Текст книги "The Mammoth Book of the Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes"

Автор книги: Denis O. Smith

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“As I was scrabbling about in the darkness beneath a bush, groping blindly for my parcel, I thought I heard a slight noise, like a furtive footstep, from over near the front door of the house. The hairs rose on the back of my neck as it struck me with the force of a thunderbolt that if the man with the lantern had suspected there was someone hiding in the garden, he might have only feigned to enter the house. For all I could tell to the contrary, he might have opened the front door, put the lantern inside and extinguished the flame, then closed the front door with a bang while remaining outside upon the step. He might even now be standing there in the darkness, listening as I searched for the parcel. For a second I remained perfectly still. I could hear nothing, but I knew from earlier that footsteps upon the lawn would make very little sound. Then my fingers touched the parcel, and in a wild panic I seized it in my hand, pushed my way between two prickly bushes and set off down the cart track.

“The clouds were low and heavy, and the night was now a very black one, so that I could scarcely see where I was going, but frankly, I did not care where I went, so long as I could get away without delay from that dreadful place. At the foot of the track I turned into the road and hurried onwards through the darkness.

“I had almost reached the brow of the hill when I thought I heard footsteps behind me. I increased my pace, but the other footsteps seemed at once to become more rapid, too. Then, as they appeared to be gaining on me, I stopped, and with a great effort of will turned round. All about me was dead silence. Had I imagined those dreadful footsteps following me remorselessly along the road? Was it simply some kind of echo from the woods of my own rapid steps? Then, as I stood there in the pitch-black silence, I heard them again, and the blood seemed to turn to ice in my veins: footsteps, soft and furtive now, but rapidly getting closer to where I stood. Panic gripped my heart then and I turned and ran for my life. Uphill and downhill I ran, along that winding road, never once pausing for breath, until a faint light ahead of me indicated that I was approaching the village. Even then, there was little enough illumination, but it sufficed to guide me through the village and down the track to the railway station, which I reached in a panting, breathless state. There, as I feared, I learnt that the last train had already gone; but the station master was still about, and I was able to send a telegram to my wife, explaining that I had been delayed and should return the next day. The station master suggested I enquire at the Fox and Goose, being the only place which might offer a bed for the night, so there I betook myself. As I passed again through the dark and silent village, I looked keenly about me, but as far as I could discern, not a soul was abroad save me. As you will imagine, the evening’s events had left me in a highly nervous state, and I was much relieved when I reached the safety of the inn.

“It seemed very bright and cosy in the Fox and Goose, and the landlord greeted me in a friendly fashion. In answer to my request for a room for the night, he conducted me to a little bedroom situated over the front door. It had a musty, damp smell, but I was in no position to be particular about such things, and thanked him warmly for accommodating me. He had another gentleman staying that night, he informed me, a Mr Bradbury, who was a commercial traveller for a firm of farm equipment manufacturers. When we returned to the parlour, downstairs, he introduced me to that gentleman, and then went to prepare us some food.

“The relief that washed over me as I sat before the blazing fire in the parlour of the inn, chatting with Mr Bradbury and smoking a cigar, can scarcely be described. Of course, I did not mention, either to him or to any of the other men there, the circumstances in which I had passed the last couple of hours. I appeared a big enough fool already in my own eyes, and I had no wish to announce my foolishness to the whole world. Instead, I told them that I had inadvertently alighted from the train at the wrong station and knew no one in the area, which was why I had been obliged to seek shelter for the night at the inn, and lacked the luggage that a traveller would normally have with him. If this story made me appear foolish in the eyes of my audience, it was, I felt, a lesser species of foolishness than the truth would have revealed. As it happened, I need not have been so anxious, as they did not appear to think too badly of me for my folly. In any case, Mr Bradbury was in a similar situation. He had come down that morning from London, expressly to meet one of the largest of the local landed proprietors, to discuss the latest farm machinery, but had received word upon his arrival that he could not be seen until the next day. He had therefore been kicking his heels in idleness all day, as he put it. Like me, he was looking forward to a good night’s sleep, and to making a fresh start on his business in the morning.

