Sherlock Holmes and the Chinese Junk Affair and Other Stories by Roy Templeman

spinning wheels slowed and the unholy noise was replaced by a steady chuff, chuff, chuff. All was well, the wheel slip was over.
    I returned to my seat to find we had another passenger. He was middle aged, dressed in tweeds and appeared every inch a country gentleman; but I was wrong. He was, we were to learn, an engineer.
    Holmes enjoyed listening to people; not the prattle about fashion or titillating scandal, but about the basics of life, employment, trade, science and the like. Soon the air was filled with smoke as our friend the engineer began puffing away too at his pipe, and in between puffs informed us why he was making his journey.
    Holmes was content to feed him with a question now and again to keep his verbal momentum flowing. It appeared he was the director of the firm Garrett who make, amongst other things, threshing machines. Last year, he informed us, they had had a number of breakdowns with their machines.
    ‘Now threshing time is one of the busiest times on any farm and breakdowns are drastic to the farmer, and of course to our reputation, which, I must say, is of the highest.’ He puffed away and continued, ‘The previous year we had redesigned a certain part of the machine and, of course, tested it to destruction, but were very concerned when we discovered it had a fault which only became evident later during the threshing season. So you see, my journey is to replace the part, which is in the guard’s van, and make sure everything is in order when the threshing season begins. This is the last one we have to modify.’
    He told us much interesting information about the threshing process.
    We sympathised with the thought of all the hard work the farmworkers endured.
    ‘Aye,’ he remarked, ‘They worked on sometimes into the dark by lantern lights to finish the work, the thresher being booked to go to another farm next day, see.’
    We ate our sandwiches, exchanged and read the papers, and all in all had a most enjoyable journey. We were sorry to say goodbye to our informative and interesting engineer on changing trains at Sheffield.
    Looking through the carriage window after securing seats on our train to Bakewell, I noticed on the platform among other miscellaneous goods, luggage addressed in large printing ‘Leen Mills School, Hucknall, Nottinghamshire’.
    I touched Holmes’s knee.
    ‘Isn’t that where Lord Byron, the poet, is buried; Hucknall?’
    ‘Yes, I believe it is, and his heart buried separately in Greece. It’s said, you know, Watson, that an old prophecy foretold that when a boat should sail across Sherwood Forest full of green, then the Byron family would be no more.
    ‘It happened, so the legend goes, a wicked member of the family had a boat made so he could sail it on the abbey lake, the same lake he had drowned his butler in. The forest people so hated the family, they threw bracken into the open boat as it journeyed through the forest, hoping to make the prophecy come true, and it did of course, the family is no more.’
    ‘So there could be a grain of truth in prophecy after all.’
    ‘Ah! Yes, Watson, and I prophesy the train will leave on time. The doors are crashing to, the green flag is raised and the whistle blown... and away we go.’
    Holmes was certainly in a humorous mood. The corridor door slid open and a very overweight gentleman in a loud checked suit and bowler hat, like a racecourse bookie, slumped down into a corner seat and, after acknowledging our presence, closed his eyes.
    As the train snaked its way over a multitude of points and crossovers, we were made aware of line-side factories and workshops producing the world-renowned Sheffield knives, forks, spoons and scissors. The huge satanic works and furnaces rose high, dwarfing everything around them. This was the life-blood, not only of Sheffield, but of England too. Dirty, grimy, black and likened to Bedlam, but without it where should we be?
    Looking still at the passing kaleidoscope, the scene changed;