The Trumper Affair

In all the years I have been associated with my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes it has been my privilege and pleasure to meet and assist in a humble way many exalted clients who have had good reason to consult my friend. For many of these I have always sought to maintain their privacy by altering names dates and places within my accounts, but there was scarcely anyone of good standing in the land who had not sought out the help of my friend. Some of these matters set before Holmes were trivial in the extreme, others had at their heart matters of high state. None of these visitors of ours however could be construed as my heroes, but as most of those I considered as heroic in my mind were no longer living it was hardly surprising. However, one July day in 1899 gave me a rare opportunity to warmly shake by the hand a particular sporting hero of mine, one whose doings down under were as well known to me to me as any British sportsman. I had recently saw him perform in the Lord’s Test match and thrilled to the sight, but I could scarcely have imagined that he would be standing in front of me in the sitting-room I shared with Holmes.

Holmes and I were both sitting reading on the summer morning of which I speak prior to taking a stroll through the capital. Mrs Hudson showed our visitor up. “A gentleman to see you,” she said with a sniff as though she was not quite sure of our visitor’s standing.

“Good morning, I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend and colleague Dr Watson. How may we be of service to you?”

“To put it bluntly, Mr Holmes I fear kidnap!” our visitor said dramatically. He was a tallish although somehow a slight man, but this was deceptive, his whole body spelled athleticism. His features were clear-cut and he was undeniably a handsome fellow.

“And who is the subject of this kidnap?”

“Why, it’s me, Mr Holmes. I fear an attempt will be made to prevent me playing this week.”

Holmes looked somewhat bemused at this statement. He studied our visitor closely.” I see some light. You are an Australian although with an English background. Your hands are bruised, particularly your left. I know of no profession that can cause that singular bruising so I deduce a sporting injury, no doubt that of a cricketer. A right handed batsman who bats in the top order and one who often eschews the wearing of protective gloves.”

“Why not a lower order batsman, Holmes?” I interjected.

“The little I know of cricket leads me to believe that lower order batsman do not generally have a lengthy enough innings to sustain such injuries. The bruises I see point to many long innings facing hostile bowling and they further point to a stroke player who is not afraid to play shots. A number three or four batsman then?” he asked our visitor.

Before he could answer himself I could contain myself no longer, “Holmes, this is Victor Trumper the new star of the Australian eleven. Did you not read of his exploits a few weeks ago at Lord’s when he scored a chanceless 135 for his side and that I must add was against the bowling of Rhodes, Townsend and Jessop? You may recall also that I enthused about Trumper’s innings when I returned home from my day out at Lord’s?”

“Alas, Watson I did not read about this young man’s exploits nor do I recall particularly your enthusing over the same, but I thank you for your valuable sporting insight. Mr Trumper, what prompts you to believe you are in danger of kidnap?”

“We are due to play Sussex at Brighton, a three day match which starts on the 27th and expectations are high in our favour. There has been however some unscrupulous betting going on and it would be altogether in certain persons favour if the result were to go the way of Sussex.

“I see, but I assume there is a possibility that Sussex could win with or without you opposing them?”

“Oh yes, Mr Holmes, they are a very strong side. With Fry, Ranji and Fred Tate how could they not be?”

“Forgive me my next question, but why would you be singled out in this way?”

“It is a wicket that favours me and my style of play and the opinion of many is that I will flourish on it. It would be very nice to do so, Mr Holmes especially as I am given to believe my cousin may be watching. But the side’s success is of paramount importance to me not my own contribution.”

“Have you any evidence of this threat of kidnap or is just a perceived threat?”

“I had a note delivered to me yesterday at the Regent Hotel which was couched in obscure terms, but the gist of it was that my presence in Brighton may well result in me being absent for the duration of the match with Sussex.”

“A vague threat then,” Holmes mused, “Have you this note with you?”

“No I destroyed it, thinking it to be some prank, but after hearing about the betting going on I decided to take advice and the manager of the hotel, Mr Trueman, who holds you in the highest regard suggested a visit to you may alleviate some of my fears.”

“Have you confided in any of your team mates?”

“None, Mr Holmes.”

“A captain then, presumably you have one?”

“Yes, Darling.”

“I beg your pardon?” Holmes spluttered.

“Holmes, he means the captain, Darling.” I said.

Holmes gave me a look of the purest effrontery before the light dawned on him. “Your captain is named Darling?”

“Yes, Joe Darling is the skipper, a true blood Australian. An Adelaide man and a left handed bat of great power, hell, he has been known to...”

“Yes, yes,” said Holmes, eager to move away from tales of sporting prowess. “But have you confided in him?”

“No I did not wish to elevate myself in any way or put myself above my team members.”

“My advice is to do so, Mr Trumper and allow him to take any action he sees fit, even going as far as leaving you out of the side.”

“But I will not give in to threats, Mr Holmes, come what may I will take my place on the field on the 27th.”

“Where do you propose to stay in Brighton?”

“The Metropole Hotel is where the team will be holed up. We travel down together by train this afternoon.”

“I see and the game commences three days hence. Very well Mr Trumper, Watson and I will do what we can to assist you. Proceed to Brighton as normal and if anything untoward should happen, telegraph for us immediately. In the meantime we will make enquires at the Regent and join you in Brighton in two days time and Mr Trumper, be sure to reveal all this to Mr Darling.”

“Thanks, gents, you have taken a load off my mind. I will see you in two days, good day to you both.”

“Good day to you,” I said,” and may I say what an honour it is to have met you.”

“Thank you, Doctor you are too kind. Good-bye.”

“Well, Holmes what did you think of the man? I can tell you that he is known to be a very modest self effacing man, but his batsmanship is of the highest possible order; to see Trumper jumping out to attack bowlers is a sight once seen never forgotten we are assured.”

“That may well be, but it is his importance to me as a client and the problem he presents to us which guides me here not his sporting skills, supreme as they may be. I think a trip to the Regent is in order my friend to see if we can pick up the trail of the man or woman who left the note for Mr Trumper.”

“I find it hard to believe that there is any crime attached to the world of cricket, it goes against the grain of all that is good in this country, it’s just not cricket, Holmes!” I said none too originally.

“We can discuss it on the way,” said Holmes, failing to mask his impatience.

Upon our arrival our old friend, Henry Trueman directed to us to the reception manager who had been on duty the day before, but he was of no use to us in describing who had left the note for Victor Trumper. In fact from his description we could not even ascertain the gender of the person involved. We made our way back to Baker Street picking up various newspapers along the way.

“Do you think a member of Trumper’s own team may be responsible, Holmes?” I asked as we settled in our chairs.