“The landlord provided us with an excellent supper, and after that, and a little liquid refreshment, I felt quite restored. My situation did not now seem to me so bad. Presently, I announced that I would retire for the night, and bade the landlord and the other occupants of the parlour good night.

“The staircase of the inn was an ancient, narrow, winding affair, and as I was mounting the stair, a red-haired young man I had not seen before came hurrying down. I stood aside to let him pass, but he did not acknowledge this courtesy. In fact, he did not speak at all, but pushed past me in brusque silence. This struck me as exceedingly rude, but I doubt if I should have considered the matter further but for what I found when I reached the top of the stair. There, the door of my little bedroom stood wide open, and I saw at once that the room had been ransacked. The drawers of a little dressing table hung open, and the mattress and bedclothes had been tipped onto the floor. I heard a door bang downstairs, and at once stepped to the window. Outside, as I could see by the dim illumination of the lamp that hung by the door of the inn, the rude young man I had encountered on the stair was hurrying away. Pulled down tight on his head was a low-crowned soft hat. I could not doubt that it was the same man I had seen crouching below me in the bushes when I had been up in the tree at Owl’s Hill, and a thrill of horror passed through me at the thought. Next moment, he had vanished from my sight into the darkness.

“I hurried downstairs and told the landlord that someone had been in my room and turned it upside down. He and a couple of the other men in the parlour accompanied me back upstairs to see for themselves what had happened. Upon seeing the chaotic state of my bedroom they said nothing, however, merely looking from the room to me and back at the room again, as if struck dumb by the unprecedented nature of the business. Then Mr Bradbury pushed open the door of his bedroom, which was next to mine, and we saw that it was in the same sort of disorder. Drawers had been pulled out, cupboards opened, and his bedding tipped onto the floor.

“Some of the men there, I suspect, had wondered for a moment if I was deranged, and had, in my insanity, upset my bedroom myself. But the disorder in the other gentleman’s bedroom lifted this suspicion from me, for it was obvious that I would not have had time since leaving the parlour to cause such havoc in both bedrooms. I told them then about the man who had pushed past me on the stair.

“‘Have you ever seen him before?’ the landlord asked me.

“‘Never,’ I replied. Of course, I could not tell them that I had seen him in the garden of Owl’s Hill, as I should then have to explain what I had been doing there myself.

“‘Well, I don’t know, I’m sure,’ said the landlord, scratching his head. ‘This has never happened before! We have a constable in these parts,’ he added, addressing me. ‘He’s not much use for anything, but I’ll have a word with him tomorrow, and tell him what’s happened.’

“We straightened the rooms then, and shortly afterwards I retired to bed. Sleep eluded me, however, and I lay awake half the night, starting at every creak of a floorboard. I could not get the events of the evening out of my head, and over and over again I considered the matter from every angle. By the morning I had resolved that I simply could not return to my chambers and resume my routine legal work as if none of these strange events had occurred. Mr Holmes, I must learn what lies behind it all! Why did the woman tell me that Dr Kennett does not live at Owl’s Hill? Why is he so ill-treated there? Is he held in that lonely spot against his will? He certainly appeared to be at liberty on the day I met him on the train. But if he is at liberty, why does he stay there? Who is the man who was hiding in the bushes, and what was his purpose in being there? Why were the rooms at the inn ransacked? I know I shall never rest easy until I know the answers to all these questions! I remembered that my partner, Mr Halesworth, spoke of you in glowing terms about a year ago, Mr Holmes, and I thought you sounded the very man to help me discover the truth. So here I am, that is my story, and if there is anything more you wish to know, please ask.”

“Thank you,” responded Holmes after a moment. “Your account has been a very clear one, Mr Harte. I shall do what I can to assuage your anxieties on the matter. It is certainly a singular little mystery! You have been lied to, your room at the inn has been rifled, and you have every right, it seems to me, to know what lies at the bottom of it all. Before we proceed any further, however, could you clear up one point?”

“Certainly.”

“Did the mysterious intruder at the Fox and Goose take anything from either of the bedrooms?”

