The Curious Case of the Sweated Horse

by Jan Edwards

Holmes’s fame was spreading beyond the cloistered pools of villainy and police, downstream into the wider ocean that was society at large, and in consequence our partnership of consulting detectives was thriving. Or it would have been, were it not for Holmes’s lamentable habit of taking only those cases which piqued his curiosity.

In May of 1882, when this particular case surfaced, we had not accepted a client for some weeks and this lack saw our coffers looking a little shabby. I was contemplating bolstering my Army pension with some locum work when, on perusing the morning’s post, Holmes leapt from his chair with a letter in hand. He began pacing the floor as he read and reread its contents.

The signs of a pending investigation were unmistakable and I will admit to a certain amount of restless anticipation. Finally, he handed me both letter and envelope with a flourish, saying, “What do you make of this, Watson? An analytical appraisal, if you please.”

This was one of my friend’s frequent games and I prided myself in having picked up a few of Holmes’s tricks, even in the short time we had shared the Baker Street premises. I accepted the challenge with some confidence. The envelope told me little beyond that it had been posted first class, and so I turned to the letter.

“Ridge House, Friston, Sussex. The address seems to indicate a place of some standing, though this sheet is not monogrammed.” I held it up to the morning light pouring through the window. “Nor is there an obvious watermark. But it is good quality hand-cut paper. The penmanship is fluid but lacking flourish, which suggests someone used to writing in quantity and within time constraints, and it is masculine. A clerk or other servant perhaps?”

“Very good, old chap. Your observational skills are improving.” Holmes inclined his head, his lips puckered in wry amusement, making me feel a little like a dog who had received a pat on the head. “Read it aloud, please.”

I settled back in my chair and shook the page out.”

Dear Mr. Holmes, (I began)

Forgive my writing without introduction but I have a matter of some delicacy that requires the attention of a superior mind. A series of events of an unexplained, and perhaps even an unexplainable, nature have occurred on my estate and given rise to a great deal of unrest among my staff. There is a persistent and growing rumour that Ridge House has been cursed by the Fair Folk. I personally have dismissed this as superstitious nonsense but, despite my best efforts to present my employees with a rational explanation. Two have already tendered their notice, and those remaining grow increasingly disturbed. I would be very much obliged if you would travel down to Sussex for a consultation as a matter of some urgency. Full remunerations will of course be made whether you choose to take the case or not.

Signed,

Frederick Pitman.

On behalf of your humble servant,

The Hon. Mr. Wesley Heath.

I looked up and laughed. “My goodness, Holmes. Fairies? This has to be one of the oddest cases yet.”

“Not even close to peculiar in comparison to some, my dear Watson, though it is intriguing. Wesley Heath, if you recall, was invalided by a riding accident some two years ago. It cut short a very promising career as a barrister. Sharp as a blade and not given to flights of fancy.”

“You know of him, then?”

“We met briefly when I was investigating the theft of some bankers’ bonds.”

“He’s not the kind to be taken in by simple hoaxes?”

Holmes took up his briar pipe and filled it from the Persian slipper in which he insisted on storing his tobacco. “I would say not, but superstitions of that kind among country people can very quickly run out of hand. I am inclined to take a trip down to Sussex, if only to put his mind at rest. Or perhaps I should say the minds of his staff.”

“Would you object to my accompanying you?”

“I would consider it a favour, Watson. Your opinion is always invaluable.” He lit his pipe and favoured me with a saturnine grin through the fumes. “And who could resist the opportunity to investigate a visitation from the Good Neighbours?”

The following day Holmes undertook several forays into the City to make enquiries of our client. “Heath has, or perhaps I should say had, connections aplenty,” my friend observed that evening, “reaching to the topmost levels of society, but he would appear to have gained the disapproval of his parents, the Berkshire Galton-Heaths.”

“Is he an unpleasant fellow then?” I asked.

“Far from it. He seems to be remembered with fondness in most quarters. This estrangement appears to have begun after Heath’s abruptly curtailed career.”

“Singular,” I said. “Hard to imagine what a man in those circumstances might do to incur the displeasure of his own family.”

“Families can be the queerest of things,” Holmes replied.

He had never before spoken of family ties and I had assumed him to be as bereft of them as myself. Something in his tone now made me pause for thought. Holmes brought his hands together and rested his finger tips against his lips and gazed into the middle distance, a pose that accentuated the hook of his nose and the glittering focus of those dark eyes. “I have no doubt we shall avail ourselves of the truth very soon.”

“You think that his family connections may have some bearing on the case?”

“I am almost certain of it, though I will admit to being puzzled by finer points. I can only hope my enquiries may still provide us with answers.”

Holmes crossed the room to stare into the street below as if he expected answers to arrive my messenger at any moment. He remained closed lipped on what those answers might be, and I knew better than to pursue the matter. He could be infuriatingly secretive at times, reluctant to divulge information that placed him in anything but a knowledgeable light. I put it out of my mind and went to pack my valise for our weekend trip.