“Good old Watson. I suppose you think such villainy par for the course for a foreign side, something English cricketers and more specifically Sussex cricketers are incapable of.”

“Nothing of the sort, Holmes. I was merely exploring avenues.”

“The lack of data is disconcerting, but can’t be helped. I would be as surprised as you if this whole thing was the brainchild of a cricketer although it would be wise not to rule out the eventuality, but I think we will have to look very closely at the Brighton gambling community.”

Holmes spread out the papers on the floor and contrary to his usual practice which was to turn to the agony columns, he now concentrated his attention on the sports reporting. A few murmurs and grunts emanated from his frame, now stretched out immobile on the carpet. A few minutes later he pronounced himself done.

“Watson I still fail to see quite the importance that is attached to this one player. The century he scored against England appears to be the only one he has scored in the last year if these accounts are to be believed.”

“I think the Australian side see him as a talisman, if Victor Trumper is playing well then it lifts the whole team and his feats of scoring can push the score along very quickly. A batsman like that is a positive boon to any side, Holmes.”

“There is one possibility we must not neglect however.”

“What is that, Holmes?”

“That this tale is a concoction of Mr Trumper’s and he may be planning to disappear himself and share in some proposed windfall accruing from a win for Sussex.”

“Preposterous. If that was the case, why come here to consult you?”

“Bravado perhaps or the need to lend credence to his story. Do not look so shocked my friend, I was impressed with Mr Trumper and seriously doubt any involvement of his in this matter.”

“It may be that the note was written by an overly zealous Sussex supporter and there is no kidnap plot afoot at all.”

“I am inclined to that view I have to say, Watson. It may be no more than a simple prank, but at the same time my instincts tell me there is something afoot here. It may be best to head down to Brighton earlier than we have stated and see what two old hounds like us can discover.”

The thought of two or three days by the sea was not an unpleasant thought to me and I readily fell in with Holmes’s plans. The town of Brighton had grown rapidly during the 19th century and was one of the most popular destinations for the rapidly growing number of day trippers who flocked out of London for their pleasures in the summer. I myself had spent some time in the town as a locum, working mostly in the Kemp Town district on the eastern side of the town. It was a most pleasant time for me both professionally and personally. It had been some little time since I had paid a visit and I found myself looking forward immensely to seeing the new Brighton Marine Palace and Pier which had opened in the May, if the pier was as grand as the construction bill which was in the region of £27,000 then it would be grand indeed.

After a leisurely breakfast the following morning, during the eating of which I regaled Holmes with the cricketing exploits of various Sussex cricketers, chiefly Charles Fry and K. S. Ranjitsinhji who scored mountains of runs for the county in differing styles. Fry being an orthodox, technically upright batsman and Ranji being noted for his innovation, particularly his use of the leg glance. They complemented each other perfectly. Fry was by way of being an all rounder in the truest sense. A gifted cricketer who also played professional soccer, an athlete good enough to have equalled the world long jump record some six years before and a Rugby player who had turned out for my old club, Blackheath. Ranji, an Indian prince was ‘the Midsummer night’s dream of cricket’. Unorthodox in technique and with fast reactions, he brought a new style to batting and revolutionised the game. Previously batsmen generally pushed forward; Ranji took advantage of the improving pitches of the time and relied on a back and across defensive stroke and played elegant strokes off the back foot in attack. He had a strong late cut and is noted for his popularisation or invention of the leg glance. Holmes had leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, as I recounted all of the above and it was difficult to tell whether he was awake or not. I took the charitable view that he was!

We made our way to Victoria station and were pleased to find the 10.27 train virtually empty. It was a cold wet day in keeping with most of that summer. In fact the Australians had more than once taken to the field wearing two sweaters coupled with scarves. The peace we had found in our carriage began to be shattered as the train picked up passengers at Clapham Junction and Croydon. I had been busy compiling notes that I had made of Holmes’s last case, the curious affair of the disappearing sovereign and the consequences for the Rowbotham family. A rather stately woman had joined us in our carriage and was making her considerable presence known to me. I was just about to put away my notes having decided to give up the uneven struggle when realisation dawned on her who I was, aided no doubt by her innate ability to read my notes thoroughly over my shoulder.

“My, you are the Doctor Watson. I am so thrilled to meet you. I have a little something for you.”

I fear I turned a shade of crimson at this statement, not knowing exactly where this conversation may be leading. “Thank you and what... may that be?” I asked hesitatingly.

“A story for you. I have developed a plot that you may be able to use in the tales of your detective.”

“I thank you for that Madam, but these stories I tell are in fact truthful accounts of recorded crimes as solved by my friend,” I answered. Holmes was sitting in the far corner, a barely suppressed smile playing about his mouth.

“Truthful accounts, Doctor? Then your Sherlock Holmes is real? I felt convinced he could only be a character of fiction.”

I laughed, “No he is real enough, in fact he...” A look from my friend and a barely susceptible shake of the head told me that he desired no introductions or entry into the conversation. Fortunately my female companion spotted an acquaintance in the corridor and dashed off in pursuit. The rest of the journey was by comparison uneventful and we spent the time discoursing on the effects and merits of the new administration bodies brought into being by the London Government Act of 1899. Upon our arrival at Brighton we hired a cab to take us to our chosen hotel, the Cliftonville in Hove which was just a short walk away from the Sussex County Cricket ground in Eaton Road. Having settled ourselves in my first thought turned to lunch, Mrs Hudson’s breakfast had for once not assuaged my hunger pangs.

I knew one or two establishments from my time here and persuaded Holmes that our sleuthing would be better accomplished with our bellies full. Grudgingly he acquiesced. Keeping in the spirit of our investigation we adjourned to the Cricketers Inn which was situated in Black Lion Street. In my time here the landlord was a Robert Pitt a bluff, but genial, hearty man. I was overjoyed to see those familiar features behind the bar and he greeted me warmly and congratulated me on the success of my writing.

“I was only saying to the missus the other day ‘I don’t know how our old friend Dr Watson thinks up his plots’, now you are here I can ask you myself.”

“But I don’t, that is to say I don’t think them up. They are actual occurrences.”

“Really, Doctor? So you really do share rooms with this detective fellow, he is real then?”

“Yes,” I laughed. “Robert Pitt, meet Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

“I do apologise, Mr Holmes.”

“Do not worry, Mr Pitt, the blame lies squarely with Watson here,” Holmes replied good humouredly, but shooting me a scornful look. “I will not hold it against you.”

“Thank you, Mr Holmes, if you gents would like to be seated I will bring you over our lunch menu and two glasses of our finest ale on the house.”

“Thank you, Mr Pitt, very kind of you.” I said.

