The Case of the Branded Detective

by Lesley Johnson
a.k.a. 'the politician, the lighthouse and the trained cormorant'

"Yes, there is very little I do not know about you, Sherlock. I know… about the scar on your backside and how you came to have it."

There was a delay of some weeks before Holmes was needed on the Continent. We found ourselves with an abundance of time and no great inclination to fill it in with work. My recovery, both physical and emotional, progressed more rapidly after I received the letter from Jessica Simpson. As for Holmes, I had hardly ever seen him so untroubled, so relaxed, and so willing to let the days go by with very little purposeful activity. The weather provided many fine opportunities for outdoor rambles, and on one day we even wandered down to the beach with a picnic lunch. . .

We swam and bobbed in the surf, observed the flora and fauna of the tide pools, and Holmes told me about the strange case (he had written it up himself for Doyle to publish in The Strand two years earlier) of the Lion's Mane stinging jellyfish that had washed up on this very stretch of beach in the summer of 1907.

After hearing his account of Cyanea Capillata, the horrific deaths of McPherson and his dog and the agonising injury to Murdoch, I found I was happy to retrieve my towel and robe and ponder the mysteries of the ocean from the safety of our rug.

Holmes, after performing a remarkable series of long underwater lengths out to deeper water and then demonstrating a flawless, non-stop trudgen stroke back to the beach from a distance of some one hundred fifty yards, joined me for our al fresco luncheon. Clearly he had recovered well from the injuries he had received in December and January. He was not even breathing hard.

We sat companionably on the rug and with hearty appetites consumed Mrs. Hudson's picnic of cold meats, breads, summer fruit and cheeses and washed it all down with glasses of what Holmes informed me was a venerable Châteauneuf-du-Pape.

The sun was warm, the breeze welcome and I felt remarkably content. My bathing costume, though modest as the styles of the time dictated, left my neck and shoulders exposed, but as the beach was practically deserted I had not felt any discomfort about wearing it. Holmes had seen my old and new scars many times, and I thought nothing of it, until I realised he was looking at them while trying to appear not to be.

Suddenly a rush of annoyance came upon me; it was irrational and peevish, but I was not yet fully in control of my emotions -- the after-effects of a shock to the system. I pulled the collar of my robe up around my neck and turned away.

"I beg your pardon Russell, I did not mean to make you uncomfortable. I simply noticed that the area does appear to be healing well." I refused to respond, focussing intently on a rock outcropping at the far end of the beach.

"The doctors are certain it will not cause permanent hindrance to free movement of the shoulder. . ." he trailed off, as I remained silent.

I was not really annoyed at him; I just had this residual childish unhappiness at being marked and having to endure the stares of others. I came to my senses and shook off the feeling, turning back to him,

"Well, Holmes, at least it's in the same place as the old scars. And yes, I'm sure I will regain full movement." I smiled ruefully, "We're quite a pair for wearing our history on our bodies. But then, millions of young men have come back with worse than this…"

But just then I didn't have the psychological energy to put it in this broader, less self-centred perspective -- I was unhappy. Holmes sensed this.

"Russ, you once distracted me from an unpleasant moment by having me tell you a story. Allow me to distract you with a tale. You may find it amusing."

I turned to him and smiled. "Very well. Regale me."

The lines of concern around his eyes relaxed into a smile, and he tentatively continued, "Our late nemesis mentioned a particular scar of mine that she said she knew the origin of. I very much doubt that she did know the truth, however, because at the time the injury occurred I invented an explanation for the people with whom I had been associating, members of the lesser criminal classes, and no doubt that report is what she heard. The truth is rather different." He took out his pipe and tobacco and prepared to tell me the tale.

"It was a case concerning a man with the unlikely name of Pinhorne. I forbade Watson from adding it to his chronicles. Not that it wasn't an interesting case, but the results were of some sensitivity to certain members of Her Majesty's government at the time." He shot me a sidelong glance, a wry smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"And it was a case I would just as soon not have exposed to the light of public scrutiny. If Watson were to give it one of his melodramatic titles it would have to be called The Case of the Branded Detective."

I raised one eyebrow in anticipation of the story that would follow such a title. Holmes got his pipe going, shook out the match, and continued.

"It was a strange puzzle involving Trans-Atlantic smuggling, Canadian cattle ranchers and an unscrupulous Member of Parliament.

