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

mean little terraced houses gave way on the outskirts to better and even grand houses.
    Yet it was strange, only minutes after changing trains and on our way into Derbyshire, we were travelling through isolated moors where the only visible form of life appeared to be sheep and the odd carrion crow. Strange indeed that in the valley where the River Don now flowed sluggish and dirty, a huge city should have arisen. Blast furnaces lit the sky at night, smoke blotted out the sun, noise shattered the air and it was here that thousands of people sweated and lived out their short lives. Yet out on the moors only the click, click, click of the rail joints reminded us, it was those same rolling mills that made the rails which bore us swiftly on our way.
    The rest of the train journey to Bakewell was uneventful, except for the stout gentleman who snored loudly all the way. On arriving we booked into the Rutland Arms, before stretching our legs, looking around the old market town and walking by the river. We purchased a bakewell tart from the famous shop, shared the crumbs with a cheeky pied wagtail, and sat on a riverside seat watching a couple of anglers over the far side near the bridge, fishing for brown trout.
    The little town had been busy, but nothing like the hectic crowded streets of London. The stallholders, mainly farmers’ wives and daughters, were packing up their unsold eggs, cheeses and vegetables. An unsold live fowl in a cage lived to roost another night. Slowly we ambled back to our hotel, where we washed and changed.
    Dinner consisted of vegetable soup, beef, boiled potatoes, vegetables and slices of a sort of heavy suet roll. It was rounded off with a cold summer pudding and coffee. In spite of the warm evening, we found it a most satisfying meal.
    After the long but enjoyable day we slept well, sleeping until I was woken by a chambermaid knocking on Holmes’s door to rouse him. ‘Mr Holmes, sir, it’s eight o’clock.’ I called out that I was already awake before she tapped on my own.
    We breakfasted early, and afterwards joined the Sunday morning church worshippers. The congregation comprised local gentry, farmers, tradespeople, shopkeepers and farm labourers, their wives and children. The farm labourers had had their weekly shave and looked uncomfortable in their Sunday-best clothes. All the children wore neat clean attire and needed no reminders to behave. They would rather have died than have drawn attention to themselves.
    We sat at the back and drew some furtive glances from the regular worshippers nearby. It was a joy to sing so many of the old hymns, even Holmes singing with gusto.
    As the congregation filed out, we were given a further glance. We decided to stay awhile and look around the church for a few minutes, remaining unnoticed as the vicar and one of his sidesmen came back inside, down the aisle and into the vestry.
    Deciding to leave without verbally agreeing, telepathic communication I suppose, we quietly passed the half-closed vestry door and heard the vicar remark, ‘I was speaking to the Reverend Stevens a few days ago and he mentioned the case of the Tick Tock Man..  he told me the village people are adamant, even if the police are not... that it is murder... However, let us get on with counting the collection, shall we?’
    We almost tiptoed out of the church.
    ‘Most interesting, Watson.’
    ‘Very, Holmes.’
    The rest of the day we spent lazily wandering around the town and surrounding walks. Both during the afternoon and evening, we came across families walking to attend church or chapel and observed that it is usual in the country to attend at least one act of worship once, most twice, and chapel folk sometimes thrice, on a Sunday.
    The hotel was able to arrange transport for us in the morning to Tideswell, a large-sized village within easy reach of some spectacular walks. After a further good night’s sleep, which Holmes attributed to the good country air, and before the sun