We travelled to Sussex the next day in the full expectation that that Heath’s “Good Neighbours” would turn out to be no more than an amusing distraction. Ridge House was a modern construction, fashioned in the new Arts and Crafts style, with steepled gables over large gothic windows, interspersed with a traditional tile-hung fascia, in the Sussex style.

We were ushered by the housekeeper into a stylish and spacious, if sparsely furnished, hallway that was bathed in reflected shimmering colours from the stained glass fanlights that the light-oak panelling showed to its best effect.

“No expense spared on architects,” said Holmes. “And plainly arranged with an invalid in mind - an invalid who prefers not to rely heavily on the help of others.”

I looked about me. The decor was modern and the result was not displeasing. “I can see no accoutrements that might indicate the presence of a crippled occupant,” I said.

“Do you not?” said Holmes. “Observe the width of the doors and lack of any front step, though there has plainly been one in previous times. These robust carpet runners are doubtless protecting the tiled floors from the constant use of a wheeled chair. The lack of occasional tables in the hallway, along with the many nicks in these new door frames, hint at the wheeled chair being inexpertly propelled through them.”

“Mr. Heath prefers that as little is made of his shortcomings as possible.”

I had not heard the man approach and started. The soft Scots voice was at odds with a large-boned man of some forty years, dressed in the sombre garb favoured by clerks and clerics and man-servants. There was something of the military about him, if I was not mistaken. “Dr. Watson,” I said, “and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Of course. Mr. Heath is expecting you. He will be down shortly.” He inclined his head respectfully. “Frederick Pitman at your service, Mr. Heath’s private secretary. If there is anything you require, you have only to ask. This way gentlemen, if you please.’

We were led into a drawing room tastefully furnished in the same modern Arts style. A few moments later, our host made his entrance. I knew him to be not yet thirty years old, yet his paper-pale face was lined and his dark hair was the peppered grey of one twenty years older. He clutched the wheel rims of his chair to propel himself forward, and from his expression it was plain that this action was painful, yet he waved away Pitman’s assistance. When he spoke, his voice was far stronger than his frailty would have me believe. “Welcome to Ridge House, gentlemen,” he said. “I trust your journey was without problems.”

Holmes approached the man with hand outstretched. “It was without incident, thank you. Delighted to meet you again, sir.”

“Mr. Holmes.” Heath clasped Holmes’s briefly in greeting. “The honour is all mine. And you must be Dr. Watson?”

“Indeed I am, sir.”

“Delighted. Pitman, would you organise some tea?” Heath reached around awkwardly to grasp the wheels of his chair. I started forward to help but was waved away as impatiently as Pitman had been. “Please, gentlemen” said our host, “take a seat.” He waited until we were well ensconced before continuing. “I am glad you were able to come. It is more than a little embarrassing to have one’s estate descend into chaos by the Pharisees.”

“Pharisees? I was not aware you were of that faith,” I said.

“Oh, no, forgive me for any confusion. I am a Catholic by birth, now lapsed. It is difficult to place one’s faith in a deity that would take the use of your body on little more than a whim.”

“I quite understand, sir.”

“Heath, just call me Heath. Everyone does. I stand on no ceremony. In fact, one might say that I stand on very little.” He grinned at our silence. “Since my accident I have developed a gallows humour. Some people find it uncomfortable, but I make no apology for it. One must find amusement where one may.” With a mere flick of his fingers as he indicated the room. “This house was remodelled to suit my new circumstances. I find it preferable to live apart from the family, and from my father, in particular.”

“You are isolated from them?” I said. “I should have thought you would require...”

“I have Pitman.” Heath glowered at me - plainly, I had touched a nerve. “Pittman was a medical orderly for my father in the Militia. He is well versed in all that is required. Here, in this house, I can be myself. What is left of me, that is.” His laugh ended abruptly and it was quite obvious to me that he was in agony.

“Might I be of some help?” I said. “As a doctor.”

“I have a severed spine.” His reply was abrupt, his expression suddenly bereft of its easy smile, and relaxed as quickly. “Thank you, Doctor Watson. I appreciate the professional courtesy, but there is little to be done, I’m afraid, and I prefer not to dwell on it. Instead, let us talk about our intriguing little mystery. It’s not every man who sets up home only to find fairies living at the bottom of his garden.” He was beaming at us now, his face becoming that of a young man’s, bent on mischief. “Let me explain. ‘Pharisees’ is a local term for the ‘Good Neighbours’ – fairies, if you will. If it had meant anything else, would it have affected your taking the case?”

“No, indeed,” Holmes replied. “I believe the local idiom places plurals onto nouns? Thus fairies become fairies-ees - Pharisees, if you will.”

“Exactly so. They are simple people hereabouts, but prone to heathenish ways, if the curate is to be believed. He despairs that to some of his flock stories of witches, dragons, and fairies are given as much credence as his sermons.”

