a hundred pounds a week lately, as does my friend over there, and so do some of the other men, too.”
I thanked him, then rejoined Holmes, and we returned to the inn. When we were back in our room, I recounted my brief exchange with the fisherman, as Holmes lit his pipe, and to my surprise, replied,
“Dr Phillip Paxton,is the scion of the tea-importing family of the same name. At one time, he was a prominent naturalist and marine biologist with the public aquarium at Regent Park Zoological Gardens. However, he was expelled by the Marine Biological Association and forced to resign from his position at the aquarium due to his unorthodox theories on ocean life. Keep in mind that many a scientist whose ideas were scorned in their own lifetime, were then accepted by later generations.”
“How is it that you are aware of such a man?” I asked.
“Watson, I make it my business to read the newspapers. When I received Lestrade’s letter, I recalled that Paxton had left London to live in his ancestral home in this part of Cornwall. As I’ve told you upon occasion, when I explain my methods, they seem much less dazzling—not unlike a stage magician revealing his illusions.”
I took a sip of brandy from my flask and reflected upon what we’d learned in the last few hours. Holmes went to the window, took a puff from his pipe, and looked out at the now darkened sky. On the table, I noticed a copy of the local newspaper that had probably been left by the maid when she’d turned down our sheets. The headline read, Local Man Held On Murder Charges.
Holmes turned to me, and said, “I suggest that we get some rest We have a most busy day ahead of us, and we will need to get an early start.”
“But,” I said, “haven’t we already questioned everyone connected with the case and looked at the scene of the crime?”
“There is much that remains to be done,” said Holmes, in his usual cryptic way.
I knew better than to ask him what would be on tomorrow’s itinerary. Instead, I had another sip of my drink and readied myself for bed.
* * * *
When I awoke in the morning, Holmes was gone. The moment I finished dressing, he burst into the room.
“There you are, Watson! Put on your coat and hat, and we’ll be on our way.”
Outside the inn was a waiting trap and driver, and we got inside.
“I thought of someone whom we haven’t spoken to,” I said. “Millicent Stokes, the woman who reported Harris missing and found the blood in front of the barn.”
“I questioned her before you arose,” answered Holmes, while the driver guided his horse through the cobblestone streets. “As I had thought, she had no relevant facts to add to our investigation, but I would have been remiss if I hadn’t consulted with her.”
“Oh,” I replied, crestfallen. For an instant I felt as if I might have actually stumbled upon an idea that Holmes had somehow overlooked.
“You’ve no doubt visited the aquarium at Regent Park,” said Holmes, abruptly changing the subject.
“Certainly,” I replied, “As a school boy I went quite often. I was fascinated by watching the fish, as are most children.”
“Today we will be visiting what I surmise will be a miniature version of that great ‘fish house,’ as it’s called by the public. We’ll be paying a call on Dr Phillip Paxton.”
“Presumably, this is in connection with the case.”
Holmes laughed. “Surely you don’t think all this salt air has made me balmy, do you Watson? I believe that Dr Paxton’s scientific expertise may be able to shed some light on this case.”
Then Holmes fell silent, as the carriage went up an incline. A few minutes later, we came to a stop in front of Phillip Paxton’s manor house. Judging by its fine stone work, it looked to be at least three hundred years old. Holmes instructed the driver to wait for us, even though it might be some time till we returned. The driver nodded, and Holmes and I walked toward the house.
As we did, I couldn’t help admiring the breathtaking view of the ocean below. The house’s huge door was answered by a gruff looking butler, who looked more in build as if he belonged in a pugilist’s ring than in a gentleman’s residence.
When Holmes mentioned that we were acting in an official capacity on behalf of the local constable, the man’s expression softened, and we were invited into the great hall and seated on chairs that looked as old as the house itself. The servant asked us if we’d like some tea. When we politely declined, he bowed and left.
The great hall had high stone walls on which were hung medieval tapestries, crossed swords, and a family coat of arms. Ancient, ornately carved wooden tables stood against a number of the walls, as did oversized vases which held dried plants. The only anomaly was—where one might traditionally have expected to see framed oil portraits of ancestors—there were elaborate paintings of fish. I saw tuna, herring, sole, bluefish and cod.
Before I had time to fully contemplate their significance, a man in his sixties wearing a white surgeon’s coat walked into the hall.
“I am Dr Phillip Paxton,” he said, “and you must be Sherlock Holmes. Of course, I have read a number of your cases. And this must be your chronicler, Dr Watson.”
“We’ve come to discuss a matter with you, with which you may be of some assistance,” said Holmes.
“Indeed,” said Dr Paxton. “I’d be most pleased to help in any way I can. But first, would you please indulge me? I insist upon showing you my little laboratory.”
We went down a wide corridor. On the walls hung more paintings of fish. Within a moment we were in a vast gallery which contained massive glass aquariums which—as Holmes had predicted—easily rivalled the ones at Regent Park.
“Here are my friends,” said Dr Paxton, gesturing at the first aquarium.“These are some of the local species: mackerel, cod, and bluefish.”
We passed one tank after another, each one larger than the last, till we came to a stop in front of an aquarium that was the size of a house. Inside it, grey seals swam about as if they had not a care in the world. A muscle-bound man appeared with a ladder, and placed it on the side of the tank. He then took a bucket, climbed up, and dumped fish into the water.
Dr Paxton watched the seals for a moment, then turned to Holmes and myself.
“I’m researching every aspect of these beautiful creature’s lives. I’m sure, Mr Holmes, if your reputation is accurate, that you may have heard about my, uh, differences with the institute.”
“Small-minded thinkers, no doubt,” said Holmes.
“Ah,” said Paxton, “I see that you grasp the situation fully. But here I have no one to answer to, no need to please would-be benefactors. Those relics back in London scoffed at any idea that didn’t fit into their narrow views of the world. Science should not have to bow before the feet of bankers in order to march forward.”
“Well put,” said Holmes. “I need not remind you, it was only a short time ago that Mr Fulton’s steam engine was the subject of similar derision by the same sort of self-appointed experts.”