“I do not think so. A few loose items of Mr Bradbury’s had been scattered around, but he said that as far as he could see there was nothing missing. He also had a locked trunk, which was pushed under his bed, but that did not appear to have been touched. I, of course, had no luggage of any kind, except for the wretched brown-paper parcel that I had been lugging around fruitlessly all day, so I had nothing to lose.”

“The parcel was still there?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“On top of the wardrobe, where I had flung it earlier.”

“Very well. And that is the parcel in question, I take it,” said Holmes, indicating the brown-paper bundle that Mr Harte had placed upon the table. “May I see the contents?”

“By all means,” returned his visitor. He unfastened the parcel on the hearthrug, and produced from within it a stout-looking leather satchel with a shoulder strap. This he passed to Holmes, who examined it closely for several minutes, turning it over and over. At length, evidently satisfied, he stood it on the rug, unfastened the two buckles at the front, opened it up and took out the contents. These consisted of two thick volumes, one of which appeared very new, a few loose foolscap sheets and some folded brown paper, a small square bottle of black ink, two pens, a pencil and a short length of string. Each of these items Holmes examined carefully, then placed upon the rug. He then turned his attention to the interior of the satchel. On the underside of the lid were two lines of faded lettering, and after squinting at these for a moment, Holmes took his magnifying lens from the mantelpiece and carried the satchel over to the window, where he examined the lettering very closely for several minutes.

Presently, he handed the lens and satchel to me without saying a word, then sat back down in his chair again, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed with intense concentration. I examined the satchel. The leather on the inside was an untreated, dull grey colour, lighter in some places than others. The lettering inside the flap was faded and faint, and very difficult to make out. It appeared to have been worn away by years of rubbing against books and documents. The first letter in the line was almost certainly a capital “A”, and the second might have been a small “d”, but there then followed several letters which were impossible to decipher. After a gap came what might have been a capital “K”, followed by more indecipherable smaller letters, the last of which appeared, when I examined it through the lens, to be a small “s”. Below these letters, in small capitals, was the name “KARL”, followed by a full stop, then the numbers “3” and “8”.

Holmes had risen from his chair and was standing by his shelf of reference works, thumbing through a thick red-backed volume. Finding the page he was looking for, he carried the book to the window and stood reading it in silence for several minutes.

I picked up the books and papers from the hearthrug. The copy of David Copperfield was bound in dark blue morocco, moderately worn and rubbed at the corners. On the fly leaf, in ink, were the initials “A. K.”. A thin piece of blank card was inserted between the pages as a bookmark, near the middle of the book. The other volume was The Story of English Literature, from the Earliest Times to the Present, by Professor Walters of Trinity College, Cambridge. This was bound in dark green cloth, and appeared to be new. On the fly leaf was an inscription written in ink, in a florid hand, which read as follows: “A. K. Kindest Regards. Your friend, D. W.”. The loose sheets of paper had very little written upon them. There were the titles and authors of what appeared to be three works of literary criticism, and five or six lines of notes, little more than odd words, such as might be jotted down by someone listening to a lecture.

Holmes had put down the red-backed book he had been reading and extracted a volume of his encyclopedia from the shelf, turning over the pages rapidly until he had found the entry he was seeking. For a minute he stood reading, with a frown upon his face, then he shut the book with a bang and began pacing the floor in silence, his chin in his hand.

“What is it?” asked Harte after a moment, appearing slightly anxious at the intensity of Holmes’s manner. “It is certainly a perplexing business, is it not?” he continued when Holmes did not reply.

“Not at all,” responded Holmes abruptly, ceasing his pacing about. “It is crystal clear.”

“What!” cried Harte. “Are you saying that you have fathomed the mystery already?”

“Precisely.”

“But how is that possible? How can you pretend to understand what is happening at Owl’s Hill simply by sitting here in this room?”

“By using my brain,” responded Holmes testily.

“I thought that, having heard my story, you would wish to make a few enquiries and perhaps travel down to Little Gissingham yourself.”

“That is the question.”

“What is?” asked Harte in a tone of puzzlement.

