emphasis on milking cows, churning butter, cutting peat and herding sheep on the farm, as well as enduring many dangerous adventures with my best friend, Conan Arthur. Together we swam in the nearby ponds, jumped puddles, fished for pike and carp, played cricket and football in the fields, had snowball battles, charged bulls like matadors, fought as brave roundheads and cavaliers in the Civil War, acted out the roles of our parents, climbed the trees in the local park and drove the keeper mad by flinging acorns and worse down upon him. All perfectly normal fun activities for young lads.
Believe it or not, I wasnât very good at school. Passable at maths, subjects like history, geography and literature held little interest for me. I only read sensational fiction, a taste I cultivated from Conan in my early teens. Also books about unsolved crimes and mysteries. I actually had to work quite hard to get my final entrance examination into university. Mycroft was the real swot in our family. Although we never played games, as he was too serious, he and I used to go for these long walks, when he would explain his latest discoveries from the books he was studying and his shrewd deductions about the people we knew. Iâm sure our parents wondered what we found to discuss with such intensity. My mind developed on those walks, as did my curiosity about human nature. And it was Mycroft who persuaded me to take lessons in the violin, to build on my interest in classical music. But he was seven years my senior and had already been swallowed up by Whitehall when I turned thirteen.â
Holmes paused to relight his pipe. His hand still shook a little.
âIt was a very happy childhood, Watson. Both parents seemed to appreciate my carefree, fun-loving nature, in contrast to Mycroftâs stolid, passive presence. This was in spite of an independence and lack of discipline they sometimes found quite unsettling. I was showered with affection and returned same in full. Then one day my poor mother had a flat tyre on her way to a meeting of the Richmond Countrywomanâs Association, of which she was president. She walked back to the farm, hoping to get one of the lads to fix the puncture for her.â
At this point Holmes seemed to stall, as though searching for the right expression. Then he continued rapidly.
âWell, to cut to the quick of it, she found her husband, my father, the corpse in the barn, in bed with one of the farm boys. Jamie, I think he was called. I only found this out much later, as I was fifteen at the time, and presumably they wished to protect me from such goings-on. Mycroft knew, of course, even though he had left the farm by then.â
âIn Godâs name, Holmes!â I interjected. âDo you mean to tell me that both your father and your brother were⦠musical men?â
âYes.â
âGood grief. Thank heavens you⦠Oh, well. Eh, doesnât this mean the two murders have been of musical men? So there may be a religious connection after all? Maybe a priest or vicar gone wrong?â
âPossibly. And father was once a country member of the Diogenes Club. I know all that. Trust me, Watson, these facts have been noted. But to continue. My mother was so shocked that she left the house immediately and walked back into town, where she spent a week in one of the fancier hotels. I have no idea what she went through then, or what compromises they made to fix things up, but they did. Probably for my benefit. From that time onwards, everything changed. They had separate bedrooms and their sole topic of conversation was each dayâs routine. What they were doing, when was tea, what we were having, who was coming, farming matters, etc., I can only guess that my father continued his dalliances and she learned to put up with them. I certainly felt the difference at home.â
âIn what way?â I asked.
âWell, my mother seemed to take her unhappiness out on me. I
Believe it or not, I wasnât very good at school. Passable at maths, subjects like history, geography and literature held little interest for me. I only read sensational fiction, a taste I cultivated from Conan in my early teens. Also books about unsolved crimes and mysteries. I actually had to work quite hard to get my final entrance examination into university. Mycroft was the real swot in our family. Although we never played games, as he was too serious, he and I used to go for these long walks, when he would explain his latest discoveries from the books he was studying and his shrewd deductions about the people we knew. Iâm sure our parents wondered what we found to discuss with such intensity. My mind developed on those walks, as did my curiosity about human nature. And it was Mycroft who persuaded me to take lessons in the violin, to build on my interest in classical music. But he was seven years my senior and had already been swallowed up by Whitehall when I turned thirteen.â
Holmes paused to relight his pipe. His hand still shook a little.
âIt was a very happy childhood, Watson. Both parents seemed to appreciate my carefree, fun-loving nature, in contrast to Mycroftâs stolid, passive presence. This was in spite of an independence and lack of discipline they sometimes found quite unsettling. I was showered with affection and returned same in full. Then one day my poor mother had a flat tyre on her way to a meeting of the Richmond Countrywomanâs Association, of which she was president. She walked back to the farm, hoping to get one of the lads to fix the puncture for her.â
At this point Holmes seemed to stall, as though searching for the right expression. Then he continued rapidly.
âWell, to cut to the quick of it, she found her husband, my father, the corpse in the barn, in bed with one of the farm boys. Jamie, I think he was called. I only found this out much later, as I was fifteen at the time, and presumably they wished to protect me from such goings-on. Mycroft knew, of course, even though he had left the farm by then.â
âIn Godâs name, Holmes!â I interjected. âDo you mean to tell me that both your father and your brother were⦠musical men?â
âYes.â
âGood grief. Thank heavens you⦠Oh, well. Eh, doesnât this mean the two murders have been of musical men? So there may be a religious connection after all? Maybe a priest or vicar gone wrong?â
âPossibly. And father was once a country member of the Diogenes Club. I know all that. Trust me, Watson, these facts have been noted. But to continue. My mother was so shocked that she left the house immediately and walked back into town, where she spent a week in one of the fancier hotels. I have no idea what she went through then, or what compromises they made to fix things up, but they did. Probably for my benefit. From that time onwards, everything changed. They had separate bedrooms and their sole topic of conversation was each dayâs routine. What they were doing, when was tea, what we were having, who was coming, farming matters, etc., I can only guess that my father continued his dalliances and she learned to put up with them. I certainly felt the difference at home.â
âIn what way?â I asked.
âWell, my mother seemed to take her unhappiness out on me. I
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