After we had ordered we discussed our next move which was to be, according to Holmes a trip to the Metropole to meet up with Mr Trumper and the rest of the Australian side. During the fine lunch that followed we put it out of our minds and enjoyed the food and the convivial surroundings. Holmes gently chided me that the extent of my writing success had not only rendered him famous, but now fictitious. He was in evident good humour and declared himself to be most amused at this turn of events.

We were but a hundred yards walk from the Metropole, a fine old Regency hotel. Building of the hotel had commenced on exactly the same date as that of the Royal Pavilion in 1787, although the hotel was completed long before the Royal palace. The Royal Pavilion has been inextricably linked with the identity of Brighton. It has provoked controversy, inspired fervent adulation and throughout its colourful history, become one of the most instantly identifiable architectural images in the world. It takes its unique character from the man for whom it was built, George IV and its magnificent interior is a reflection of his personality and Regency reign. It was conceived as a monument to style, finesse, technological excellence and above all pleasure. To me, it remains unequalled in both its colossal ambition and glorious sense of joie de vivre. A veritable feast for the eyes and at sixpence for admission it was available to all to wonder at.

Upon arrival at the Metropole we were informed that the whole Australian side and their entourage had gone out to undertake a walking tour of the town organised by Charles Fry. It was not known when they would return. The sun had put in a belated, but strong appearance and it seemed a good idea to take advantage of it.

“As we can do nothing more at this stage, Holmes shall we stroll down to the new pier?”

“I suppose if a walking tour is good enough for our antipodean friends then it should certainly suffice for us. Lead on, Watson.”

The pier was certainly an impressive sight. Designed by R St George Moore, it was built solely as an amusement and pleasure emporium. At 1,760ft in length and boasting a wider than usual deck, the pier had everything the discerning tripper could wish for. A 1,500-seater pavilion had yet to be completed at the seaward end but there were smaller pavilions containing dining rooms, grill rooms, smoking rooms and reading rooms. There were ornamental arches for the electrical illuminations and an electric tramway ran up the centre. Provision for bathers at the pier head and a landing stage for pleasure craft completed the very pretty picture. The whole structure had been some ten years in the building, but it seemed to me at any rate to be well worth the wait and the expense. The summer sunshine bathed the painted metalwork and it gleamed brightly, so brightly it almost hurt my eyes to look at it. That it was popular could not be denied, the whole length of the pier was awash with families and couples promenading. Holmes’s attention seemed to be elsewhere and the reason for that became apparent, he had spotted the Australian party being led by the imposing figure of CB Fry. Victor Trumper detached himself from his team mates and sauntered over to us in the company of a slightly built man, red cheeked with a moustache of fierce intensity.

“Mr Holmes, Dr Watson I did not expect to see you until tomorrow. This is my skipper, Joseph Darling.”

“Away with your ‘Joseph’ Vic. Call me Joe, gentlemen. Vic has told me what has been going on; of course he should have blabbed to me sooner, but no matter.”

“What steps have you taken, Mr Darling?”

“It’s Joe, Mr Holmes if it’s alright with you. I called a team meeting and told the lads what may happen if things go on as they are. Some were all for calling the match off to protect Vic, but me and Vic, well we put them straight right there. The match goes ahead, gentlemen.”

“Your attitude does you credit Joe and I am confident that the match will indeed go ahead. Indeed I am still not convinced that there is any real threat, but it is as well to err on the side of caution Have you noticed any strangers in the vicinity of the team who appear to be taking an unusual interest in comings and goings, both here and in London?”

“No, Mr Holmes,” Darling answered. “There are always strangers around, supporters, well wishers and journalists, but none that stand out. Vic?”

“No, skip. No one in particular.”

While this exchange was going on I had observed a man whom was leaning against the railings reading a newspaper, but contriving to take furtive glances in our direction. A tall man, well built with a somewhat straggly and unkempt black beard. I was about to bring Holmes’s attention to this man when at that moment we were interrupted by a less than happy Charles Burgess Fry. His voice was less strident than I would have expected, but there was no mistaking the tone of anger in it.

“What the blazes is going on here? Reporters? Please follow the official channels in future gentlemen, these players are my guests.”

“It’s alright Charles,” said Darling, seeking to pacify Fry. “These gentlemen are Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson.”

“I have never heard of the pair of them, who and what are they, Darling?”

“Detectives, Charles.”

“Well, gentlemen there is no detecting for you here. Good-day to you.”

“Perhaps it would be as well if we arranged to meet at your hotel later, I have no wish to incur Mr Fry’s wrath further.”

“Very well, we will see you later, goodbye gents.”

Holmes turned to me, “Quick, Watson, that man with the newspaper. Follow him.”

“You saw him too then?”

“Indeed and Mr Fry’s unwelcome interruption rather put a halt to the line of action I had in mind.”

He did not elaborate on this and we set off in a leisurely pursuit of this mysterious man who himself was following on the heels of the Australians. The Australian party’s progress was measured even stately as Mr Fry seemed to have something interesting to point out to them at every step. The mystery man we were following stayed on the periphery of the group trying not to bring any attention to himself and not quite succeeding. As the line of Australian cricketers became long and drawn out our man pounced on two of the stragglers. He plunged a hand deep into the pocket of his coat and both Holmes and I took a step forward, but our feared were unfounded. The man produced a pencil and a slim notebook of sorts and at once embarked on an interrogation of the two men. However Charles Fry had spotted this intrusion and was fast bearing down on the man. After much remonstrating on both sides and a good deal of arm waving our man slunk away, Mr Fry was not a man to trifle with.

“A reporter then, Holmes.” I stated.

“Yes, Watson and one now feeling a little storm beaten I feel. The captain of Sussex is a man of few words, but those words appear to be enough to browbeat anyone.”

“Yes I agree in all but one respect.”

“Oh, in what respect may I ask?”

“Fry is not the captain,” I said, pleased to be able to impart some knowledge to Holmes.

“You do surprise me. I felt sure he had to be.”

“I have no doubts he will be, but for this season anyway it is the Indian prince, Ranji who captains the side.”

“Thank you, Watson. You are a veritable mine of information today.”

“What is our next step?”

“I believe we should endeavour to find out more about gambling in this town and specifically with regards to cricket. I know Inspector Williams of the Sussex Constabulary and I imagine he may be able to give us the information we seek.”

“I have to say Holmes I am still very puzzled about this whole affair. Kidnap seems a very extreme way to protect any kind of bet and in this instance there is no guarantee as to the outcome, it all seems so haphazard. Perhaps there is no danger at all to Mr Trumper, it may yet to turn out to be a prank.”

“Yes I agree, but with more data to work with we may yet be able to get to the bottom of it.”