“Whether to travel down to Suffolk now, or – but, no, I must go! The alternative is impossible! I could make enquiries in London to confirm matters, but that would take a day, perhaps two. I could consult Superintendent Richards at Scotland Yard, who may know something, but that would waste another day, and besides, that part of rural Suffolk is probably beyond his jurisdiction. No, we must go down there now!” He pulled open the top drawer of his desk. “Will you come with us, Watson?”

“Certainly.”

“Then look up the trains in Bradshaw, will you?” he continued, as he took out his revolver and a box of cartridges. “Is your own pistol ready for service?”

“I believe so,” I replied in surprise as I picked up the railway timetable. “Do you expect that it will be necessary?”

“Very likely. Unless, of course, the murder has already been committed before we get there! Let us hope that we are not too late!”

“What is all this talk of firearms and murder?” cried Harte in alarm. “Surely you exaggerate? I did not expect such a response when I decided to consult you.”

“My response is to the facts,” returned Holmes in a preoccupied tone as he loaded his pistol.

“But what are the facts?” demanded Harte.

“That cold-blooded murder is planned. I shall give you the details on the way down. Have you found the train times yet, Watson?”

“We have just missed one,” I replied. “There is a train at eighteen minutes past four, which would enable us to reach Little Gissingham not much after half past six.”

“That will have to do, then. The sun does not set until about half past seven, so there should be sufficient daylight for our purposes. Will we be able to get away from Little Gissingham again tonight?”

“The last train, the one Mr Harte missed yesterday, leaves at about quarter past eight.”

“Excellent! I shall just write out a couple of telegrams, and then I think we should make our way to Liverpool Street station straight away! However bad the traffic is now, it will be worse later in the afternoon. There is an excellent and economical restaurant, which serves luncheons all afternoon, just round the corner from the station in Bishopsgate. We can get a meal there and ensure that we are at the station in good time. Whatever happens, we must not, under any circumstances, miss that train!”

Thus it was that at four-eighteen, the three of us were in a first-class smoking compartment as our train puffed its way noisily beneath blackened girders up the steep incline from Liverpool Street towards the higher ground of Essex.

“Mr Harte’s satchel and its contents are singularly suggestive, are they not?” said Holmes to me. “They help one to form a clear picture of the man to whom the satchel belongs. I take it you drew the same inferences from these materials as I did.”

“There are certainly some indications,” I returned cautiously. “It is evident, for instance, that the owner of the satchel is an enthusiast for English literature.”

“But not one of very long standing.”

“Why so?”

“The book describing the history of English literature, worthy volume though it is, is introductory in nature and written for a general audience. The fact that it is clearly new, and evidently recently purchased, suggests that its owner, however enthusiastic he might be, is not yet in an advanced stage of literary scholarship.”

“That may be so,” I returned, “but the book is inscribed, and thus may be a present from a friend. In which case, of course, you cannot so reliably judge the owner’s level of sophistication and scholarship from it.”

“Generally speaking,” said Holmes, “that would be a sound observation. Your attention to detail does you credit.”

“Thank you.”

“In this particular case, however, your reasoning is erroneous.”

“Why?”

“There are two distinct parts to the inscription. The first part, at the top, consists of the initials ‘A. K.’, the second part is the remainder, ‘Kindest regards. Your friend, D. W.’, if I recall it aright.”

“These two parts, as you call them, seemed all one to me.”

“Not at all. Not only are the initials ‘A. K.’ in a different hand, they are written with a different pen.”

“Let us see,” said Harte, unfastening the satchel and taking out the book.

“You may be correct,” I conceded as I examined the inscription.

“I am certain of it,” said Holmes. “The ‘K’ in ‘A. K.’ is formed quite differently from the ‘K’ in ‘Kindest regards’. Now, this suggests that the owner of the book, whom we must presume is this ‘A. K.’ – for the book is undoubtedly a new one and has not been owned by anyone before – bought the book himself and wrote his initials in it, and only subsequently asked his friend to inscribe it. You will note that the inscription says neither ‘To A. K.’ nor ‘From D. W.’ but simply ‘Kindest regards, your friend, D. W.’”

“But why should he ask his friend to write in his book if his friend did not buy the book for him?” asked Harte in a tone of puzzlement.

