Текст книги "The Mammoth Book of the Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes"
Автор книги: Denis O. Smith
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“You arouse my curiosity,” said Holmes, rubbing his hands together in delight. “Am I to understand that you had never visited Little Gissingham before yesterday?”
“Never. I had passed through the railway station there once or twice, but had never paid it any attention.”
“Was it your work as a solicitor which took you there yesterday?”
“Not really. But how do you know my business? Do you know of my connection with Mr Halesworth?”
Holmes shook his head. “The seals upon your watch chain appear to be those of a solicitor,” said he. “But if it was not professional work that took you to Little Gissingham, Mr Harte, perhaps it was something to do with that bulky package you have brought with you. Whatever the reason,” he continued as his visitor nodded his head, “it is apparent that you intended to remain there for only a short time, and then to return home before nightfall. Evidently something occurred to delay you. You missed the last train, I imagine, and were obliged to put up at the Fox and Goose.”
“That is correct in every detail,” exclaimed Harte in surprise. “But how do you know all this?”
“Forgive me for mentioning it – I have no desire to embarrass you,” responded Holmes after a moment, “but there are certain features of your appearance which suggest that you were unable to devote as much care to your toilet this morning as you might have wished. This in turn suggests that you did not have with you those necessities with which a man would equip himself if he knew he would be staying away from home for the night. The conclusion is clear: that your sojourn at the Fox and Goose – the only inn in Little Gissingham, according to my gazetteer – was unpremeditated.”
“That is so, Mr Holmes. I slept last night in my shirt and passed the most uncomfortable night of my adult life. This morning I endeavoured to make the best of myself, but lacked a razor, a clean collar and everything else one takes for granted at home. Dear, oh dear!” he murmured, shaking his head. “I had no idea that my appearance fell so short of a desirable standard!”
“Be assured, sir, it does not. But it is my business to observe such trifles. I am sure that no one else would have noticed anything amiss with your appearance. Let us see! Did anything of the sort strike you, Watson?” he asked, turning to me.
“Certainly not!” I returned.
“You see?” said Holmes to his visitor. “You have no cause for anxiety!”
“Thank goodness for that!” cried the other in evident relief.
“Now,” said Holmes, “if we may proceed with the matter? It was not legal business, you say, that took you to Little Gissingham?”
Rhodes Harte shook his head. “Only very indirectly,” he replied. “I am, as you conjectured, a solicitor, and have been in partnership with Mr Halesworth in Ipswich for many years. About six weeks ago I had occasion to travel across the county to visit an old client of ours, Mr Packham. He lived formerly in Ipswich, but when he retired he moved to Saffron Walden, about forty-odd miles away on the other side of Essex. He is an elderly gentleman and has difficulty getting about, and as he seemed very keen to consult me, I agreed to go and see him. It was a delightful spring day, and although the journey involved changing trains a couple of times, and was thus quite a long one, it nevertheless made a pleasant break from routine to be away from my chambers for a while.
“On the way home, I was obliged to wait for some time at a rural railway junction. It was a sunny afternoon, and I was enjoying sitting on the bench on the platform, listening to songbirds in the nearby trees. There was another man sitting there, reading a book, a scholarly-looking, elderly man with a high domed forehead and mane of white hair, and after a while we fell into conversation. I had observed that the book he was reading was David Copperfield, and I passed some remark as to its being a very entertaining book.
“‘It is more than entertaining, sir!’ returned he, closing the book up and giving me a piercing glance. ‘It is extremely stimulating to the intellect!’
“‘Oh, quite so,’ I agreed. ‘I meant merely that it contains some very amusing characters and situations.’
“‘That can scarcely be denied,’ conceded the scholarly gentleman in a somewhat grudging tone, ‘and yet those characters and situations for which the book seems to be most renowned are, in my opinion, among its least interesting features. The characters of Mr Micawber and Uriah Heep, for instance, are certainly entertaining enough, but it is arguable whether they shed much light upon human beings in general. Some of the other characters, however, and the relations between them, are drawn with very great subtlety and profundity, and it is there, I would argue, that the book’s true merit lies. It is certainly a good book. That is generally agreed. Unfortunately, it is, for this reason, not infrequently given to young people of fourteen and fifteen years of age, as a school prize or birthday present. You are wondering, no doubt, why this is unfortunate. Because, sir, although such young people, whose intellects are just beginning to mature from childhood to adulthood, will no doubt derive some pleasure from the book, they are unlikely to really appreciate – or even fully understand – its subtleties. And having read it once, most of them will never read it again, and thus will be denied the opportunity to appraise the book with a mind fully matured by experience of life.’