“You do not share the concerns of your staff in that area.” Holmes said.

Holmes and Heath regarded each other like a pair of strutting cocks. It was our host who broke the moment with a gurgling chuckle of pure joy. “You think I encourage these flights of fancy? Not in the slightest. I have a great respect for those in my employ, but I have a greater regard for science over mere superstition. My grandfather was a surgeon.” This last he aimed at me. “It gives me a complete understanding of my situation and also sets a limitation on my expectations. My lot will seldom now be a happy one.”

Holmes and I glanced at each other. Our host’s melancholia was not difficult to comprehend, but responding was less easy.

Heath stared at the fire for a count of three, which seemed more like thirty. “I seem bound to apologise to you both,” he murmured. “This damnable business has me at a loss.”

“Perhaps if you were to furnish us with the facts?” Holmes said. “How are these creatures manifesting themselves?”

“‘Manifest’ would be a misleading term. Nobody has admitted to more than a glimpse of them,” he said. “They are exceptionally good at hiding all traces of their comings and goings.”

“Only showing where they have been,” Holmes suggested.

“Exactly so. I would dismiss it entirely, but I so hate cruelty to good horseflesh, no matter that it was a horse that made me the wreck I am. They are noble beasts.”

“How have they been injured?” Holmes asked him.

“Only one thus far... Ah, here is Pitman with the tea. Pitman, you saw the result of our night visitors. Give our guests an account.”

“Well, sirs, we came to take residence in the late autumn, and it was little more than three weeks after that the groom came to inform us that one of the horses was loose in lane outside of the yard. It was sweating profusely and lamed by a mildly sprained fetlock.” Pitman paused to hand out the tea and went to stand near Heath, placing a double-handled mug on the table. “We concluded that the animal had managed to rattle open the bolts to his stall and taken fright on finding himself out alone. Fortunately, it had been a bright night and he’d not blundered into anything to harm him permanently. We dismissed it as one of those oddities, though a second bolt was ordered for his stable door.”

“That was not the end, I take it?” Holmes asked.

“All was quiet for a while,” Heath replied. “When it happened the following month, and the next, despite the double-bolted door, we had to assume it was no accident.”

“The staff were questioned closely, but no one admitted knowing anything about it,” Pitman said.

“Was there reason to suspect any of them?” I asked.

“None at all,” Heath waved his hands in exasperation. “Being in no position to entertain, I keep a small staff for a house of this size. Pitman here, my housekeeper, and the cook. Just two maids currently, and three grounds men for the gardens. I have a more extensive staff on the stud.”

“Stud?” I said.

“You did not realise I bred horses, Doctor? It was one of the stable lads who began this fairy nonsense. Or rather his mother, who took him away after the third occurrence, claiming we were cursed by the Pharisees. Our tweeny left shortly after. I gave her a reference, of course. She is little more than a child and terrified by the rumours.”

Holmes nodded, his dark eyes alive with amusement. “Generous of you. Now, these equine escapades - do they always occur on a bright moon?”

“Always,” Heath said. “When the fifth month came around, Pitman here and the head groom lay in wait for the three nights of the full phase. Nothing occurred, which was disappointing, to say the least. I rather relished dis-providing proof of ancient legends.”

“We know there was an intruder,” Pitman added. “The dogs were yammering, and we thought our phantom rider would be unmasked, but the hounds had scared him off. We discovered later that one of the ponies pastured to the rear of the property was hag-ridden, instead.” The man heaved a lugubrious sigh. “That poor creature was not merely winded and sweating, as the others had been. Our fairy creature had ridden her into a ditch and the damage was considerable.”

“We lost that mare and the foal she carried. It was this that decided I should send for you,” said Heath. He gazed at us with wide-eyed expectation, tinged with challenge. “Since my chosen profession was stolen from me, I have concentrated on my remaining passion: Horse racing.” He smiled sheepishly. “My family consider it perverse that I should earn my crust with the very creatures that caused my near demise. But I strongly believe one cannot blame the entire horse tribe for the wildness of the one.”

“Quite so. This house.” Holmes changed tack with a vague wave of dismissal. “I believe that Ridge House has been in your family for many years.”

“It has.”

“And evidently it has been extensively re-constructed. Do I detect the hand of Mr. Philip Webb?”

“How very observant of you, Mr. Holmes. I find the ethos of the new movement both refreshing and practical. Fewer interconnecting rooms and thus fewer doors to negotiate. And far less gloomy, I may add.”

“Also incorporating the very latest in German innovation, I understand.”

Heath’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Why, yes. I’ve one of the new electric lifts, which has proved as bigger boon as I had hoped, despite my mother’s apprehension. She still does not entirely trust electrical wizardry. How did you know?”