When we arrived at the Brighton police station in John Street we were fortunate to find Inspector Williams in his office. He had worked with Holmes some little while ago in a small, but fascinating problem which had come to light in Arundel, after Holmes had given him some pointers the case was solved quickly and the inspector’s standing in the Sussex Constabulary considerably enhanced. He was therefore only too glad to have the chance to assist us. We gave him what little information we had and asked who controlled the lucrative gambling businesses in the town.

“Well,” he replied. “Most of it is informal as you are aware, taking place in inns and pubs, but there is big money to be made. We keep a close eye on it as many of those involved operate with only a fleeting acknowledgement of the law. It would be much simpler if the government were to grant licences to take bets, it would make our job much easier.”

“Has there been much activity of late regarding the match this week?” asked Holmes.

“The word is there has, with a lot of those bets pertaining to Victor Trumper. A great many have been placed on him to score a century at the very least at very generous odds. Certain people are liable to have to pay out huge sums if that happens.”

“Which people, Williams?”

“Chiefly; Henry Tomlinson and Silas Porterfield. Intensely jealous of each other as you may expect and will do anything to protect their investments.”

“Even kidnap?” I asked.

“Not as yet, Doctor, but I would not put anything past either one of those beauties.”

“But surely,” I replied, “If Trumper were to be kidnapped and therefore unavailable to take his place then surely all bets on his performance would be rendered null and void.”

“If such people operated inside of the law then you may be right, Watson, but these are unscrupulous men who will disregard any loopholes which may mean they have to pay out. The punters lose all the time.”

“Would you like me to have a friendly word with both Tomlinson and Porterfield in the manner of a friendly warning, Mr Holmes?”

“It would do no harm, Williams. My duty is to Mr Trumper and to ensure he takes his place on the field this week.”

“Very well, I will pay a visit to both men. Fortunately neither is far from here. Henry Tomlinson lives in Killington House in Kemp Town and Silas Porterfield has a large town house in Sloane Street. I will also increase the men on the beat in the vicinity of the Metropole. I think between us Victor Trumper can be confident of his safety.”

“I hope so, Inspector. I hope so.”

Holmes and I made our way back to Goldstone Villas and the comfort of the Cliftonville Hotel where we passed a pleasant early evening in the well stocked lounge smoking Indian cigars and sipping port in the company of Thomas Charles the proprietor. He as it turned out, was an avid follower of the county side and was more than confident that Sussex would topple this mighty Australian side. I took leave to point out that Essex had already humbled ‘this mighty’ Australian side.

“Ah yes, Doctor but that was back in May and the tourists had not had the chance to acclimatise to the conditions of a chilly English spring.”

“You may have a point.” I grudgingly admitted. “But surely now they will carry all before them.”

“With Fry and Ranji on form I think this Sussex side could beat any side in the world and they are confident of winning. Joe Vine was in here last night and he can’t wait to get at them.”

“Joe Vine?” queried Holmes.

“Yes sir, Joe Vine. A young man, but a fine all rounder He was in here with his uncle yesterday evening like I say, sir. His uncle was of a different opinion mind.”

“A cricketer too?” I asked.

“Oh no, sir more of a business man is Silas Porterfield. I dare say he has never been on a field of play in his life,” he said, laughing.

I shot a look at Holmes who motioned me to keep my counsel on this interesting snippet of information.

The question was whether this information was in any way pertinent? Was it of any particular importance to us that Joe Vine and Silas Porterfield were related? After Mr Charles had left us I asked Holmes his views on this matter.

“Until we have more data we cannot tell which facts are important and which are not, however it is a fact that can be docketed away, it may later prove to have some bearing in this puzzle.”

After changing we strolled to the Metropole for our meeting with Victor Trumper and Joseph Darling. It was a fine evening with a slight sea breeze filling the streets bringing with it the twin tastes of salt and adventure. We found our hosts in the Empire Lounge together with two other men, one an older man who looked extremely relaxed and a younger man, tall, wiry and athletic.

“Major Wardill I presume?” said Holmes to the older man and after glancing at the younger man’s hands addressed him too, “Hugh Trumble I believe?”

“Right on both counts, Mr Holmes. The Major is our manager, keeps us in check don’t you Major?”

“I try Joe, but truth be told these are good boys Mr Holmes, my job is an easy one, but it hasn’t always been so I can tell you, why in 1886...”

“Yes, Major,” said Holmes cutting him off, “I am sure you have been taxed to the limit in the past.”

“How, Mr Holmes did you know who I was?” asked Mr Trumble.

“Your hands my boy, not the hands of a batsman nor a wicket keeper. Your height suggested a fast bowler rather than a spinner, but a closer inspection of your hands speaks to me of a spinner who bowls with pace. Elementary.”

“You’ll be upsetting Hugh for sure Mr Holmes, he likes to think he can bat!” said his captain At this they all laughed good naturedly, even Hugh Trumble himself.

“Have there been any developments at all?” asked Holmes. “Is it still your intention to play Mr Trumper in two days time?”

Darling looked across at Trumper and nodded, “We couldn’t stop Vic if we wanted. He wants to play and by God he will play.”

“Now forgive an indelicate question, gentlemen, but tell me is there any resentment of Mr Trumper from other team members, do they feel he is getting more attention then he warrants?”

Major Wardill answered for the others, “As to resentment, sir if anything young Vic here has more reason than the others to show it.”

“Why is that, Major?” I asked.

“Vic was a late call up for the side. In spite of his feats during the season he is not yet accorded full status within the team. In purely financial terms he is earning way less by way of expenses than any other member of the party.

“And Mr Trumper, how do you feel about that?” Holmes asked.

“I have no problem with it. I see it as right and proper as I am still learning the business of Test cricket. I have no grumbles, Mr Holmes, none at all.”

The modesty of the man was quite remarkable and it was easy to see why he was such a popular member of the team. The impression was that they would do anything for the lad. I had been watching him closely and I could see great determination in those grey blue eyes, but something else too, a weakness that spoke to me of ill health bravely borne. A shudder went through me as I suddenly had the notion that perhaps he was not long going to be bound to this mortal existence.

“Have you found anything out yet, Mr Holmes?” the Major asked.

“Alas, very little, but I do have one or two pointers.”

“All the team is on the alert for anything out of the ordinary. Hugh is Vic’s roommate and is sticking to him like glue, nobody can get to Vic through us,” the captain stated quite categorically.

“Then, gentlemen hopefully we have nothing to fear. The local constabulary are also maintaining a discreet presence outside or at any rate as discreet as a British bobby can be.”

“That is most reassuring and tomorrow we practice at the Eaton Road ground nets, where Vic will be surrounded by fifteen burly Australians, just let anybody try anything and they will answer to us.”

