"One such was the potato depot at the Crown Street Station of the London & North-Western Railway", or Tale of a City of Culture
And a very curious and unique case it turned out to be, though several comparable incidents were reported in that dark autumn of 1888, I remember.
It was due to the remarkable circumstances of the death of the night watchman that Holmes and I were first called in. The Liverpool detective in charge of the case had worked with Holmes before, and had no hesitation in wiring him to seek his opinion. Bob the Buttons brought the telegram in on a silver platter about 9 am, and before an hour had passed, we had wired our departure north and were seated in a compartment of our own on the Liverpool Express, headed for another adventure.
"Fortunate we have nothing of note to detain us in London this foggy season," remarked Holmes, as we speeded out through the suburbs toward the dank mirk of the Midlands and further North.
"More fortunate if these sorts of cases could present themselves in the summer," I replied, noting the shivering passengers on the platforms of the stations we slowed to pass through.
"Well, we're warm enough in here, and I'm sure Detective Riley will have found pleasant quarters for us to lodge in, if need be."
IF THE CASE PROVE LONG AND DIFFICULT was what Holmes meant, and I felt, if not in full, at least a measure of his relish in facing the unknown challenge before us.
"Read me the telegram again, if you will, Watson; I want to get the wording exactly right in my mind."
"Certainly Holmes," I said, picking the form out of my pocket, and tilting it towards the obscure daylight at the compartment window. I knew how important it was to be accurate.
"SHERLOCK HOLMES BAKER STREET LONDON STOP DEAR HOLMES REMARKABLE CASE STOP POTATOES MURDERING MAN STOP COME AT ONCE STOP RILEY NORTHWESTERN RAILWAY DEPOT LIVERPOOL"
"Now, remind me: is that a question mark after 'potatoes murdering man'?"
"Not in the telegram," I admitted.
"Then kindly read it without the question mark."
"I think I see what you mean. It could be 'Potatoes mudering man?" or "Stop potatoes murdering man!"
"Exactly: a question mark or an exclamation! In either case, we are clearly needed urgently. Riley would not waste a telegram on a hoax! I only hope we are in time to prevent some even more macabre developments." And he could not restrain a certain gloating in his tone, despite the bizarre nature of whatever we were about to confront.
From the terminus of the London-North-Western Railway, we took a cab to the Goods Depot, which was situate some way apart, probably closer to New Brighton than to Liverpool itself. The fog, as I find noted more cheerfully in my diary, had somewhat lifted, under the influence of a slight salty sea-breeze.
"Riley!" said Holmes, as he easily made out his man among a knot of police gathered round a prominent warehouse door, where the duty manager had conducted them.
"Oh Mister Holmes, I was hoping you would make it, sir. I've left the body as it is; headquarters told me you were on your way."
"Excellent," said Holmes, scanning the scene. "I gather it is quite an unusual case?"
"Well, this morning, the shift found the night watchman, Giddes, where you see him now. With the potatoes. There's no doubt it's foul play. See for yourself."
Holmes gently lifted the tarpauline covering the body, and gasped. A pale body lay staring up at us. A large potato was wedged in its mouth. "It was clearly delivered with some force," said Holmes, pointing to the sap and mush that clotted the facial area. "Asphyxiation, then?"
"Our belief, certainly."
I was about to suggest common accident or even greed, when Holmes interrupted my thoughts.
He had opened the dead man's shirt neck a little. "Watson," he called, "what do you make of this?"
There was considerable bruising. Lots of little areas of discoloration, as if the poor man has been pelted to death - with potatoes!
A mush of potatoes lying about certainly seemed to suggest this, as Holmes quickly pointed out.
"At least that dispells the theory of gluttony, eh, Watson?... This, then," he said, rising, "was a potato warehouse, I take it?"
"Yes Holmes," said Riley, leading him toward the sliding gates that opened on a vast but empty interior. "The gates have been opened a little wider to admit us to search. This morning, they were (let me see) exactly 10 inches apart. It is as though Giddes was going to open them to enter, when..."
"Now why would he be about to enter?" mused Holmes. "It wasn't part of his duty to inspect the warehouses inside, was it?"
Riley turned to one of the railway staff in attendance for a brief check.
"No, Holmes; he only had to patrol the grounds."
"So either he heard something unusual inside, and wanted to investigate, or whatever was inside opened the gates and came out at him." Holmes checked inside to ensure the gates could be moved from there. "It wasn't locked?"
Again a quick conferring, no, it was not considered necessary to lock the warehouses, at least not in the case of potatoes.
"But there aren't any potatoes," Holmes pointed out.
"Now here's the really curious part of this. Yesterday, a delivery of 60 tons of potatoes was brought in, to this very warehouse."
"In sacks or loose?"
"Why in sacks, of course. It would be too much trouble, and involve too much damage to the goods to ship them loose," responded the railway man, who had joined us inside. The warehouse was dimly lit; they could make out a heap of sacks - but no potatoes.
