private soldiers will desert rather than face a court of inquiry. They fear it may pin some blame on them.”
“And a further curiosity?” Sherlock Holmes inquired.
“There was no Private Arnold Levens—no Levens of any kind—not on the regimental roll of the 98th Foot nor on that of the Hyderabad pioneer corps. But why would any other man choose to be there? You may be sure that money had changed hands. Men do not join a fatigue detail for the pleasure of the thing. Nothing further was known of Moss nor of this man Levens until the corpse was pulled from a drainage ditch in Bengal. Then his name was checked and discovered on the roll of Army deserters. His pay-book was found near the spot, though he had drawn no pay. Someone else had provided for him. By then he had been on the run for over a year; but that same person had protected him for their own purposes. Of course, whether this decomposing body was truly the Private Arnold Levens of Hyderabad we shall probably never know. We are told, however, that the man was probably dead before he went into the canal. A petty criminal gone to glory with the assistance of his friends.”
The sun declining across the park glinted on Mycroft’s gold-rimmed pince-nez.
“The trail then leads back to the death of Captain Carey, in consequence of the so-called accident at Hyderabad Camp.”
He counted this second item on his index finger.
“The only two possible eye-witnesses had fled. Without them, it could never be established just how Carey’s abdominal injury was inflicted by the lashing-out of a horse’s hoof. Surgeon-Major Callaghan, the regimental physician, heard that the startled beasts had stampeded when the floor of a bell tent fell into the wagon. He attended Captain Carey and saw that death was unquestionably the result of blows to the abdomen which ruptured the intestine. Unfamiliar with animal behaviour, it did not seem to occur to Callaghan that this would require the wagon horse, most unusually, to kick forward rather than backward at the noise behind it. But the injuries had undoubtedly occurred. The blows from hooves were the only reason suggested. Therefore, as a medical man, he deduced that death must have been caused in that way. Captain Carey himself had no memory of being injured. Would that trouble you, doctor?”
I had not been expecting the question but the answer seemed plain.
“He may have been struck down by a blow he could not see coming. He may have been unconscious before the final damage was done. In any case, the shock of injuries severe enough to leave him unconscious might also wipe recollection of the incident from the brain when consciousness was regained.”
“A horse’s hoof or a blunt instrument would be all the same in its effect?”
“If the implement was chosen for that purpose, it probably would be.”
Mycroft Holmes nodded and counted again on his forefinger.
“Number three. The trail then leads back to Carey’s troubled murmurings on the last night of his life, his story of royal assassination at the Blood River in Zululand.”
“The Prince Imperial,” said Sherlock Holmes languidly. “We have read the newspapers, dear Brother. We know that Captain Carey himself was at first held responsible for allowing the tragedy to occur. We also know that while he was dying, he revealed to Mr. Dordona those secrets that might otherwise die with him.”
Mycroft paused and managed a rare smile. He was pleased with himself and did not care who knew it. He shook his head. “I am aware that you have entertained to tea the Reverend Samuel Dordona.”
“Are you indeed?”
“Come, Brother Sherlock! We may not be as clever as you, but we are not complete simpletons! Samuel Dordona, indeed! In other words, a well-meaning over-acting impersonator, Major Henry Putney-Wilson. Until the tragic death of his wife, Emmeline, the major was not too pious to take part in respectable theatricals at Lahore. It seems to have stood him in good stead. He once played the ruined hero, in Bulwer-Lytton’s moral drama Money. It was performed at Simla as a compliment to the author’s son, Lord Lytton, who had just come out from England as Viceroy. You did not know all this, dear Brother, did you?”
This was intended to irk his sibling, as they say. I glanced quickly at Sherlock Holmes. But not a nerve nor a muscle in his profile moved. Mycroft resumed.
“Of course, Brenton Carey can never have intended Putney-Wilson to keep the story of the Prince