?

“My main concern, Watson, is crime and the apprehension of criminals,” said Holmes over breakfast, “and at the moment we seem to be in a somewhat monotonous lull.”

“That is, perhaps, a tribute to your success, Holmes,” I said, “the fact that all the major criminals are safely behind bars or dangling on the end of a rope means they’re not on the streets disrupting the affairs of ordinary folk!”

“You may be right there, Watson, but it does nothing to cheer me up! I like to be on the case, pursuing evil wherever it may be and not stuck in here with my boiled eggs and toast and a whole day of inconsequential nothing in front of me.”

“We should get out, Holmes,” I told him, “this new century has so much to offer the man of mental agility. We could, perhaps, go down to the river and watch the active young things in their regatta. There are bound to be unclaimed patches of turf where we could settle and maybe even have a picnic. I quite fancy some smoked salmon with, maybe, a few ripe tomatoes and a bottle of something French and fizzy!”

“Such luxury, Watson! And what of me while you’re providing yourself with all the ingredients for a bout of chronic indigestion or your first heart attack?” Holmes could sound quite sarcastic when he wanted to, and that’s exactly how he sounded now.

“There’s something about youthful energy, forcing the blade of the oar deep into the flow, heaving the boat forwards, winning the race,” I told him, “and you may be interested to know that this year they have included a ladies race! Think of that! All those powerful young things wearing the modern line in reduced skirts...”

“Positively indecent, Watson!” admonished my friend, “ladies are perfectly all right in their place, organising balls, planning menus, doing all the things they’re so good at, but I swear … rowing boats on the river? That’s a young man’s sport if ever there was one, and always will be because of the more delicate cut of the female body, as you, being a man of medicine, must know full well!”

“As a man of medicine I am fully aware of the strength in womankind,” I told him, seriously. “A man may fall ill with a malady that is so contagious that his wife catches it as well, yet if there are no servants around it is she who will look after him rather than the caring be the other way round. He will linger, moaning in his bed while she scrubs floors and attends to his every demand. No, Holmes, you underestimate the females of the species, and by a wide mark too.”

“Be that as it may, rowing is no way for a delicate flower to spend her energy when there are domestic delights for her to attend to.” Holmes was adamant and I could see I had little chance of persuading him. But I tried one last tack.

“It is at gatherings like the one today down by the river that many a petty criminal puts in an appearance, and you know, Holmes, that it is only a matter of time before some petty criminals promote themselves into a more major league. A dedicated criminologist would probably find more pleasure in apprehending a pick-pocket on his first outing than he would if faced with a desperate thief equipped with all the latest gadgets and a pocket of explosives!” I said quietly.

“By golly you’re right, Watson!” he barked, and he leaped up suddenly, spilling toast crumbs onto the table cloth. “I will attend this function with you, and while you’re guzzling your champagne I’ll be casting a wary eye on who does what and to whom. If nothing else it will enlarge my knowledge of the birth of the criminal mind!”

With such delight on his face and shining in his eyes as he contemplated the advantage his already masterful experience might have on the apprehension and the correction of antisocial behaviour before it becomes dangerous, Holmes accompanied me to the river. I carried a basket in which we had the makings of a decent picnic, including a bottle of champagne. There are several areas down by the river where the grass is kept short by constant foot traffic and a couple of rather plump goats that wander from time to time from their normal confines in the land sweeping down from a large house set in its expansive picturesque grounds, well back from the river. We spread a blanket before us and sat down.

Holmes frowned. “This could be more comfortable with a proper outdoor chair each,” he said, “you know, one that folds for easy transportation.”

“And an army of servants to carry everything,” I said pointedly.

“Touchè,” he admitted. “Now for the main course. It’s refreshing to see so many families enjoying the open air, the sun and the river and I’ll be bound that amongst then there are scoundrels intent on theft and other nefarious activities when nobody’s looking.”

“It’s all so peaceful,” I sighed, and it was. True, there were several children engaged in childish games, running and jumping and calling at each other in shrill voices, but even they were a delight as I reclined with my head pillowed on a rolled-up towel, and sighed with contentment.

“This brings to mind an occasion from my boyhood,” murmured Holmes, with his eyes shut. “I had what must have been a nasty dose of influenza, my physical state ranging from shivering with perceived cold even though I was close to the hearth, to perspiring with heat as I sought to cool myself by moving as far from that same hearth as I could. We even had a cold floor-covering of linoleum in the room where I languished, and I recall resting my head on that, for the cold. My mother was the only other person at home, my father being, I believe, abroad at the time, maybe supervising some aspect of the Empire, and by then I seem to recall that Mycroft was already at University...”

“And this break by the river reminds you of illness?” I asked, astounded.

“No, not precisely that, but do you see that boy over there?” He pointed at a lad of about ten and with a bulging cheek. “I watched as his mother gave him a huge boiled sweet, what we used to call bullseyes, with peppermint flavouring and big enough to threaten to force our mouths to burst! Well, I must have been recovering from the influenza and my mother returned from the shops and gave me a bag containing several bullseyes! And I somehow managed to enjoy them all, one after the other.”

“Ah, I see! Were you, maybe, about the same age as that child?”

He nodded, and reached into his pocket. “Now for the silly thing,” he said, slightly nervously, as he produced a bag containing what must have been identical sweets to the one the boy with the bulging cheeks was sucking on, “my mind even then told me that I was recovering from the sickness anyway, but I associated that recovery with the bullseyes! I attributed my recovery to them! And always, since then, whenever I have felt under the weather for one reason or another I have bought a bag of bullseyes as a cure!”

“Really, Holmes,” I laughed, “we doctors would soon be out of business if all it took to render the influenza dead and buried was a small bag of boiled sweets.”

“Not so small, Watson, not so small. Here: have one of mine. They’re delicious!”

“I know, Holmes,” I said, taking one.

I was eventually rewarded by the appearance of the ladies race, a couple of elderly boats with a diminutive woman in each as a cox and about half a dozen Amazonian females with rippling muscles, well exposed legs that totally failed to titillate me, and complete with oars. I’d hoped this race might prove my point about the suitability of the female form, and to a certain extent it did, though Holmes failed to find any entertainment in the exhibition. Eventually one of the boats started to sink, not the fault of the rowers I’m sure, but some malfunction of their craft, and at that point he closed his eyes and sucked another bullseye.

We spent the remainder of the afternoon basking under the sun, sucking several bullseye sweets until the bag was empty, and I’m convinced that for half an hour or maybe even more Holmes dozed off. At least, if he didn’t his mind must have been elsewhere because he totally missed the pick-pocket who was trying to slide the Holmes watch out of his pocket when he thought nobody was looking, and might have succeeded had I not rapped him with considerable severity on the knuckles with the business end of my cane.

That taught the scoundrel the advantage of honesty, I hope. At least, he ran off howling and nursing what was probably a painfully chipped bone.

© Peter Rogerson 14.09.17