“With that he put the book down altogether, stowing it away in a leather satchel at his feet, and asked my opinion of the matter. I made some response, and soon we were deep into a broad and fascinating discussion upon literature in general, English literature especially, and Charles Dickens in particular, and I must say that it was quite the most stimulating conversation I have had on any subject in the last twelve months. My companion’s views, which he delivered with great eloquence, were highly original and fascinating, and I should have been perfectly content simply to sit there and listen to him until the train arrived, but he was very keen, also, to elicit my opinions, as if to weigh them against his own, and to every word I uttered he gave the most careful and courteous consideration. He was, in short, not simply a very learned scholar, but a true gentleman. He introduced himself as Dr Kennett, and informed me that he was returning from a public lecture he had attended that day in Cambridge. I was a little surprised at this, for it seemed to me that it might have been more profitable for all concerned if a man of such erudition, and with such a passion for his subject, had been employed in delivering a lecture rather than in listening to one. Nor was his enthusiasm for learning confined to literature. He mentioned in the course of our conversation that he had alighted at that little rural station on the merest whim, having been attracted by the appearance of some woods that bordered the railway line. On the spur of the moment, he explained, he had decided to break his journey there and explore the area, which was unknown to him. I asked him if his exploration had been interesting.
“‘Very much so,’ said he. ‘The wild flowers in the woods are fascinating at this time of the year. I tramped about there for quite some time, and when I was satisfied that I had seen all that there was to see, I refreshed myself at a nearby inn, and am now ready to resume my journey.’
“Our train arrived shortly after that and we took a compartment together, continuing our most interesting conversation, as the train made its way along a peaceful river valley, and through a succession of little village stations. By the time we reached the station at Little Gissingham, our literary discussion had, I recall, moved on to Shakespeare, and my companion was expatiating on what he saw as similarities of theme in Hamlet and Dickens’s Great Expectations, when all at once he broke off and sprang to his feet with a cry.
“‘Do excuse me, but this is my station,’ said he. ‘I was enjoying our discussion so much that I quite forgot to take any heed of where we were!’ In great haste, he opened the carriage door and sprang onto the platform. ‘I do hope we meet again, Mr Harte!’ cried he as he slammed the door. At that moment, the guard blew his whistle, and a moment later the train moved off and began to pick up speed. My carriage was scarcely clear of the platform, however, when I noticed that my companion’s leather satchel was lying on the floor at my feet. In his haste to leave the train, he had clearly forgotten all about it. I quickly opened the window and leaned out, but he had already left the platform. A moment later, the train passed round a curve, and the little station had vanished from my sight. There was nothing more that I could do.
“When I reached Colchester, I handed the satchel in at the lost property office. ‘The owner’s name is Kennett,’ I said, as the official wrote out a receipt for me. ‘To the best of my knowledge he lives at Little Gissingham. It might be worthwhile to notify the station master there that the satchel has been found, in case the gentleman makes enquiries about it.’
“The official said he would do as I suggested, and there I left the matter. Not knowing my new acquaintance’s address, I could not think that there was any more that I could do. And that, gentlemen,” said Harte, breaking off from his narrative and pausing a moment, “marks the end of the first part of my story. An unexceptional little episode, you might think. However, I’ll warrant you will think otherwise about the second part, all of which took place just yesterday.”
“We are keen to hear the sequel,” returned Holmes. “I take it from your manner that events have taken a somewhat surprising turn.”
“Indeed, several. Do you mind if I smoke?” continued Harte, taking a cigar case from his pocket. “I find a cigar is soothing. My nerves are all shot to pieces by this business!”
“Not at all,” cried Holmes with a chuckle, tossing across a box of matches to his visitor. “We would not want your nerves to prevent your continuing your account!”