"Thank you," said Holmes. "So how do we explain their absence now?"
"That's it, Mr Holmes. We can't. I know it seems a simple case of theft, with a bizarre murder occurring when the thieves were interrupted; but... When I checked, it seems the main gates were never unlocked all night. No traffic, I mean. There's a separate watchman there. And no goods train could have got in and out without the signalmen noticing - and co-operating. It's no simple matter, to shift 60 tons of potato.."
"Especially out of their sacks," I added, wisely.
"They're a loyal workforce, Mr Holmes," added the railway man, in case the suggestion should be of collaboration. "See how Giddes there payed for his devotion to duty. No railwayman born and bred would tolerate treating a fellow worker like that, whatever the circumstances."
"I'm inclined to believe you," said Holmes, a little thoughtful by now. Stepping outside again, he scanned around him. The perimeter fence was nearby, with a strong tang of open field and earth drifting on the breeze from the recently ploughed and enriched land. He examined the fence, which was of stout wood, and peered over. "Not an insuperable barrier. But in any case, no one has been across these fields recently," he said, pointing to the untrampled furrows. The fence was intact, bar a few holes at ground level, which Holmes scrutinised with his magnifying glass.
"A way in for rats?" he mused, "or a way out for..." He turned to the railway man. "Are rats a problem hereabouts?"
"Bound to be, sir. But not the sort that would eat 60 tons of potatoes in a night. Nor loose them out their sacks, for that matter."
"Exactly. But in that case..." Holmes did no finish his sentence. "Riley, I would be inclined to play this down. A potato theft; but Giddes - accidentally killed or not?"
"Accidentally!" cried Riley. "Surely..."
"I fancy you'll find it difficult to locate the killers, unless... But no, I'm getting fanciful. I suppose there's one way to determine this... When does the next delivery of potatoes occur?"
"In two days, Mr Holmes, but you can't suppose the gang will return after this murder."
"Perhaps not. Still, I should like to be here. Will the potatoes be left overnight in the shed, as before?"
"Why yes, sir," suppplied the railwayman. "For several nights likely. We distribute them from here in smaller loads, takes several days, you know."
"One night may suffice, if you have no objection to Watson and I keeping watch the very night they come in?"
There was a brief consultation.
"They arrive midday it seems," said Riley.
"I don't fancy there will be any move by daylight. They'd scarcely risk that," commented Holmes.
"They, Holmes?" I queried, to no effect.
"Sunset it is then." Though it must have seemed an odd request.
"But what do we do practically, Mr Holmes?" asked Riley, with perhaps more impatience than was strictly polite.
"Practically, eh? As opposed to theoretical and futile? Well, Riley, you have made all the right moves up to now. I'm sure I can leave the practical steps up to you. See if anyone has noted a cavalcade of vans in the night; question a few local mobsters, by all means. Wire the markets for any unscheduled delivery of 60 tons of potatoes - they would want to dispose of them quickly, it's hardly feasible trying to sell them shop by shop. That sort of thing. I'm sure you're expert and hardly need telling."
"I appreciate your support in the case, believe me. But is it a simple theft, Mr Holmes?"
"I reserve judgement. Perhaps we'll know more in two days time."
And so Holmes and I retired to Liverpool for a brief respite. Not that he was inactive: much time was spent in the local library; he interviewed the potato dealers personally, at the wholesale and retail levels; and made several purchases at shops, which however he kept to himself.
I pass over this time, therefore, and bring us to the fateful night of the 16/17th November 1888 - one of strangest and most uncomfortable I have ever spent.
We arrived at the depot as light was fading. Holmes had gone straight to the warehouse, and was chagrinned to find it locked. "Get the manager over, Watson," he ordered; "we need these doors open." The manager was willing to comply, though a little puzzled as to why we seemed to want to encourage theft.
"No harm will come to your potatoes," Holmes assured him. "Watson and I will be keeping watch."
"And me too, Mr Holmes, I hope," said Riley, who joined us at that point.
"Gladly. With three of us, we may indeed hope to have this case solved by morning."
Holmes went into the warehouse. It was well stacked with sacks of potatoes, a standard hundredweight each. "That makes 6720 sacks I think," he said, viewing the great mounds of hidden potatoes with some satisfaction. "Light could be a problem," he said: "we will need the doors shut, or nearly so. But I have a torch spare, Riley; only turn it on, please, if something happens."
"What are you expecting Holmes?" asked Riley, but Holmes would not be drawn. He was elated, I could see, but in no mood to share his thoughts.
"May I have a torch, Holmes?" I remember asking.
"Watson, I want you to play a special part," he said, laying his hand on my shoulder, as if to steady my resolve. "Uncomfrotable and dangerous, but essential. We are going, with your permission, to tie you into one these sacks and add you to the mound."
I was somewhat taken aback by this, as you can imagine. "But what earthly good would that do?"
"If Riley and I fail - and we will keep our wits about us, I assure you - then you may be the most valuable witness as to what happens to the goods. It's particularly important we don't let them see us."