“The friend may not have bought the book,” returned Holmes, “but it appears likely that he has played a significant part in the business.”

“What do you mean?”

“Simply that the friend – ‘D. W.’ – is almost certainly the author of the book.”

I glanced at the book’s title page. “Of course, you must be right!” I cried as I read the name of Professor David Walters of Trinity College, Cambridge.

“It seems likely, then, that ‘A. K.’ – the man you met on the train, Mr Harte – had bought himself this book while in Cambridge to attend a lecture. There is a little gummed label on the inside of the back cover, giving the name of the bookshop. No doubt the brown paper and string in the satchel came from that shop, too. We do not know whether the lecture that ‘A. K.’ attended was given by Professor Walters, but whether it was or not, ‘A. K.’ must have approached Professor Walters at some time during the day and asked him to inscribe this book for him. If the two men were strangers, Professor Walters would surely have satisfied the request by writing ‘Best wishes’, or something of the sort. But he has specifically called himself ‘Your friend, D. W.’, so we must suppose that the two men are well acquainted. Professor Walters is an eminent figure in the world of scholars, and it is a fair assumption that many of his acquaintances are from that same class of society, including, perhaps, the man calling himself Dr Kennett. We are, you see, slowly but surely building up a picture of that gentleman.”

“It is not conclusive,” I observed.

“No, it is not, I agree, but the balance of probability surely lies upon that side. Dr Kennett is certainly highly intelligent and highly educated, as Mr Harte’s testimony of their lengthy literary discussion attests. In any investigation, it is of course preferable if one can deduce one fact from another, and then a third from the second, and so on. Sometimes, however, the data are so meagre that it is not possible to make such deductions with any certainty. In that case, one must construct a tentative hypothesis, and be prepared to alter it at any time, if new facts come to light. The process is somewhat akin to the erection of his wigwam by a Red Indian. None of the poles he uses, taken alone, can possibly support the wigwam, but when he has several poles leaning together, each providing mutual support for the others, the structure can stand. Thus it is in this case: none of the deductions we can make from the satchel or its contents are certain. Taken all together, however, they lend fairly sturdy support to the wigwam of our hypothesis, and we can thus feel a reasonable degree of confidence in our conclusions. If we turn now to the other volume in the satchel, Dickens’s David Copperfield: this appears to have been read before, but not more than once, I should say. It is not by any means what might be described as ‘a well-thumbed copy’, and in fact appears to be a fairly recent edition.”

“That is true,” I agreed.

“Now, while it is possible that Dr Kennett had already read David Copperfield in a different edition when he was younger, it seems most likely, taking the condition of this volume together with his remarks about the book, that it is a novel he has come to for the first time only recently, in maturity.”

“That had not struck me before,” said Harte in a considered tone, “but now that I recall again his conversation, I am inclined to think that what you suggest is correct.”

“But as Kennett himself observed, David Copperfield is commonly given to children of fourteen and fifteen years of age. How is it, then, that such an intelligent and cultured man as Kennett should never have read the book before?”

“Perhaps because all his intellectual energies have been applied to other subjects,” I suggested.

“It is possible,” said Holmes. “Perhaps, like John Stuart Mill, he had an education which was rigorously devoted to scientific and technical subjects, to the exclusion of the more artistic aspects of human life. Mill writes somewhere that because of the intense educational process to which he was subjected, which had been devised by his father, he heard scarcely a note of music or a word of poetry until he was an adult. But in this case, other, simpler, explanations are possible.”

“What do you have in mind?” asked Harte.

“That the man calling himself Dr Kennett is not in fact English. If that were so, he might, of course, be highly educated, and perhaps familiar with the literature of his own country, but not with that of England.”

“He certainly sounded English,” observed Harte. “He had no particular accent that I could discern.”

“Well it is, of course, possible that although foreign, he has been a fluent English-speaker for many years. Some foreign English-speakers – those from France and the other Latin countries, for instance – never really lose their original accents, no matter how long they live in England, but for others – some Germans and Scandinavians, for instance – the speaking of English seems to come more naturally, and after living here for a few years many of them could pass for natives. Perhaps it is so with Kennett. The conjecture that he is a foreigner is, of course, but one of half a dozen different possible explanations, but I will not trouble you with the others, all of which I was able to eliminate in light of the data presented to us by the satchel. May I now draw your attention to the inscription on the inside of the satchel?”