For some time the solicitor sat puffing at his cigar in silence while we waited for him to continue.
“Yesterday,” said he at length, “I was obliged again to travel across the county to see old Mr Packham at Saffron Walden. I took the train down from Ipswich to Colchester, as before, and finding that I had a little time to wait for my connection, thought I would enquire if Dr Kennett had retrieved his satchel from the lost property office there. Our delightful discussion on literature had returned to my mind several times during the intervening six weeks, and I had often wondered how the splendid old fellow was getting along. To my surprise, I was informed that the satchel was still lying on a shelf in the lost property office, and that no one had ever been in to claim it.
“‘Was the station master at Little Gissingham informed that it was here?’ I asked.
“‘Yes, sir,’ the official replied, consulting a label that was attached to the satchel. ‘As a matter of fact, I reminded him of it myself, just a week ago, and he sent word back that no enquiries had been made to him about any satchel.’
“This struck me as very odd, but I thought it possible that Dr Kennett was somewhat absent-minded and, perhaps unable to recall when he had last had his satchel, could not think where to begin to look for it. Personally, I should have thought that the very first place one would enquire for something mislaid on the day one had undertaken a railway journey would have been the lost property office at the station, but as my legal work has taught me, one can never assume that anyone else’s thought processes will be the same as one’s own. At first I was inclined simply to dismiss the matter from my mind. It was, after all, not really any business of mine. But then, just as my train rolled into the station, I decided on a sudden impulse that I would return Dr Kennett’s satchel to him myself. If he had no idea where he had lost it, I was sure he would be overjoyed to see it once again, and besides, it would provide me with an excuse to renew our acquaintance, something I was keen to do. I showed the railway official the receipt I had been given for the satchel, and he handed it over to me, declaring that I could do with it as I pleased, as no one else appeared to want it. Clutching it tightly, and with a thrill of anticipation in my breast at the prospect of calling upon my unusual railway acquaintance, I sprang aboard the train just as it moved off.
“I took the satchel with me to Saffron Walden, where I bought some brown paper and string from a hardware shop and wrapped it up. How surprised Dr Kennett would be to see me, I thought, and how surprised to see what I had in my parcel!
“On the way back from Saffron Walden, I alighted at Little Gissingham station with a sensation of pleasurable excitement. At my time of life, one doesn’t experience many novelties or adventures, and I was thoroughly enjoying this unusual expedition. When I enquired of the station master if he knew where Dr Kennett lived, however, my expedition received its first setback.
“‘Never heard of him,’ said the official, a note of finality in his voice.
“‘An elderly, white-haired gentleman,’ I persisted, giving as full a description of Dr Kennett as I could.
“‘Oh, that gentleman!’ said the official at length, evidently recognizing the description better than the name. ‘There’s a gentleman much as you describe, sir, lives at Owl’s Hill.’
“‘Where might that be?’
“‘Go right through the village, past the inn, and about a mile further on you’ll see a house all on its own, on the right beyond the forest. You can’t miss it.’
“I thanked him for the directions and set off with a spring in my step, looking forward to meeting up once more with my scholarly acquaintance. Little Gissingham is a pretty little place, I must say. It has a broad village green, on one side of which is a stream, and on the other a row of very old half-timbered houses. Beyond the green is a low, spreading inn, the Fox and Goose, which is a very ancient-looking building. I should imagine that it has stood in that spot since before the Tudors ascended the throne of England. I admired it as I passed, little thinking as I did so that I should later be obliged to seek shelter for the night within those antique walls. Down the road I walked, past the last few outlying cottages of the village, and into the rolling, thickly wooded country beyond. It was a pleasant day, and I was enjoying being out in the fresh spring air. I knew that I had a good couple of hours at my disposal, before the time of the last train.
“I had been walking for about twenty-five minutes when I began to suspect that I might be going in the wrong direction. There had been no sign of any house such as the station master had described to me, on either side of the road, and it appeared that I was approaching the outskirts of another settlement altogether. With a sigh, I stopped and turned, and began to retrace my steps.