“Quite obvious. Mr. Pitman informed us you would be down shortly, and the vibration of a powerful engine was clearly discernible just before you entered. Some mechanical means of moving between floors was the most obvious explanation.” Holmes waved away Heath’s astonishment. “Were your family in residence when you began rebuilding Ridge House?”

Heath shook his head, his pale cheeks curiously flushing pink with emotion. “That is a rather odd question, Mr. Holmes. Is it relevant?”

“Perhaps.”

“The land was leased, and indeed some of it still is, by a local dairy farmer. I kept as much as was necessary for my horses.”

“And the house itself?”

He flushed crimson around his neck. Seemingly Holmes had hit a nerve. “The lease had expired and the tenant persuaded to relocate to a smaller property not too far from here. Not entirely willingly at first, I will admit, but we had reached a mutually acceptable agreement.”

“There was ill feeling over the matter?”

“It was Mrs. Stevens with whom I had dealings, and latterly her younger son when she passed away - the elder son being too infirm, I was led to understand. The Stevenses have been amicable enough since then. Any remaining ill will over the matter has come from my own family. I have never been able to ascertain why my father is so set against my living here. Our family physician advised sea air for my health and I had no wish to leave the country. I understand the original lease agreement was arranged by my grandfather as a great favour to the Stevens family.”

“And these Stevenses are whom exactly?”

Another shrug from our host spoke volumes. “Grandfather passed away last year and my father would not divulge the least thing on that score. Nobody of any note so far as I am aware, but the whole affair has caused a substantial rift between Father and me.”

Holmes nodded, crossing to the window to survey the sunlit grounds, his hands clasped behind his back as he rocked on heel and toe. He whirled suddenly to face Heath. “The next midnight ride is imminent, one assumes?”

“The moon reaches its zenith tonight,” Heath replied.

“Then come nightfall Watson and I shall set a watch,” Holmes declared. “Just we two, I think. The fewer people present to frighten our quarry, the better. And keep the dogs away, if you please. We do not want our magical guest frightened away a second time.”

“I must lend you Pitman here, at the very least.” He held a hand up to stay his manservant’s objections. “No arguments. He is my eyes and ears. I will watch from the windows of the rear bedrooms. I shall come to no harm. Good evening, gentlemen, and good luck.”

The stables were far older than Ridge House, and able to accommodate a sizeable string. The yard itself formed an enclosed area, entered through a pair of wooden gates set in a brick wall. Stalls and various tack and store rooms faced each other to the right and left sides, with a loft running through each block and sheltered by a covered walkway across the fronts. The coach house and indoor stalls completed the fourth side of the rectangular courtyard.

“The horses stolen have always been from these outer stalls,” Pitman assured. “And always close to midnight.”

“Then we have ample time to familiarise ourselves with the building,” Holmes replied. He made a thorough examination of the perimeter whilst I took the opportunity to examine the animals. They came shuffling and stamping to peer over the opened top sections of their stable doors, with much shaking of heads, curious at the late visit. All were bright-eyed and glossy coated, even by moonlight. It was a credit to the care lavished on them. Most were thoroughbreds, built for speed, but there were also four sturdy Welsh cobs, admirably suited for daily use in the hilly surroundings, situated closest to the gates.

“For Mr. Heath’s carriage,” Pitman explained. A horse at the far end of the yard screamed its protest at some imagined terror, as such highly-strung beasts are won’t to do. Pitman called out a few wordless sounds to calm it. “They’re worried,” he drawled as he turned back to us. “They know the Pharisees, or whatever they are, come on a full moon.”

“It’s always the thoroughbreds that are taken? Perhaps even the same animal?” Holmes asked.

“The first three occasions, yes is was the same beast,” Pitman agreed. “Mr Heath sold it, thinking perhaps it was merely a troublesome animal. Since then, the selection seem to have been a random one.”

Holmes gazed around the yard. “Does our night caller saddle its chosen animal?”

“No, sir. Just a rope halter.”

“Then perhaps we should saddle at least two of the cobs,” he said. “Better more than a chopped mane to grasp should one of us need to go in pursuit, and they are better suited to the rougher terrain.”

“You think it will come to that?” I said. “Surely three of us can hold one intruder before there’s any need to go gallivanting across the hills in the dark.”

“Best we are prepared for the worst.” he replied. “There is nothing left but to watch and wait.”

With the last vestiges of sunset pinks fading from the western horizon, we took up our positions. It was a still and balmy night, with only the lightest of breezes coming in off the Seven Sisters, only a mile or two distant.

Once the moon had climbed above the Downs, strong swathes of silvery light shone into the yard with a brightness that one could almost have read by. I would have wagered a considerable amount that for anyone, or anything, made of flesh and bone to enter the gates and cross the yard without detection would be close to impossible.