“Only fourteen burly Australians, skip if you are there,” laughed Trumble.

I had a question of my own to ask Victor Trumper, a purely cricketing one however. “Tell me, Mr Trumper, I have heard a rumour that W G Grace presented you with a bat following the recent test match at Lord’s.

“Please, Doctor, call me Vic. Yes he did and I was completely knocked over by it. To think that the absolute giant of the game would take the time to seek me out like that was way beyond my dreams. Would you like to see the bat?”

“Yes, Vic .I would like that very much.”

He bounded away up the stairs like an excited schoolboy. True to his word, Hugh Trumble followed sticking like glue to his comrade. Vic rejoined us in no time at all and breathlessly handed the bat to me, hand written on it were the words ‘From the present champion to the future champion.’ A gesture which said so much and spoke volumes about both players.

We spent a further two hours in the company of these most agreeable of men. I would wager they spent much of that time in trying to persuade Holmes of the merits of the sport of cricket, it has to be said with little success. Sherlock Holmes was a man who seldom took exercise for exercises sake. Few men were capable of greater muscular effort, and he was undoubtedly one of the finest boxers of his weight that I have ever seen; but he looked upon aimless bodily exertion as a waste of energy and he seldom bestirred himself save when there was some professional object to be served. I noted with interest that during the course of the evening young Trumper neither drank nor smoked, ‘dedication to my sport’ he told me was the reason for his abstinence. Around ten in the evening we said our farewells and agreed to go to Eaton Road in the morning to watch the touring team have their work out. However events overtook us and we were awakened in the morning by the news that Victor Trumper had disappeared.

We fairly sprinted the whole of the distance between the Cliftonville and the Metropole, our coat tails spreading out behind us like the wings of birds that were about to take flight. We found a distraught Australian party together in the breakfast room although none of them appeared to have any kind of appetite. Hugh Trumble approached us, almost in tears. “It’s my fault, Mr Holmes, all my fault,” the wretched man said.

“Calm yourself, Mr Trumble and please tell us what has occurred.”

“First you must know it is my custom to arise early and have a stroll before breakfast. Vic was still asleep and I had every confidence that he could be left safely for half an hour or so at that time of the day.”

“What time was this?”

“I left the hotel at quarter past seven.”

“Is this an unvarying routine of yours? Something which you do wherever you are and which may have been reported in the press?”

The young man looked even more pained, “Yes it is... my God, whoever took Vic was watching out for me, how can I ever forgive myself, skip?” he asked, looking at his captain, Darling.

“Don’t fret Hugh, we’ll get him back with the help of Mr Holmes.”

“How came Mr Trumper to leave the hotel, not of his own free will surely?” I asked.

“No, Doctor Watson he was lured away by a message brought up to him by one of the porters who in turn had received it from the desk clerk,” Major Wardill replied, “I have the note here.”

Major Wardill passed a hand written note to Holmes, scrawled on it in an untidy hand were the words ‘Please come straight away if you value your safety. None of the team will be safe if you stay in the hotel, come quickly. I am in the reception area.’

“Hmm,” mused Holmes “Poor quality paper which can be purchased anywhere. Written by a youngish man. He sniffed the paper, “There is a glue adhering to the edges of the paper where it has been folded, no doubt it was on the young man’s fingers. A soft glue possibly used in connection with fabrics. Watson, let us go and pay a visit to the desk clerk to see if he can shed any light on the person who delivered this note.”

“Should we send for Inspector Williams, Holmes?”

“I dispatched a telegram as soon as we entered the hotel, I have no doubt he and his men will be here soon.”

Percy, the desk clerk had an air of detachment from the morning’s events, almost an air of amusement you might say. Having said that he was more than ready to assist us.

“The person who came for Mr Trumper and left this note, had you seen him before, was he familiar to you?”

He immediately had a fit of the giggles and took quite some time to regain any little composure he had. “I did not know him personally, sir but I had heard of him of course.”

“A local businessman perhaps?” asked Holmes.

“No, sir he gave his name as Sherlock Holmes which is ridiculous of course!” he said, laughing uproariously once more.

“Why ridiculous?”

“Come on now, sir everyone knows that this Mr Holmes isn’t real, he is just a character in stories, don’t you know anything, sir?”

Holmes made the most monumental effort to ignore this statement, but I had no doubt he would be bringing it to my attention later. “What time was this, Percy?”

“Twenty five past seven, sir and Mr Trumper came down just ten minutes later.”

“Were any words exchanged that you could hear?”

“No, sir although the pair of them seemed friendly like, all relaxed, a bit like brothers really I would say.”

“Did you notice a cab waiting for them?”

“There was a cab outside, but I did not see them get into it, although they may have done, sir.”

“Thank you, Percy you have been a great help.”

Inspector Williams entered the hotel at that point and as Holmes turned to greet him I hissed at Percy, “I am Doctor Watson and the man that questioned you is the real Sherlock Holmes.”

Percy guffawed again, “Yes sir, whatever you say, sir.” and he went back to his duties, his laughter ringing out around the foyer.

Holmes was bringing Williams up to date with the sad happenstance, enlisting the inspector’s aid in tracking down the cab that was waiting outside. “Should we involve the press, Mr Holmes?”

“I can see good reason for not doing so, we will no doubt get sightings of Victor Trumper and various mystery men all over Sussex, yet time is of the essence so I am inclined to use the institution of the press. Yes by all means let’s use them.”

“We will have sightings all over the country when the news hits the national dailies, Holmes,” I interjected.

“True enough, but we will have hopefully found Mr Trumper by then.”

The Australian party had come out into the foyer and were surrounding us, all of them to a man wanting to know what steps were being taken to find their teammate. Holmes reassured them that everything that could be done, would be done. He reiterated his promise to them that Victor Trumper would take his place in the team. I would have liked to be able to claim the confidence that Holmes had, but the only clue in our possession was the cab which may or may not have been used to carry Trumper away.

“Mr Holmes, I have taken steps to bring in both Henry Tomlinson and Silas Porterfield for questioning. If they know anything of this, we will get it out of them.”

“An excellent course of action, Inspector. In the meantime if you can supply us with the name of the local cab company, Watson and I will endeavour to track our cabbie down.”

“It’s the Brighton and Hove Cab Company, you will find them in Kemp Street next to the ‘Camden Arms’, if you will excuse me gentlemen.”