“In twenty minutes, I was back in Little Gissingham. At once I saw how I had fallen into error. Just beyond the Fox and Goose was a fork in the road. I had taken the left-hand road without really giving the matter any consideration, as the road on the right had appeared to be little more than a lane, leading only to a row of cottages. But now, as I surveyed it with somewhat greater care, I could see that it continued beyond the cottages. I therefore turned my steps in that direction, confident that I was now on the right road. I had lost about fifty minutes by my mistake, but judged that I still had plenty of time left.
“Once past the cottages, the road broadened out a little as it skirted the garden of an ancient farmhouse, the roof of which was crowned with tall Tudor chimney pots, then passed a pleasant-looking meadow in which cows were peacefully grazing. Beyond that, it rose, fell and rose again, and passed between dense woods. Presently, after a long, gentle climb, I reached the brow of a hill, beyond which the road dropped away into the distance. About a hundred yards further on, down the hill, there came a break in the woods on the right, and there, behind a trim hedge and surrounded by neat and attractive gardens, was a substantial brick house. It was a fairly modern house – not more than forty or fifty years old at the most – but if it lacked the venerable charm that age confers upon a property, it nevertheless had a very solid, reassuring air. On the gatepost was a plate bearing the name ‘Owl’s Hill’.
“I had my hand on the gate when two people appeared from round the side of the house. The first was a tall, erect, middle-aged lady, with grey hair done up in a bun. Something in her manner, or her carriage, impressed upon me that this was a woman of forceful character. The second was a workman of some kind, clad in a worn-looking jacket and leather gaiters, and with a small sack over his shoulder. They were speaking, and the lady was pointing to various parts of the garden, and I judged that the man was a gardener or odd-job man, receiving his instructions for the following day. I pushed open the gate and entered the garden as the man raised his cap to the woman in a farewell salute and turned in my direction. At that moment, the woman caught sight of me for the first time, and her features assumed an expression of surprise. She remained without moving on the flagged path, and waited as I approached.
“‘Yes?’ said she.
“I doffed my hat and introduced myself. ‘I am looking for Dr Kennett,’ said I. ‘Six weeks ago, we shared a railway carriage. He left his satchel behind when he alighted, and I have come to return it to him.’
“A frown of puzzlement seemed to pass across her face.
“‘I don’t believe I know anyone by the name of Kennett,’ she responded after a moment. ‘Do you know his address?’
“‘As a matter of fact, I thought he lived here. Does he not?’
“‘Certainly not,’ said she. ‘You are quite mistaken.’
“‘This house is Owl’s Hill?’
“‘Yes, as it says on the gatepost.’
“‘I was informed that that was the name of Dr Kennett’s house.’
“‘Then you were badly misinformed.’
“I quickly described my literary acquaintance, as I had done earlier for the station master, in the hope that she might recognize the description. To my disappointment, however, her face seemed to set more firmly than ever.
“‘I have never seen such a person in these parts,’ said she.
“‘But when I gave that description to the man at the railway station,’ I persisted, ‘he at once directed me down here.’
“‘I cannot imagine why,’ said she in an indignant tone. ‘But wait,’ she added after a moment’s pause. ‘Now I come to think of it, I do believe that the man who lived in this house before we moved here was somewhat as you describe. That must be the man the station master was thinking of.’
“‘When did you move here?’ I asked.
“‘Why do you want to know?’ the woman demanded. ‘What is that to you?’
“‘I simply wondered if it was very recently,’ I replied, taken aback by the sharpness with which she had spoken.
“‘No, it was not very recently. Does that satisfy your curiosity? I am sorry I cannot help you further. Good day!’
“With that she turned on her heel and walked quickly towards the front door of the house. But as I passed through the gate, I glanced back and saw that she was still standing upon the front step, watching me. Somewhat dejected by my failure to find Dr Kennett, and by this odd woman’s unfriendly manner, I set off up the road. As I did so, I heard the front door of the house slam shut. I can scarcely describe to you how utterly disappointed and dispirited I felt then. All my fond hopes for a pleasant reunion with my fascinating acquaintance had been dashed, and I was overcome all at once with a feeling of hopelessness and fatigue, and wished I had never come.