As always on such vigils, Holmes spoke hardly at all, and I was forced to concentrate all my senses to keep myself awake. The front wall, and the feed store in which we were situated, cast dense shadows for several yards across the cobbles, but the rest of the space was so displayed in bright sepia tones that it might have been a photographic tableau captured on card for posterity. The scents of hay and straw and dust only partially masked the sweet musk of horse, and in our hideaway I also detected a tang of mouse and rat. The presence of rodents was additionally evident by their scuffling and squeaking in the recesses of the store. In their stalls across the yard, the horses snorted and stamped, plainly made restless by our presence in their domain. In the fields beyond, the intermittent baaing and bleating of ewes and lambs was carried clearly to us from the Downs, as nighttime noises often are.

The faint wailing of a train whistle prompted Holmes to slip his pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket, its face barely readable despite the full moon. “The eleven-fifty-five to Eastbourne,” he whispered. “The witching hour approaches, Watson. If anything is to occur tonight, it will be in the next half-hour.”

As predicted, it was a few minutes before midnight when our phantom intruder made its presence known in a most spectacular fashion. Without warning, the door of one stall flew open and the horse within burst out into the yard, its hooves clattering and sparking the cobbles. Perhaps it was dark shadows cast by the vibrant moon, but the face I glimpsed as the rider and steed passed was surely not the seraphic features of legend. If fey it was, then it struck me as some evil goblin creature. It raced to the far end of the yard, turned abruptly, and came at us at a full gallop to take the closed gate in fine style. A wild-eyed figure, garbed in billowing white robes, clung to the steed’s back, urging it forward with an ungodly wordless shouting whilst belabouring the beast’s flanks with the ends of the rope wrapped about the animals neck. The horse took the gate manfully, but rapped the top spar with its hind feet and a resounding clatter. It stumbled as it landed and I feared it would break a limb, but regained its feet and was away.

Holmes, Pitman, and I had raced into the yard within moments of the theft and were all now left gaping at the fast-receding horse and rider. I have watched natives on the Afghan plains perform feats of astonishing horsemanship, but how any creature, human or otherwise, could control a horse under such conditions was beyond me.

Holmes and I raced to fetch the two saddled horses while, Pitman who had seen the same visage as we had, only stared after the now vanished horse, apparently in frozen horror. Holmes had already opened the courtyard gate and mounted up, and I rapidly followed suit. Our steeds responded and took little urging to achieve a gallop. Once clear of the yard, we followed the same route that our intruder had taken, across an expanse of grass that sloped upwards onto a chalk pathway leading between sprawling tangles of bramble and gorse. Holmes caught a glimpse of movement way up the track and was away in hot pursuit. I urged my horse onward, bending low over its neck and ignoring the stabbings of old injuries in the thrill of the chase. As I reached that point I thought I caught a second glimpse, and heard the horse neigh shrilly. It continued its reckless gallop through a stand of trees approaching on the hill’s apex, and then was lost to even that limited view.

There are few things in which I excel over Holmes, but horse riding is one of them. I lay lower still across the animal’s neck, my face almost pressed into its mane for fear of being scraped from the saddle by low branches, and plunged out on the other side of the cluster of trees. Soon I had left Holmes, always the more cautious rider, behind me. But as I crested the very top of the hill my horse stumbled in a rabbit scrape, almost tipping me over its head. I reigned in, aware in that moment of how reckless this chase was and how easily I might end up a cripple or dead.

As I fought to reign my mount in to a standstill and waited for Holmes to catch up, I surveyed the surrounding countryside that was bathed in silver light, yet cloaked in the shadow of night. I knew that the long rolling expanse of hills to my right and left terminated in the English Channel. If I stared hard, I was sure that I could make out lights of passing ships and the glint of moonlight catching the wave tops.

I leaned forward to slap my steed’s neck and peered across the open stretches of grass around us, staring and listening for all I was worth. There were no echoes of pounding hooves or cries of an excited equine, and no movement detected ahead of me. My quarry could not have had more than two minutes’ start at most, yet it had vanished as though it had never existed.

Holmes was on the ground the moment his horse had come to a halt, pacing back and forth, examining the sward for any hint of a trail.

“There are a few scores in the turf to be made out here,” he called to me, pointing along the track that led along the escarpment. “Our Elven rider seems to be going toward Cuckmere. But none of the signs are clear enough to follow.”

“Vanished without trace,” I said. “‘Gone beneath the hill’, as the locals would have it.”

Holmes favoured me with a withering glance. “To join Titania, no doubt.”

“Only in a midsummer dream.” I grinned into the darkness. “One can see how superstitions would be used as explanation.”

He nodded curtly but did not reply, instead only standing for a moment, gazing first to the west. “There is no hope of catching up with our quarry tonight,” he said at last. “At best, we would be roaming the slopes in the vague hope of stumbling across him, and that would be a waste of time.” He fell silent once more, looking not west now, but south toward the sea, his moonlit profile clear to me against the dark sky, as still and silent as some graven image, and I knew the signs. Holmes had deduced something from this landscape that I had not. “Come, Watson,” he said at last, as he hauled himself back into the saddle. “That is the last we shall see of him tonight. Our only course of action now is to return to the yard and see what we may glean from there.”