“It is scarcely decipherable,” I remarked, as Harte turned back the flap so we could see. “The lettering has been almost completely worn away.”

Holmes shook his head. “Not worn away,” said he, “but deliberately scratched away, probably with a small penknife. The general hue of the inside of the satchel is a somewhat grubby grey; but you can see that where the letters have been obliterated, the colour is slightly lighter, indicating that the obliteration of the name has been done relatively recently, perhaps within the last year or two. For some reason, the owner of this satchel has wished to conceal his identity.”

“Perhaps it belonged previously to someone else,” I suggested, “and the new owner simply wished to remove the previous owner’s name.”

“I think not, Watson. For it is evident that although he has deliberately scratched away most of the name, he has left the initial letters untouched. They are, as you see, ‘A. K.’, the same initials as in the books. Clearly, he does not care if the initials are seen – he can, after all, make up a new name to match them – but it is vitally important to him that his true name is never seen. This suggests, although not conclusively, that he has reason to suppose that his true name is one that would be recognized. There is corroboration in the satchel, incidentally, that whatever the English scholar’s true name is, it is not Kennett; for the space taken up by the second name in the satchel is definitely too short to accommodate ‘Kennett’, and, in any case, so far as I could determine with the aid of a lens, it ends with an ‘s’.”

I nodded my agreement on the point.

“May I further draw your attention to the smaller letters and figures below the excised name?” Holmes continued.

“I noticed them earlier,” I remarked. “There is the name ‘KARL’, followed by a three and an eight. What the name ‘KARL’ might signify, I cannot imagine, although as it is a Germanic name, it lends support to your hypothesis that the satchel’s owner is not a native Englishman. As to the numbers, perhaps they constitute some sort of code, inscribed by the manufacturer of the satchel, or by the shop from which it was purchased.”

“And yet,” remarked Holmes, “the numbers have been inscribed with the same pen and ink as the rest of the lettering.”

“Why, so they have!” cried Harte.

“This suggests that they are figures of significance for the owner of the satchel. As to ‘KARL’, that may not be a personal name at all. The obliterated letters above, following the initials ‘A. K.’, must surely be the owner’s name, so why would a second name be inscribed in the satchel? Now ‘KARL’ has a full stop after it, which suggests it may be an abbreviation. It is therefore at least possible, it seems to me, that it is an abbreviation for the German name of what we know as Charles University in Prague, the oldest university in Central Europe. If that is so, the figures may well be the date – 1838 – when the satchel was purchased by A. K. as a young student. That would suggest that he was born about 1820, which would make him about sixty-one or sixty-two now. Did the man on the train appear to be of that age, Mr Harte?”

“Almost exactly, I should say.”

“Very well, then. The supposition is confirmed, not conclusively, but very strongly. That the satchel has been owned by A. K. for many years is indicated also by the numerous repairs which have been made to it, some of which appear to have been made many years ago. The shoulder strap, for instance, is clearly a replacement for an earlier one – the colour and texture of the leather are slightly different from the rest of the satchel – but such a strap might well be expected to last for twenty years or more, and the present one has the appearance of having been in place for a good ten years.”

“Where does this bring us to?” enquired Harte after a moment.

“It brings us to the true identity of the satchel’s owner,” returned Holmes, taking his pipe from his pocket and beginning to fill it. “It has taken me some time to explain to you my reasoning from the clues which the satchel and its contents presented. It is always far more laborious and time-consuming to explain such reasoning than it is to perform it. Sophocles, in one of his plays, describes man’s thought as ‘wind-swift’, and that is an accurate observation. But a perception that occupies one for less than a second is likely to take several minutes to explain. Dr Watson has sometimes considered that my occasional neglect to explain to him my reasoning springs from some perverse urge to secrecy; but generally it is that I simply do not have the time for explanations. My perceptions may be so swift as to seem like instantaneous intuitions, but the explanation of them is always likely to prove a somewhat lengthy monologue.