From my period living in Kemp Town I was able to pinpoint our destination very quickly and led Holmes there through a veritable maze of streets. Kemp Town was a fashionable, some would say Bohemian part of Brighton and displayed many grand stuccoed facades amongst its fine Regency buildings. Kemp Street itself was somewhat less grand, the Camden Arms was in a poor state of repair and seemed forlorn in contrast to the bustling, busy cab company next door. Our cabbie was easy to track down, being in the yard washing his vehicle down. His fare he described as a young man, maybe one and twenty. He paid him over the odds and asked him to wait outside the Metropole for ten minutes. When he returned with another gentleman he was asked to drive them to Terminus Road, but not to the station itself. They seemed pally he told us and were chatting amicably, not that he could hear what was said, he never eavesdropped on customers he assured us. He dropped them off, but they didn’t begin to walk away until he drove off. We thanked him for his time and trouble and we took our leave.

“Frankly, I am puzzled as to why Trumper would have gone off with someone in such circumstances. He would have known straight away that it was not you waiting for him in the foyer”

“True, Watson, but he still might have believed me to be the architect of that note and I was merely sending a confederate.”

“Even so, Holmes it would perforce have to be someone he trusted. He would have been on his guard remember, but just who would he trust, a policeman a fellow cricketer? I have it, it was a cricketer! Joe Vine is surely our man given his connection to Silas Porterfield.”

“There may be possibilities in what you say, but the evidence seems to suggest they were pally, two people have said as much to us and there is no indication that Trumper and Vine have ever met. I doubt the fact they are both cricketers would result in the degree of amicability between the two men there appears to be. There is something we are missing, Watson, all my instincts tell me so, something we have seen or heard that we have overlooked or attributed no importance to. Never fear, it will come to us I am sure.”

We made our way to the Police Station to impart what little we had learned from our visit to the cab company to Williams. Both Tomlinson and Porterfield were in residence and were in fact being questioned by the inspector and his team in the bowels of the building. We helped ourselves to a welcome coffee in the inspector’s office and awaited his presence. When Williams joined us he had the look of a beaten man.

“I cannot shake them, gentlemen. They profess to know nothing of this affair and truth be told I cannot believe it of either of them. Although they both no doubt have come up with any number of shady deals, kidnap seems to be step too far for them with the penalties being what they are.”

“I am inclined to agree with you, inspector,” Holmes said. “Our surmising about the kidnap being connected with gambling may have meant us neglecting to look elsewhere.”

“But where do we look, Holmes? Without the gambling connection we have nowhere to go, no leads, no clues. I still cannot fathom why Trumper would have left the hotel with anyone and why was he so pally as our laughing friend Percy put it?”

“A puzzle indeed, Doctor, who would be so eager to see he does not play in this match? Sussex supporters can be quite fervent, but as a rule they are not given to fanaticism.”

“I would hope not,” I chuckled. “It would be an extreme act to kidnap an opposing player especially one who is so looking forward to taking part. Do you remember how excited he was, Holmes when talking about the match to us in Baker Street?”

“That’s it, Watson. You have it! He wanted to perform well he told us especially as his cousin may be watching.”

“His cousin is here you mean?”

“Yes it has to be the answer. Percy likened them to brothers. I thought he was referring to their manner, but fool that I am he meant in likeness.”

“I will make enquiries straight away Mr Holmes see if we can track this fellow down,” said Williams.

“Excellent, we will head back to the Metropole; it’s possible Trumper may have mentioned this cousin of his to his teammates.”

On the way to the hotel Holmes berated himself for his supposed oversights, he was as hard on himself as any man could be in spite of the brilliance he always showed. He was a perfectionist who would not allow his standards to slip and any failure however small was abhorrent to him and to his well developed sense of pride.

Major Wardill and his charges were milling around the lower floor of the hotel, to a man they looked dazed and lost.

“Tell me, Major,” asked Holmes, “Has Victor Trumper ever mentioned a cousin to you that he may have been expecting to meet here in Sussex?”

“Not to me, Mr Holmes.” the Major replied, looking at the rest of the party who shook their heads. “Ernie Jones may be of some help to you though, he compiles potted biographies of the players which he releases to the press.”

Ernie Jones, a renowned fast bowler came forward. “I’ll tell you all I can about Vic which is not all that much.”

“Any information you have Mr Jones could be vital.”

“Very well. He was probably a great-grandson of Charles Hobbs Trumper, hatter, and his wife Jane, née Samson, who married in London in 1834 and migrated to Sydney in the Resource in 1837.Victor’s father was a boot manufacturer in Surry Hills, another Charles and his mother was a Louisa Coghlan. Victor was born in 1877.”

“Have you any information on any family he may have here or indeed where Charles and Jane may have lived?”

“Vic thought that they were Sussex people, but it was news to me about a cousin. I am positive Vic has not mentioned one.”

“Thank you Mr Jones. I think we can work on the assumption that there is a cousin and he or she is at present in Brighton.”

“She?” I queried, “The abduction was carried out by a man surely.”

“But a man who could be acting in concert with a woman, we can rule nothing out, my friend.”

“If this Charles Trumper was a hatter, perhaps this trade has been handed on down to the years.”

“A good point, Watson and the traces of fabric glue I found on the note would strongly suggest such a possibility. I noticed a Brighton and Hove Directory and Local Blue Book and Walser & Grist’s Popular Shilling Directory for Brighton behind the desk; it is a starting point in our quest.”

The books were a treasure trove of information, but none of it was getting us any closer to our quarry. I picked up a copy of Kelly’s Directory of Sussex and began a search of the streets which carried on them most of Brighton’s commercial businesses. In the entry for North Street I found a business named Hart and Hobbs, described as manufacturing hatters carrying on their business at number sixty-two. “Holmes,” I said, pointing at the entry, “Look at the name, it’s Hobbs. Surely we have our man.”

“Good work, my boy. He has to be our man, the resemblance of name and trade can hardly be just a coincidence.”

“I reckon we’ll be coming with you, Mr Holmes,” spoke up Joe Darling.

“Much as I appreciate the gesture, Joe I fear I must ask you to remain here. We two old war horses are best suited to the chase now. However if you would be good enough to wire Inspector Williams and give him the details of the address we are heading to then you can be assured that you have done a fine days work.”

The scent of the chase was in our nostrils as we approached North Street. Holmes’s eyes were glinting determinedly, if Hobbs was indeed our man there would be no escape. Holmes in this mood was inexorable and woebetide those who stood in his way. If there was such a thing as an avenging angel than it would surely look like Holmes when a case was nearing its end, when he was about to bring destruction on those who opposed the law.