“They say it’s no use chasing after Pharisees in the moon’s gaze,” Pitman mumbled. “Besides, would you want to catch it on your own? The locals say they’ll take you under the hill and that’ll be the last anyone would see of you. If you believe the stories.” He turned and led the horse away before I could ask what he meant.

“I am sorry, Holmes,” I said. “I feel I have failed you.”

“I hardly thought we would succeed,” he replied. “Our pixie was gone before we reached the gate. If Pitman is correct, the animal at least will return by dawn. Do not feel badly about it.”

The sentiment was repeated by our host when we returned to the house. “Do not think you have failed,” Heath said. “The creature simply vanishes into thin air.”

“Is that what you believe?” Holmes asked. “The horse is solid enough and its rider appeared to be likewise corporeal.”

“I’m sure there is an explanation, but the locals are afraid,” Heath replied. “They believe they’d be whisked away forever.” He snorted quietly. “You can see why I needed your help.”

“Indeed I do. But the night’s doings was not entirely a loss. I examined the area around the stable perimeter whilst Watson and Pitman settled the horses. There are fresh marks in the turf at the rear of the stable block that I am certain were not there earlier this evening. If you would leave word with the grooms not to trample the area, I shall return at dawn to make a more detailed search. A few final enquiries and I shall have the answer to this mystery. All being well, we shall have our answers before tomorrow is out.”

I breakfasted alone, our host being a late riser due to his health, and Holmes having left with the lark for Eastbourne, with the assurance that he would be back before lunch.

The stolen horse had returned as predicted. It had sustained some bruising and a gash across the postern joints on both hind legs, presumably from hitting the gate in its escape. I was assured by the groom that the injury was not serious, but felt sure Heath would not view it quite so calmly.

Holmes did not arrive back at Ridge House until late in the afternoon and was adamant that Heath and I should accompany him on a short jaunt. I was surprised that Heath readily agreed to the suggestion, though I could see this eagerness was much to see what conclusion Holmes was promising to reveal, rather than the outing itself.

“Where have you been all day?” I asked him as the gig bowled along the lanes toward the sea.

“I needed to send telegrams. Final details that I wished to confirm.”

“You could have told me, at least.”

“All in good time, Watson. I did not wish to make rash pronouncements if the trail proved to be false. I was obliged to wait at the telegraph office for replies.”

“Where does this trail take us?” I asked.

“Trail?” Holmes smiled. “My investigations and this lane both lead to Clifton Farm.”

Heath looked startled. “Clifton? You suspect my neighbours? They have horses of their own, Holmes. They’d have no cause to make free with mine.”

“I would prefer my final piece of the puzzle was fitted in your presence.”

“You have the answers?”

“I believe I do.”

Heath and Pitman, who was driving the cart, exchanged uneasy glances, which had me wondering if the mysteries that Holmes had disinterred were altogether unknown to them. I was at a loss, but it was no surprise to me that Holmes kept his own council as he often did. We continued our foray into the Downs in Heath’s large gig.

After a short trip, we jolted to the top of a rise to where the hillside curtailed in a sudden drop-off from whence the sounds of the sea emanated. There were several small cottages along the lane, and a short distance away from them a medium-sized villa nestled in a fold of the hill. Above the villa, near the top of the rise, was a stand of trees. I surmised it to be the very coppice I had paused before in the previous night’s ride. For a speeding horse, the space from wood to cliff-edge was no distance and I was glad that I had trusted my instincts in not continuing the chase in darkness. Despite the time taken by road, we were barely a mile from Ridge House.

“Holmes, where do you suppose our shade went from here?” I asked. “It is hardly far enough to exhaust a horse in the way that has been reported.”

“Hence my telegrams, Watson. Local enquiries told me little, but I am certain that this place holds the key to our little conundrum.”

“Why would you assume that?” Heath demanded.

“Because the thief did not return his borrowed steeds, yet they all returned in a state of fatigue. Had they been released far from their stable they would have run witless, not as straight as a carrier pigeon returning to its roost. Ergo, they were ridden across the Downs for some distance but their services were dispensed with reasonably close by.”

The house was a double-fronted build in red brick, with the distinctive blue banding of local clay. Despite a gabled porch, the oak door was bleached and scoured by briny winds that battered in from the sea on even the quietest evening. I assisted Pitman in debarking Heath’s outdoor chair by way of an ingenious detachable ramp, whilst Holmes went to rap sharply with the silvered top of his walking stick on the door’s grey planking.

We stood for some time on the stone path, amid the drifts of sweet-scented blooms that were a shimmer with legions of honey bees. Holmes rapped once more and the door was finally opened by a matronly woman of middle years. I have been ensconced in medicine and medical establishments for sufficient years to recognise a nurse when one crossed my path.

