Текст книги "The Mammoth Book of the Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes"
Автор книги: Denis O. Smith
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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 36 страниц)
“To return now to specifics, and to the true identity of the English scholar,” continued Holmes after a moment, putting a match to his pipe, “we conjecture from the indications available to us that he is intelligent and cultured. He is possibly a foreigner, although he speaks English like a native. He is probably about sixty-two years of age, and may be a graduate of Prague University. He is a personal acquaintance of the eminent Professor Walters of Cambridge, and although something of a novice in the field of English literature, he is probably eminent in some field himself, for he has made great efforts to conceal his identity. Though his name is not Kennett, his initials are ‘A. K.’ and his second name ends with an ‘s’. In short, Mr Harte, the man you conversed with so amicably on the train can be none other than Adolf Kraus.”
The solicitor shook his head in evident puzzlement. “The name sounds vaguely familiar,” said he, “but I cannot quite place it.”
“Surely,” I interjected, “you do not mean the former Prime Minister of Bohemia?”
“Precisely, Watson. He is, according to my reference book, sixty-two years of age. He first attended Prague University in 1838, and continued his studies subsequently at Vienna, and at Cambridge, here in England. He later returned to teach at Prague, where he became Professor of Cultural History in 1861. During his stay in England, incidentally, he met and subsequently married Constance Dowling, daughter of the professor of moral philosophy, a circumstance which would, of course, have served to improve his English accent.”
“But what on earth is he doing here, sequestered in one of the most rural corners of England?” I asked in astonishment.
“Leading as quiet a life as possible, I imagine.”
“But why?”
“Do you not recall the troubles in Bohemia, a few years ago, which reached a climax with riots in the streets of Prague?”
“I heard something of the matter at the time,” I replied, “though I cannot claim a very thorough understanding of what lay behind it all. As far as I recall, it blew over fairly quickly.”
Holmes shook his head. “I rather suspect that for some it did not blow over at all,” said he. “Lives were lost, and no doubt grudges were borne, when the authorities used force to put down the riots. Adolf Kraus was prime minister at the time, and was blamed by some elements for what had happened. To what extent that censure was justified, I do not know, but I do know that two separate attempts were later made upon his life, and that he and his family were hounded out of the country.”
Harte’s features expressed incredulity. “I cannot believe that the gentleman I met on the train could be guilty of any dishonourable act,” said he.
“From my own information, I should be inclined to agree with you,” responded Holmes, “but, of course, it matters little what you or I believe.”
“I understand,” said Harte, nodding his head. “It is your opinion, then, that Kraus is in hiding from his enemies?”
“That is what we must assume. It would explain why he and his family have chosen to live in what sounds from your account to be one of the most isolated houses in southern England. But I fear that his enemies have once more caught up with him, and that his life is once more in peril. The man you saw hiding in the bushes at Owl’s Hill must have been an advance scout for the assassins. Now that they have found their quarry, they will waste no time in exacting their revenge. Adolf Kraus’s life hangs by a thread at the moment, and with each hour that passes his peril increases. Now, Mr Harte, perhaps you will understand the sense of urgency that overwhelmed me in Baker Street, and understand, too, why arms may be necessary. We must at all costs prevent the terrible crime that is in prospect!”
“I am dumbfounded!” cried Harte after a moment. “I can scarcely credit that it is true! I simply wished to return the old gentleman’s satchel to him, but it seems I have become embroiled in a deadly conspiracy! It is clear now why the woman at Owl’s Hill lied to me. She must be Kraus’s wife, and she probably feared that I had some connection with the people pursuing her husband. No doubt when I saw her expressing anger towards him, she was berating him for his carelessness in losing his satchel, and thus, as she saw it, placing his life in danger.”
“It must be so. Now we must warn them of the real danger that threatens.”
“Surely we should notify the authorities at once?”
“I wired the Chief Constable of Suffolk from London,” returned Holmes. “But our first priority must be to warn Kraus himself of the grave peril in which he stands. If we had delayed our journey in order to discuss the matter with the authorities, it is likely that before they could act, Kraus would be dead. There are occasions when, for better or worse, a man must act upon his own judgement, or know that the issue is lost. I sent a wire also to Owl’s Hill, but it was, of necessity, a mere brief warning. It may serve, at least, to put them on their guard. But only in person can we explain to them the nature of the danger, how we know of it, and what our interest in the matter is.”
“You have acted very promptly,” I remarked. “I cannot think that there is anything more you could have done.”
My friend nodded his head. “Thank you, Watson,” said he. “It is good of you to say so. Now the matter lies somewhat precariously in the lap of the gods.”
Our train reached Little Gissingham station a little after twenty to seven. It was a fine evening, and though the sun was far in the west, the air was still warm and only the lightest of breezes stirred the blossom on the trees by the station master’s house. As that official examined our tickets, Holmes asked him if many visitors had alighted at the station that day. He shook his head and declared that there had been few travellers and all of them had been local folk.
“That is good news, at least,” remarked Harte, as we made our way up the short track towards the village. “For it means we have arrived before Herr Kraus’s enemies.”
“Unfortunately, we cannot be sure of that,” returned Holmes with a shake of the head. “They may have alighted at one of the other stations on the line – the last one we passed was only about two miles back – in order to avoid arousing comment here. It would not take them very long to make their way here across country. We must make all haste!”
Harte led us through the picturesque little village, past the green on which two children were playing with a little dog, past the ancient-looking inn, and along the road that led to Owl’s Hill. For some time, the road passed through dense woods, which threw long shadows across the road, and here, unseen among the shaded trees, the birds were chirruping their evensong. Presently, when we had been walking for about a quarter of an hour, we reached a crest, and saw the road winding down the hill ahead of us. A hundred yards further on, there was a gap in the woods on the right, and I descried a trim garden hedge. Behind this hedge, set a dozen yards back from the road, was a solid-looking red-brick house. “That is Owl’s Hill,” said our guide.