Sixty-two North Street was an unremarkable building which looked as though austerity had come knocking and had been invited to stay. It was sandwiched between a hosiery company and a fruiterers. Although we could see no illumination inside the door was open and they were evidently open for business. The room we entered was strong with the smell of felt, the room was not well ventilated and the odour of mercury nitrate was hanging heavy in the air, a chemical used in the felting process solely to blame for the so called Mad Hatters disease, a disease affecting the nervous system manifesting itself in degrees of mental derangement. An oldish man of around sixty who was busying himself attaching ribbons to various hats turned to us, “May I be of service, gentlemen?”

“We would like to speak to Mr Hobbs please, is he on the premises?” Holmes asked.

“No, that is to say yes I mean. He is upstairs in his flat. He left me a note to say he was indisposed and wished not to be disturbed.”

“You are Mr Hart then. Is Mr Hobbs your partner?”

“Yes, James Hart at your disposal. The present Mr Hobbs, Victor is the son of my previous partner, Josiah Hobbs. Josiah died some two years ago now and young Victor was most agreeable to carrying on the trade of his father. But, what do you want of him?”

“As to that we cannot divulge that to you at this moment, but we must have admittance to his flat, it is imperative. Is there a key here?”

“Yes there is for we occasionally have the need to use a portion of the flat as a storeroom, but I cannot allow you to gain admittance without Victor’s prior permission.”

“It is a life and death matter, man,” cried Holmes. “The key if you please.”

He submitted to us and handed over the key.

We ascended the stairs as quietly as we could, testing each steps for squeaks before putting our weight on it .It was of course possible that Victor Hobbs had heard the conversation on the shop floor, but the width of the walls and thickness of the ceiling told against it. The key turned in the lock with an almighty click which negated the surprise that we were counting on. The room was dark, curtains drawn fast over the windows. I could see a flickering light under a door in the corner of the room. Holmes nudged me forward and indicated that we should put our shoulders to the door. The door swung inwards under our combined strength. There was a bed in the middle of the room. On it was Victor Trumper securely bound, with his cousin trying to feed him with a spoon which contained God knows what.

“That will do Mr Hobbs, the game is up.”

“You shall not take him from me. He must remain,” said Hobbs.

We edged nearer when all of a sudden he produced a knife and lunged towards the helpless Victor Trumper. Holmes reached him first and before he could press the blade home Holmes knocked it from his grasp and restrained him. I unfastened the ropes which secured Trumper and brought him gently to his feet. Hobbs was raving and throwing himself wildly in a bid to free himself from Holmes’s iron grip. Gradually the raving subsided and he relaxed becoming resigned to his fate.

“My God, he is my cousin, but he seeks to kill me, whatever have I done to him, gentlemen?”

“Other than being successful, probably nothing, Mr Trumper. His motivation is I suspect a pathological jealousy of your success. And to have you come to his home town and perhaps carry all before you against Sussex would have been too much for him to bear.”

“And do you believe he would really have killed me, his own flesh and blood?”

“It may be so,” answered Holmes, shrugging his shoulders, “I can only say for certain that Mr Victor Hobbs is a gentleman to whose mercy I should be extremely unwilling to trust.”

Inspector Williams arrived and after due caution according to law proceeded to take Victor Hobbs into custody. Mr Trumper was invited to pay a visit to the police station and offer up a statement at his convenience. True to the nature of the man he was full of concern for his cousin and how the law of the land would deal with him. I could not help but wonder at this young man who was one of the most good natured men I had ever met. We escorted the chastened young man back to the Metropole hotel, endeavouring to answer whatever questions he could throw at us. His fellow countrymen were overjoyed to have ‘their Vic’ back in the fold and showered this self effacing man in congratulations and good wishes. We tried valiantly to slip away unnoticed, but Joe Darling was quick to spot what was in our minds and headed us off “Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson we here and all Australia have good reason to thank you from the bottom of our hearts. We hope you will be on the ground tomorrow and the next two days to see the match unfold.”

“Thank you, Joe. Alas I have certain matters pressing on me which necessitate a swift return to London. I am sure however that Watson will be only too glad to take up your invitation.”

These ‘certain matters’ were unknown to me and I suspected an invention of Holmes. I for one was not going to pass up the chance to see these two fine sides in action.” Yes, Joe I will be there.”

“Good man, Doctor.”

Victor Trumper detached himself from the throng and almost shyly shook our hands, “I have no words, gentlemen, but thank you. I shall not forget this. I am in your debt.”

“A debt easily repaid, Vic,” I replied. “Just go out there and score a hundred, that will be thanks enough for us.”

Holmes nodded his agreement, shook his hand again and we took our leave.

Mr Charles greeted us when we arrived back at the Cliftonville with the news that we had a visitor, “Not any old visitor,” he replied to our question of who was there to see us, “It’s Ranji himself.” he said with an air of adoration in his voice. Kumar Shri Ranjitsinhji, the Indian prince was waiting for us in the lounge. He was a tallish man with bewitching, deep brown eyes which darted over us before alighting on my friend. “Mr Holmes, the Sussex committee wish me to convey their thanks to you for the speedy delivery of Victor Trumper, to their thanks I also humbly add my own.”

“I accept their thanks although I fear that this was not one of my finest moments, but at least Trumper is safe, which is the important thing of course.”

“Further,” Ranji continued, “We would like you to be our honoured guest at the match, that of course goes for you too Doctor.”

“I fear that will not be possible, but Watson will most definitely be there.”

“Mr Holmes, I am saddened to hear that you will not be able to take up this invitation, in other circumstances I may consider it an insult to both the committee and to myself, but I know you are a busy man with many calls upon your time. All the same, I am sad.”

Ranji’s brown eyes locked onto Holmes’s own grey ones, almost in a battle of wills. Holmes much to my surprise conceded defeat and agreed to stay on in Brighton as a guest of the Sussex county cricket club, “Please convey my thanks to the committee for this gracious gift. I have a notion you know that we may see great things.”

“I have that notion too, Mr Holmes,” the prince replied.

The following day dawned bright and we took our places in front of the pavilion. The ground was quite full with maybe around four thousand folk in attendance and there was a somewhat carnival atmosphere, good natured and jocular to a man. Sussex won the toss and elected to bat. Fry and Brann opened the batting and Fry in particular was quickly into his stride, outscoring his partner by two one. When the first wicket went down with the score on 96, Brann had only scored 24 of those. Ranji came in to join Fry and there was a noticeable buzz around the ground of anticipation. Alas, Ranji fell cheaply, clean bowled by McLeod. Fry continued to hold sway and peppered the outfield with magnificent shots. Killick joined him in this run feast and the pair added over two hundred runs together until they were separated with Killick on 106. Fry went on to score 181 and at the end of the day’s play Sussex had lost six wickets and had scored 389.