"As you may know, there is a long-standing embargo against the importation of Canadian cattle, since 1892 in fact, which is when this case occurred. Ostensibly the embargo was laid to prevent the spread of bovine pleuro-pneumonia but there are certainly elements of political manoeuvring involved. It seems this fellow Pinhorne had a scheme to falsify the importation records of live cattle in order to get a last ship full of Herefords into the Foreign Cattle Market at Deptford. It was one of the few occasions when I assisted the Department of Agriculture as well as Scotland Yard. The scheme involved shipping the cattle from a large Canadian ranch through Montreal to a European port, disguising the identity of the ship, forging new documents to show the cattle as having originated in Europe, and then landing them at the Deptford Docks.

"My direct role in the investigation was minor. I won't bore you with the more arcane details. The dénouement took place in the stockyards where Pinhorne, apparently as a belated after-thought (he was no criminal mastermind) had been making a slight change to the identifying brand on the cattle. I surprised him in the act, he and his cohorts objected to being apprehended and a small stampede was created in the pens.

"In what was one of my less shining moments I found myself pinned between a very agitated and unbelievably large red steer and Pinhorne's branding iron. You can imagine that it was perilous to turn my back to either side."

He paused, quite straight faced, as I collapsed in a fit of laughter, and politely waited for me to regain my composure.

"In the resulting struggle the red-hot branding iron connected with a certain area of my anatomy, leaving a rather permanent reminder of the events. Not to mention ruining a perfectly serviceable pair of workman's trousers."

I was incredulous. Brushing the tears away with a sleeve I asked, "Holmes, you don't mean to say that you've got the mark of the 'Bar U' ranch on your backside?"

"No, Russell, actually it was the Oxley Ranch, located somewhere in Alberta. But as the felon was only modifying the existing brand mark, the imprint I bear merely looks something like the crank handle to a motorcar."

"And what -- oh dear, I'm afraid to ask, Holmes." I suppressed a giggle and hid my smile behind the hand on which my chin was propped. "What then was the story that Donleavy had heard?"

"Ah, well." He swallowed the remaining wine in his glass.

"I had got myself a position in the slaughterhouse at Deptford Docks, where the workers happily turned a blind eye to all sorts of illegalities. I became a familiar of the notorious 'Gut Girls' who worked there, the women who prepared the joints of meat. They were a class renowned for their colourful language, free manners and hard drinking, and they were all very skilled with their knives. They could have taught you a trick or two, Russell, though not in throwing, of course.

"Two of the ladies had taken a shine to me, as I was the new chap on the line, and during my time there a rivalry developed between them. As it happened, on the evening the case ended one of the fair maidens was waiting for me at the gates as I was leaving the stockyard. The other emerged from the Tiger Cat Pub on Prince Street just as we approached it. A disagreement ensued, knives were drawn and I got in between them. We drew the attention of our fellow labourers in the Pub, who broke up the fight just as one of the knives appeared to connect with me. I made the injury seem worse than it was; the girls were horrified that I was the victim in their dispute, and we all sadly agreed it could never work out. The ladies returned to the Pub, I limped off with a passing constable, and all ended well. I believe that is the story your maths tutor heard."

"What a dilemma, Holmes -- to be known as the 'branded detective' or as the knifed paramour of a couple of dockyard beauties? But couldn't this Pinhorne have made the truth known?"

"No. He was the only witness, and he blew his brains out the first chance he got. Being the newly-made manager of the ranch as well as nephew to a certain Member of Parliament with investments in said cattle ranch, he was given a very early chance indeed."

"Ah, I see the sensitive nature of the case." Then with a puzzled frown I stared at him. "I never will get your limits, Holmes. You worked in the slaughterhouse?"

"I did, Russell, for a fortnight. It put me off beef for more than three months. The stench was not to be believed. And yet the gentlemen and ladies employed there bore it well enough. They gave me some ribbing for turning green and having to excuse myself on several occasions, but I certainly never begrudged them the high pay they had gained after the Great Dock Strike in '89." He lifted the wine bottle and refilled our glasses.

"You know, I never did pick up my pay packet."

I got the idea for this story before starting my research and was very surprised to find that there was a good reason for someone to try to smuggle cattle into Britain. The embargo against Canadian cattle began in October 1892 and was not removed until 1932.

While the details of this case are entirely fictional, I have used the actual names of a Canadian ranch that existed at the time and it's short-lived manager. There is no suggestion in the history of the ranch that any illegal activity ever took place. However, the manager was the nephew of a British MP who was in fact part owner of the ranch. Pinhorne in fact did commit suicide in October 1892, but on the Alberta ranch rather than in London.

In researching the history of the London Docklands and the Deptford Foreign Cattle Market I was fascinated to come across the story of the 'Gut Girls.' There is a wealth of colourful history to be mined in this intriguing era! - L.C.J.