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John pressed his sleeve over his nose and mouth to muffle the appalling smell.
“Remind me why I agreed to this?”
Sherlock leant over the rail, peering into the pen below. “I needed a medical opinion, and swore to keep the kitchen clean for a month.”
“You call it a medical opinion?”
“Certainly, we need to clarify the genetic strain.”
“They’re cows, Sherlock! I’m a doctor, not a vet!”
“They are alleged pedigree breeding bulls, and the professional differences are minuscule,” said Sherlock dismissively. “I have the necessary data, all I require from you is to assist in detailing the features that distinguish the pureblood British Friesland, which these are being sold as, from crossbreeds common in Holland, which are obviously worth considerably less to Sir Anthony and would contaminate his future breeding stock. If there is a deception in place then my theory that the cook murdered the junior minister because he stumbled on her plot with the dairy manager will be confirmed.”
“And we couldn’t get an expert to creep onto a steamship...”
“Motor vessel, John, the engines run on diesel these days.”
“I don’t care... to creep onto a motor vessel, then, which is highly illegal...”
“I need to verify my conclusions,” replied Sherlock impatiently. “Once that’s done we can summon the most highly paid specialist Sir Anthony can afford to confirm the findings. We’re here now, so stop grumbling and help me work out the best way down to...”
With a loud creak the rail on which Sherlock was leaning shuddered and gave way. John grabbed for him but missed by a hand’s breadth, and watched as Sherlock dropped the ten feet to the straw-covered deck with a loud crash, narrowly missing an animal. He rolled and nimbly rose to his feet, ignoring the bruises that would inevitably form later, and found himself face to face with a large bull that looked both startled and aggravated. Almost like a cartoon cow, it huffed a low, angry breath at Sherlock and lowered its head.
John sighed. “We’re going to die,” he said out loud. Then he grabbed the rail and swung himself down to drop the distance more safely, the better to help his friend fend off the herd of angry cattle now surrounding him. They stared, and Sherlock stared back.
“It’s quite possible,” replied Sherlock. “Try not to trigger a stampede. Although death by being trampled by a ship full of Friesland cattle would be a memorable way to go.” He glanced around and a slow smile dawned on his face. “Hang on a minute,” he said, “I have a great idea...”