“Good evening. Mrs. Clarence-Stevens?” Holmes doffed his hat and smiled. “I believe you are expecting us?” She nodded rapidly, like a plump grey pigeon, and stood aside, grimacing at our difficulties in manoeuvring Heath’s chair into the parlour. “Allow me to introduce my colleague, Doctor Watson,” Holmes said to her. “You know Mr. Heath and his secretary, Mr. Pitman?”

“Gentlemen.” She favoured me with a professional inclining of her head. Yet she raised her chin to view Heath and his batman with an arched brow and flared nostril. “I am Violet Stevens. Mr. Clarence is my brother-in-law.”

“I was hoping we might speak with Mr. William Clarence-Stevens.”

“That will not be possible I’m afraid.” Mrs. Stevens glanced toward the further door. “Mr. Clarence is indisposed.”

Holmes smiled at her emphasis of names, an acid expression that I was not entirely sure this good woman deserved. “It is to be expected. I understand Mr. Clarence...” he paused at the title, as she had, before carrying on as normal, “...has been unwell for some time?”

“He has,” she agreed.

“Nevertheless I do believe that we should see him on a matter of some urgency.”

The latch on the inner, closed, door clicked, as though someone had thumbed it from the other side, and few muffled expletives were followed by a thud.

A stocky man of similar age to Mrs. Stevens edged into the room, closing the door firmly behind him. “My brother is unwell,” he said. “I am Joseph Stevens. I will deal with any matters you wish to discuss.”

Holmes strolled to a seat and settled himself without hesitation and I followed suit a little les certainly, whilst Pitman remained at his master’s side.

“Thank you, Mr. Stevens. Confirming your brother’s illness will forge the final link in a recent chain of events.” He flicked an imaginary speck from his knee. “One that you yourself inadvertently set in motion, Heath.”

Heath blanched as far as one of his delicate health might. “Why would you possibly say that? I’ve done nothing to deserve remonstration.”

“Oh, it was an entirely unknowing act on your part,” Holmes replied. “Was it not. Mr. Stevens?” He gazed blandly at the man standing at the door. “Clarence is your half brother, I believe.”

“He is. And my responsibility since our mother passed on. Leaving Ridge House was hard on each of us, but especially on William.” Stevens strode across the room to loom over Heath. His fists were clenching and unclenching, and I believe he would have struck the invalid had Pitman not stepped in.

“Joseph, please,” Mrs. Stevens implored him.

Stevens turned away. “The strain of caring for him in such an agitated state was too much for a woman of our mother’s advanced years,” he growled.

“Is that why you brought me here, Holmes?” Heath asked. “For this man to take me to task?”

“You asked me to find the source of rumours concerning your Good Neighbours.” Holmes permitted himself a wry smile. “Whether all of your neighbours are good rather remains to be seen.”

“My mother was wronged,” Stevens interjected.

“I did nothing that was not legal,” Heath replied, his voice rising with his colour.

Holmes brought his hands together in a resounding clap. “Gentlemen! Perhaps if I could lay out the facts before you descend to duelling?” He sat back once again and withdrew his cigarette case. “May I?” Mrs. Stevens nodded, and he took his time lighting it whilst his audience ranged themselves around him.

“When I received Mr. Heath’s letter, I recalled his tragic accident and made enquiries accordingly.” He nodded at Heath. “In the course of those queries, and most particular your association with Ridge House, I came up against obstacles of considerable size. As I have some contacts with some considerable influence, I returned with the certain knowledge that our fairy conundrum had high-flying roots. On arrival, it became clear that the mystery was entirely down to the property’s previous tenants. The only question remaining was how and why.” He placed a cigarette between his lips and lit it before inhaling deeply, taking his time, playing his audience as expertly as he did his beloved violin.

“As you are all aware, the main crux of this mystery is the theft - or perhaps I should say borrowing - of horses,” he continued. “The mystery rider came and went without trace, which told me that he must have known the stable block intimately.”

“But why disguise the night-time visits as an act of magic?” I said. “And why ride these particular horses at all?”

“My sentiments exactly. As an act of sabotage, or even revenge, it had limited impact, and had all the hallmarks of...” Heath nodded to Stevens. “If you will excuse me, all the hallmarks of a madman.”

“My brother likes to ride horses,” Stevens muttered.

“William is not without intelligence.” Mrs. Stevens laid a hand on her husband’s arm and spared Heath a look of utter disdain. “He suffers periods of great confusion, but at other times he is perfectly rational. Since you claim to know the whole of our history, Mr. Holmes, I would appreciate it if you gave him the respect that is rightfully his.”

“Indeed. Almost a divine right,” he replied. “Because the father of Mr. William Clarence was not the newly made country squire, Mr. Josiah Stevens, as was commonly assumed, though his mother was indeed Constance Stevens, née Wilson. A former housemaid in Prinnie’s Brighton palace.”