A vision of being dragged onto some robber's lorry came to my mind, triumphantly solving the case when Holmes and Riley had given up, flickered through my mind. Preposterous? But I have never had reason to doubt the wisdom of Holmes' plans, and this was not the time to start querying his leadership, especially with Riley on hand. So I let them fold a sack around me and even tie the sack shut. As a last thought, before disappearing, I asked, "You are armed Holmes?"
"Yes, indeed, Watson, never fear. "
"And so am I," said Riley, though Holmes gave something of a chuckle at that point. "It may avail," he said mysteriously to the detective as I was sealed, and hoist aloft to my place. I only hoped they remembered which sack I was in.
And that thought indeed was the last I remember for some time. Perhaps, cramped as I was, I dozed a little, for the next thing I recall was being jerked awake by a terrible thumping and bumping as though I was tumbling down a cliff face. I struck out, and just vaguely had time to recall I was in a sack for some reason or other, when my head hit something - I now know it was the warehouse floor. I got a terrible crack to the head, and passed out.
The rest Holmes had to tell me later.
Riley and he had taken up positions in the darkest of corners, to stay unobserved. They had a view of sorts, it seemed, from a crack of light shining in from the goodsyard outside.
It was well after sundown, however, before anything happened. Holmes recounted it to me as follows:
"There was a faint jumbling sound. I turned the torch on, and saw a potato or two falling out of a sack - a sack with a hole in it, mind. Then the other sacks started to move. They weren't knotted, I had ascertained, merely closed with draw strings. And as the sacks began to heave a little, so they opened at the top and more and more potatoes tumbled out and fell to the floor. (That was when your sack got dislodged, I'm afraid, Watson, and you came down a veritable soss, but I couldn't rescue you for a bit. What was going on was far too important to be missed.) [It was missed by me, thank you, I thought, as he carried on with his narrative.]
"When many of the potatoes were free, they advanced - yes, advanced! Watson - to the doors, as if they knew how to get out. I have never seen anything like it. A veritable troop of potatoes rolling and bumping along, and somehow they got to force the doors open just a little, by their sheer number and weight. As soon as the gap was open wide enough to let them pass two or three at a time, that was enough. They concentrated on getting out. All of them. First they freed themselves, then they bounced toward the exit. An incredible sight.
"Riley thought it was rats, or some human agency. Ali-Baba's thieves leaping from the sacks and sending the potatoes rolling, I suppose. But I wouldn't let him shoot. How can you shoot a potato? Besides I wanted to see where they were going. I moved over to the door and watched, keeping well out of the way of the exodus.
"That was the mistake Giddes the watchman made, I fear. He got in their way. They choked him, and then carried on jolting over him toward their goal, and so he got terribly bruised in his death.
"Ah yes, their goal. As I suspected, they made straight for the small holes at the foot of the fence. I had noticed mushed potato there earlier and thought it strange. They bowled into the field, but I could not see what happened next. Anyway, it was time to stop this potato madness. With Riley's aid, we shut the warehouse doors and ended their escapade. No point in beggaring the wholesalers, after all. Then I drew my gun. You may thank me for my foresight that it was a potato gun. A few shots soon had them reduced to passivity, and by aiming at the edge of the mass, I sort of shepherded them back, away from the doors. Then we rescued you, old friend, and brought you outside.
"After that we had the doors locked again. And I'm inclined to think, in the future, if they do lock the warehouse doors securely, there will be no recurrence of this sort of thing."
"You're mad, Holmes," I said, when he'd finished this recital. "Quite blithering mad."
"Now Watson, think back. What did we do after we'd got you to safety?"
"Went back to the hotel, as I recall."
"Yes, yes, but after that?"
"You had Riley dig up the field outside the goodsyard."
"Exactly. The final piece of evidence. That's where your 60 tons of potatoes disappeared to. They went underground."
"You mean to tell me, the potatoes revolted against captivity, and secured their own freedom?"
"Perhaps," said Holmes, with a smile. "You see, we think of potatoes as insensitive, inert objects. But they are still living vegetables, even out of the earth. Think of my experiments with the carrots and the tomato plant last year. In many a warehouse, I don't doubt the potatoes would have lain still and never stirred. But the scent of freshly ploughed earth nearby was too much for them in this case. Consciously, or by what Plato calls the operation of a vegetable soul, they actively sought to return to the earth. A sad loss for the speculator, and a terrible outcome for poor Giddes, but not a deliberate act of murder I think. We should be rather more lenient in judging the potatoes in this case."
"Holmes," I cried, "this is madness. Those potatoes you found in the field were put there by the farmer. The theft at the North-Western railway depot was a criminal act - just like the turnip haul at Gosport and the radish robberies at Cardiff. Surely you admit they were human-manned robberies?"
"One egg doesn't prove a dinosaur, Watson," he said, infuriatingly calm. "Riley and I saw what we saw. Unfortunately, you will never know for certain. You missed it all."