“Some distance ahead of me, almost at the brow of the hill, I could see the old gardener, slowly plodding his way homeward towards the village. Even as I looked, he reached the brow of the hill, and in a moment had vanished from my sight. I stopped then and considered the matter. There was something in the woman’s manner that troubled me. Why had she been so determinedly hostile and unhelpful to me? After all, I was confident that my appearance was not in the least offensive or threatening in any way. Now, my experience as a solicitor has taught me that when people bluster or speak aggressively, it is very often an indication that they are not telling the truth. As I stood there in that lonely country lane, I became convinced that such was the case now. The woman had lied to me, I felt certain of it. But why?
“The sky had clouded over now, and the light was beginning to fade. I glanced at my watch. It still wanted three-quarters of an hour until the time of the last train. I peered through a narrow gap in the hedge. There was no one in the garden. It was as deserted as the road on which I stood. I was all alone, in that shady, isolated spot. No one could possibly see what I was doing. There and then, I determined to take a closer look at Owl’s Hill and see if I could not learn something of its occupants.
“I had observed earlier, as I approached the house, that at the side of the garden, and separating it from the dense woods through which the road had passed, lay a narrow cart track. Now, as I reached the corner of the garden hedge, I examined this track more closely. It passed along the side of the garden and appeared to lead to a field which lay behind the house. Taking a quick look about me, I turned up the track and made my way cautiously along the side of the garden hedge.
“After the first few yards, the hedge was not continuous. Instead, the boundary between Owl’s Hill and the cart track was marked by a narrow thicket of bushes and trees. I was easily able to slip in between the bushes, and press forward until I had a clear view of the side of the house. Facing me, on the ground floor, were French windows, in front of which was a small, flagged terrace. At the side of this terrace was a broad flowering bush, which partly obscured my view of the window, but I could see enough to tell me that the room within was a drawing room. A couple of high-backed armchairs were visible. One of these was empty, but the other, the back of which was to the window, was occupied by someone reading a book. I could see the book and what appeared to be the sleeve of a man’s jacket, resting on the arm of the chair. Just then, a door was opened into the room, directly opposite the window, and the woman I had spoken to in the garden entered the room, crossed to the French windows and looked out.
“I quickly drew myself back into the shelter of the bushes and crouched down. For several seconds, she stared in my direction and I held myself perfectly still. I was filled with dread at the thought of being seen. I felt uneasy and shameful as it was, spying into someone else’s house, which was not something I had ever done before in all my life. The thought that I might actually be discovered in such a low act made my cheeks burn. I was on the point of giving up the whole absurd and dishonourable enterprise and withdrawing from the garden at once, but at that moment I saw the woman begin to speak, addressing the occupant of the armchair near the window. My resolve to withdraw evaporated in an instant as I became consumed with curiosity as to who it might be that was sitting in that chair.
“The woman rapidly became very animated, gesticulating wildly with her hands. It appeared that she was speaking in a raised, angry voice, but the sound did not carry and I could hear nothing. For several minutes I watched this strange dumb show, then the woman’s tirade appeared to draw a response from the occupant of the chair, for she paused for a moment, her mouth open, and I saw the chair’s occupant close the book and extend his arm, as if gesturing as he spoke. If only I could get a clearer view into the room. I glanced up. Immediately above my head was a spreading tree of some kind. Perhaps from a branch of the tree I should have a better angle of vision, and my view of the drawing room and its occupants would be unimpeded!
“I slipped out backwards from my hiding place, pushed my brown-paper parcel under a bush, and surveyed the trunk of the tree. I suppose the last time I climbed a tree was thirty-odd years ago, but there were plenty of little side branches, and it did not appear too difficult a prospect. The daylight had almost gone now, and the garden was in deep shadow, so I thought it unlikely that I would be seen. Quietly, and with an ease that surprised me, I shinned up the tree, until I was upon a stout branch almost directly above where I had been crouching. My view into the drawing room was now as clear as could be, and as my own position was shielded by a screen of leaves, I was confident that I would not be seen. I watched as the woman in the drawing room lit a lamp, and then another, and the room became ablaze with light. Then, for the first time, I had the impression that there was a third person in the room, for the woman paused, half-turned, and appeared to be listening to someone who was out of my sight, to the right. All at once, the occupant of the armchair near the window stood up and appeared to be speaking rapidly. I had a very clear view of him. There was not a shadow of a doubt: the man I was looking at was Dr Kennett, my literary acquaintance of six weeks ago. Hardly had I absorbed this fact, however, when, to my very great surprise, the woman raised her hands and, with an expression of anger upon her face, pushed him roughly back down into his chair. For a moment, then, she disappeared from my sight, to the right-hand side of the room. When she reappeared she was holding in her hand a large stick or cudgel of some kind, which she brandished menacingly in Dr Kennett’s face.