Later that evening, over a glass of wine I asked for Holmes’s views on the day. “Well my dear fellow, apart from the occasional fervent desire to be elsewhere, there were odd moments to savour. I was intrigued by Fry’s placement of the ball. Scientifically speaking it had certain points of interest. I may well draw up a chart and study it more closely.”

“Can you not just enjoy it for its own sake?” I chided. “I trust if we are fortunate to see Trumper bat tomorrow you will give yourself up to the pleasure of the thing.”

“I am sure the precision of his batting will be every bit as scientific as that of Fry.”

The sun shone again the following day. The remaining four Sussex wickets were obtained by the Australians in fairly quick time and Sussex were all out for 414. Hugh Trumble, who as Joe Darling had indicated to us had some claims to be a more than average batsman, opened the Australian innings with Jack Worrall who was a small, nuggety man with broad shoulders, pink complexion and intense brown eyes. They lost their first wicket, that of Hugh Trumble, with the score on 62. This brought Victor Trumper into the middle. As he strode down the pavilion steps he acknowledged the warm reception he was getting, yet there was a single mindedness about him that boded well for those of us who cherished this great batsman. As he stepped onto the turf, a stiff breeze came up from nowhere and blew towards him and us. I leaned towards Holmes and said,

“Look at that, it’s as if every blade of grass is bowing to him.”

Holmes rolled his eyes heavenwards and I decided to keep such thoughts to myself.

Trumper at once began to pull and drive in a most excellent manner. He punished all the bowlers who seemed helpless to contain him or even set any kind of field for him such was his absolute mastery of them. Jack Worrall fell for 128, his highest ever score and when Gregory joined Trumper the runs continued to be scored apace. When play ended for the day the Australians stood at 388 for the loss of only two wickets. Victor Trumper had reached 175. The following day’s cricket transcended all. Although Sussex claimed the wickets of Syd Gregory and Clem Hill, they could do nothing with Trumper. His genius was apparent for all to see, he mesmerised the bowling and picked his runs off with ease. When Joe Darling came out to join him he was well in sight of his third hundred and when he reached the milestone of 300, Darling declared the Australian’s innings closed on 624 for the loss of four wickets. Even though I could detect the cold winds of ill health curling around Victor Trumper, for that day at least he was the very embodiment of summer, of all summers. Holmes was on his feet applauding Trumper all the way back to the pavilion and the star batsman reserved a special smile for my friend. Sussex duly batted out the match for a draw, Ranji falling cheaply again. Oddly enough, Holmes, when discussing Trumper’s innings later that evening did not mention the word ‘scientific’ once!

We were never to see Victor Trumper again nor any of the figures associated with the case, but soon after our arrival back at our Baker Street rooms a parcel was delivered to Holmes. Its shape did nothing to disguise its singular content, a cricket bat, the very one used by Victor Trumper in scoring his 300. It bore a simple inscription ‘To Sherlock Holmes, with Victor Trumper’s compliments.’ As far I am aware Holmes never attended another cricket match, but there the bat stands next to the fire, the occasional scent of linseed oil, silent witness to Holmes’s treasuring of it.

Some Biographical Notes

Victor Trumper. A batsman who perhaps personified the Golden Age of cricket. He was a batsman of sublime skills especially on ‘sticky’ wickets and was thoroughly and deservedly revered throughout the world of cricket. He died at the age of 37 from Bright’s disease in June 1915. Twenty thousand people lined the route of his funeral procession in Sydney, an indication of how well loved he was.

Joseph Darling. The captain of the 1899 Australians and again in 1902 and 1905. A disciplinarian, but respected by those he captained. He retired in 1908 and died in January 1946.

Hugh Trumble. One of Australia’s greatest bowlers. An off spinner who bowled with great pace and a batsman good enough to score three centuries in first class cricket. He retired in 1904 and was felled by a heart attack in 1938.

Ernie Jones. One of the fastest bowlers of his time. Played 19 Tests between 1894 and 1902. Died in 1943.

Major Wardill. Ben Wardill was English born, but emigrated to Australia when he was 19. He managed the Australian touring teams of 1886, 1899 and 1902. Died in Melbourne in October 1917.

C. B. Fry. The pre-eminent all rounder of the Golden Age, perhaps of any age. He scored 94 centuries in the course of his first class cricket career, including a record six in consecutive innings. Along the way, he was once offered the Throne of Albania. Died in London, September 1956.

Kumar Sri Ranjitsinhji. Known to all the world as Ranji. He was an exciting and innovative batsman who played with a free style rarely seen before. He played Test cricket for England. Outside cricket, Ranji became Maharaja Jam Sahib of Nawanagar in 1907; was Chancellor of the Indian Chamber of Princes; and represented India at the League of Nations. His official title was Colonel H. H. Shri Sir Ranjitsinhji Vibhaji, Jam Sahib of Nawanagar. He died in Jamnagar Palace, India in 1933, aged 60.

Joe Vine. Joe Vine played his first-class cricket for Sussex County Cricket Club and London County. Vine also played two Test matches for England and was named as one of the five ‘Wisden Cricketers of the Year’ in 1906. Soon after retiring from county cricket Joe Vine became coach at Brighton College, an office he held for many years. He died aged 70 in 1946.

Miscellaneous Notes

Although in the story the Australian team is in London prior to making the trip to Brighton, in reality their previous engagement was in Cornwall.

The Regent and Metropole Hotels are fictitious. However, the Cricketers and the Cliftonville were thriving establishments in 1899 Brighton and did indeed have as their landlords, Robert Pitt and Thomas Charles.

Sussex County Cricket Club is still based at the Eaton Road ground.

Ernie Jones like all the players mentioned was a real person, however as far as I am aware he did not collect or compile potted biographies of his team mates. Likewise although Joe Vine was real enough his uncle Silas is an invention, as is Henry Tomlinson.

The bat that Victor Trumper shows to Watson is real enough and W G Grace did indeed present it to him on the occasion of the Lord’s Test.

There was a Hart and Hobbs at 62 North Street, Brighton according to Kelly’s Directory, but there was no connection between Hobbs and Trumper. The addition of ‘Hobbs’ to the name of Trumper’s great-grandfather was an invention. All other biographical details pertaining to Trumper are accurate.

The directories behind reception at the Metropole, that Holmes and Watson consulted, were all in common use at the time in Brighton.

The scores recorded for the Sussex vs Australians are all accurate.

Watson says that ‘every blade of grass bowed to Trumper’ this paraphrases an actual quote about Trumper I came across once. I cannot attribute it because I cannot recall who said/wrote it.

Finally, Victor Trumper did indeed give away the bat he used during his 300 not out against Sussex, but the recipient was not Sherlock Holmes; it was in fact his captain, Joe Darling.