“What are you implying, Holmes?” I said.

“That the name Clarence was chosen for his father,” Holmes replied. “And it was from the royal line that he inherited his appalling affliction. Mr. Clarence Stevens has porphyria in the same virulent form as his grandfather... the late King George III.” Holmes raised his voice to call, “is that not right, William Clarence?”

The creature who tumbled into the room was a startling sight. His face was covered in open sores and his skin a strange purplish hue. His saliva-sodden lips were stretched tight, revealing discoloured and uneven teeth. The hands held to his brows were as scabrous as his face, and one forearm was tightly bound in white gauze with a brownish stain on the inner side; the certain signs of recent blood letting. He gazed at me, blinking and wincing at the late evening light streaming through the window.

Mrs. Stevens curled a protective arm around his shoulders. “It’s all right, William,” she crooned. “You need not be afraid. We shall deal with all of this.”

“Porphyria?” I leaned forward and examined the man intently. “Good heavens, yes. The signs are quite clear. I have never seen such an advanced case.”

“Poor soul suffers with the sunlight, so we let him sleep away most of the daylight hours,” said Mrs. Stevens.

“And an inherited condition, or so I understand,” said Holmes and glanced toward Heath. “Though not in your direct line.”

“I did not know,” said Heath. “And I am sorry for him. But why would he pick on my thoroughbreds?”

“Father kept horses,” Clarence said. “Didn’t he, Violet?”

“Yes, William, he did.” Mrs. Stevens patted the man’s arm and smiled. “Mr. Josiah Stevens was a great horseman.”

“According to my sources,” said Holmes. “Josiah was head groom at the Pavillions, and was offered a stipend if he married Constance. He was also given the lease on Ridge House as payment for taking the royal infant on as his own by none other than a cousin to the Prince - your grandfather, Mr. Heath.”

“Then this poor wretch is my cousin of a kind?” Heath stared at Clarence in wonder, tinged with a little horror. “And this is why my father was so angry at my taking Ridge House?”

“So it would seem. Though it would have been more to his credit had he given reasons for his displeasure.” Holmes glanced at Stevens. “You are to be admired for shouldering the burden in your turn.” He examined his finger tips for a moment, allowing the compliment to be accepted before continuing. “As your wife has told us, a part of William Clarence’s condition is a sensitivity to sunlight, and in consequence, his life has become largely nocturnal. During his manic fits, which often coincided with the full moon, he escaped back to his childhood home.”

He viewed Mrs. Stevens with arched brow. “The stable lad that left, thus beginning all rumours of fairies and Good Neighbours, was a nephew of yours. Just as the tweeny who also left Mr. Heath’s employ was your niece. It makes for a pleasing irony when you are those very neighbours. It was a simple task for Clarence to enter the stable block via the hayloft door on the outer side of the buildings. It was a trick he had performed often as a child. But in doing so, he trampled down the wild plants beneath the hatch and left the imprint of boots that were worn down in the fashion of a man who does not walk well.” Holmes sat back, smiling that superior smile at his staggering revelations, dying sunlight highlighted by the smoke he exhaled, giving him the appearance of some less-than-holy angel.

“So when I took back the lease, I inadvertently unpicked the entire conspiracy?” Heath said. “It was an honest mistake. I knew that you were no longer farming the estate, so I did not see how I could be upending any particularly productive lifestyle. I apologise for my ignorance... but the maiming of my animals was unforgivable!”

“One misdeed for another,” Stevens replied. “My brother did not intend harm. My crime was in not preventing his nightly wanderings.”

“Rest assured, you will not have any further visits.” Mrs. Stevens glared around at us all, but at Heath the hardest. “I shall see that Clarence is fully calmed at times of the full moon in future.” She swallowed hard. “It will be a sadness. William has so few pleasures in life.”

“You have your own beasts,” Heath said. “Surely he can ride those?”

“We do,” Stevens replied. “But when the madness is on him, William becomes a child once again and he is drawn to his old home. The home that my mother was assured William would have for his lifetime!” Stevens glowered at Heath. “Until you came.”

“Enough! The past is done,” Holmes said. “It will benefit none of you to continue harbouring ill will. Least of all Mr. Clarence-Stevens. Come to some agreement as gentlemen for all your sakes.”

The two men eyed each other up and down like feral cats in a back street, and then Heath nodded gravely. “If Clarence wishes to ride from Ridge House at such times, then I am sure I can accommodate him.” He smiled wryly and nodded to Clarence. “Though perhaps not at full gallop in the dead of night?”

“He, and all of us, will be very grateful, Mr. Heath,” Stevens replied.

Heath looked to Holmes and smiled suddenly. “Mr. Holmes, I am in your debt for solving our mystery. I have to say that, whilst I am grateful for knowing my animals will no longer be at risk, I am a little sad that I no longer have fairies in my garden.”