“You will appreciate how astonished and distressed I was by what I was witnessing. But I had little time to dwell upon it, for just then a very strange and disturbing thing occurred. I had heard a rustling sound on the ground beneath the tree, and I glanced down, thinking it might be a cat or a hedgehog, or even possibly a fox. Imagine my shock and horror when I saw beneath me a man, crouching in the very position in which I had been but a short time earlier. It was now so dark that I could make out practically nothing of him, other than that he had on his head a wide-brimmed, low-crowned sort of hat. For several minutes I held myself absolutely motionless, scarcely even daring to breathe, my gaze alternating between the bright rectangle of the drawing-room window with its strange dumb show, and the dark, shadowed figure beneath my feet.”
Mr Rhodes Harte paused, cleared his throat and asked if he could have a glass of water.
“Your story is a singular one,” remarked Holmes, as I poured out some water from a carafe. “It is quite the most intriguing little problem to come my way for some time.”
“There is yet more,” returned the solicitor, sipping the water.
“Excellent! Pray, continue then!”
“You have perhaps experienced that awful physical sensation of nausea which can suddenly sweep over one in certain illnesses. Now, in my precarious perch in the tree, I was assailed by a sort of mental nausea, which overwhelmed my brain like a wave, so that I feared for a moment that I would pass out. There was I, at forty-three years of age, a respected solicitor of twenty-odd years’ standing, halfway up a tree like a schoolboy, in the dark, in a stranger’s private garden, with some other stranger skulking about in the shrubbery beneath my feet. What had I been thinking of to get myself into such a dreadful predicament? What would my friends and neighbours at home think of me, were they to learn what I had been doing? I should be ruined, both professionally and privately, and should be obliged to leave the district in disgrace! Such thoughts flooded my brain as I clung on desperately to the gently swaying branches, closed my eyes and prayed that I would not fall.
“When I opened my eyes again, the grey-haired woman was standing by the French windows, staring out into the garden with a rigid expression upon her face. Abruptly, she drew the curtains across the window. From beneath me in the darkness came the sound of movement, and as I strained my eyes to pierce the black void below, I heard the mysterious figure push his way through the bushes, back towards the cart track outside the garden, then I heard his rapid footsteps on the track as he made his way down to the road. A dizzying wave of relief passed over me. Now I, too, would be able to get away from this terrible, alarming place. I would wait for two minutes to ensure that the other man was well out of the way, and then climb down and make my way back to the village. I did not know what the time was, but thought that if I hurried I might still be able to catch the last train.
“I had waited a little while, and was about to feel my way down to a lower branch when I heard a sound that brought my heart into my mouth. The front door of the house had been opened. I pressed myself to the trunk of the tree, as someone stepped out into the garden carrying a lantern, and made his way across the lawn towards me. I could not think what to do. Like a little creature fascinated into immobility by the eye of a snake, I stared with a perfectly blank and useless mind at that little swinging light as it approached ever closer to the tree in which I was hiding. But whatever those in the house thought they had seen or heard outside, it was not me. The figure holding the lantern passed slowly along the edge of the shrubbery. It sounded as if he was poking about carefully in the bushes with a stick, but he never, so far as I could tell, looked up into the tree. As to who it was, I had no idea. I had the impression that it was a man rather than a woman, but more than that I could not say. Presently, he gave up his search, and the light of the lantern moved slowly away again, across the lawn towards the front door of the house. I waited in an agony of tension – I had scarcely moved an inch in five minutes – until I saw the light vanish and heard the front door bang shut, then I lowered myself as carefully as I could down through the branches of the tree to the ground.