As we turned in at the garden gate, the house presented a silent and deserted appearance, and but for a thin wisp of smoke which rose from one of the chimneys, I might have imagined it unoccupied. Our ring at the bell was answered by a young girl in a parlour maid’s uniform. Holmes asked her if her mistress was at home, and intimated that we would wait at the door for a reply.
In a moment she had returned, and with her was a tall, middle-aged woman of striking appearance. Though her hair was grey and her face showed that the cares of life had not passed her by, there was yet a fineness and delicacy about her features, and a vividness about her grey eyes, which spoke of a nobility of spirit and a firmness of resolution.
“Yes?” she demanded in a peremptory tone. Then, as her eyes alighted on Holmes’s client, she started slightly. “Oh, it’s you again, is it?” said she sharply. She half turned and called loudly into the recesses of the house. “Joseph! Joseph! Come here at once!”
“It’s all right, Mother; I’m here already,” came a low, firm voice from behind us.
I turned quickly. Behind us in the garden stood a tall, lean young man with dark red hair. In his hand was a revolver, pointed at us. Clearly he had slipped out of a back door and approached silently round the side of the house. “If any of you makes an untoward movement,” said he in a cold voice, “I am quite prepared to use this pistol.”
“This is the man that rifled my room at the inn last night,” cried Harte in a tone of fear.
“He was looking for the satchel,” said Holmes. “He ransacked both rooms, because he did not know which one was yours.”
“You seem to know a lot!” cried the young man.
“I know everything,” returned Holmes in a calm voice. “I understand your caution,” he added, eyeing the pistol. “In this case, however, it is misplaced. We have come expressly to warn you that your father’s life is in great danger.”
“What do you know of my father?” demanded the young man in an angry voice. “You are armed!” he cried all at once. “You have a pistol in your pocket!”
“Yes, I am armed,” returned Holmes, “and so is my colleague here,” he added, indicating me. “We came prepared to defend your father, if necessary.”
“Why should we believe you?” demanded the young man. “Who are you?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes. Did you not get my wire?”
“Your name means nothing to me,” retorted the young man.
“Nor to me,” said the woman.
“I am a consulting detective, madam,” said Holmes, turning to the woman. “This gentleman, Mr Harte, came to see me this morning, as a result of certain unpleasant and puzzling events which occurred yesterday evening. His only wish had been to return your husband’s satchel, which had been left on a train, and he was convinced that you had lied to him when you said that the gentleman in question no longer lived here.”
I read hesitation in the woman’s face.
“If the satchel is ours, I will accept it,” said she at last, holding out her hand. “Then Mr Harte’s wishes will be satisfied, and you must go and trouble us no more!”
“No, madam,” said Holmes in a firm voice as Harte handed her the satchel. “You must believe me when I tell you that your husband is in mortal danger. Yesterday evening, after you had spoken to Mr Harte, he saw a man hiding among the bushes at the side of the garden, spying on the house.”
“I knew it!” cried the young man to his mother. “I told you that I had heard someone moving about out there. Was this man aware that you had seen him?” he demanded of Harte.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I, too, hid and kept very still.”
“What makes you think my husband’s life is in danger?” the woman asked. “The man Mr Harte saw in the garden may have been some local simpleton playing a game.”
“Your husband is in deadly peril, madam,” returned Holmes, “because he is Adolf Kraus, late Prime Minister of Bohemia.”
“No!” cried she, a terrible note of anguish in her voice.
“Yes!” returned Holmes in a firm voice. “His initials are in the satchel, and from that and other indications, we were able to work out a solution to these puzzling events.”
The woman clutched her head in both her hands and appeared in a terrible state of indecision and fear. But at that moment a door opened in the hall behind her, and a tall, broad-chested elderly man with a mane of white hair stepped forward into the light. He put his arm round his wife’s shoulders, and she turned and buried her head in his chest, sobbing loudly.
“I am indeed Adolf Kraus,” said the man in a measured tone. “Mr Rhodes Harte,” he continued, “I have been listening to everything which has been said. It is a pleasure to see you again, sir! Do you vouch for these other two gentlemen?”
“Certainly I do,” replied Harte promptly. “This is Mr Sherlock Holmes, the leading criminal investigator, and this is his colleague John Watson, who is a medical man.”
“Then come inside,” said Kraus. “Put up your pistol, Joseph. If Mr Harte vouches for these gentlemen, that is good enough for me. Mr Harte is an honourable man, or I am no judge of character!”
He led us through the hallway into a large drawing room. Then, having seated his wife in a chair by the hearth, he turned and addressed us. His features appeared careworn and tired, and in his voice was a note of resignation.
“You say, gentlemen, that my life is in danger. You tell me that you have seen men hiding in the bushes. I do not doubt that you are right. I have seen such things before. But what can I do, save sit here all night with a pistol in my lap?”
“You must get away from here immediately,” replied Holmes in an urgent tone.
“I am weary of flight. Besides, where can I go?”
“Perhaps Professor Walters could put you up for a few days.”
“What do you know of Professor Walters?” asked Kraus in surprise.
“His name was in one of your books, in the satchel. Would he do it?”
“Yes,” said Kraus, appearing roused from his apathy by the suggestion. “Yes, he might. He did say that I should not hesitate to approach him, should I ever need help.”
“Then pack a travelling bag at once,” said Holmes. “You must catch the last train; time is running out!”
“Yes! I will do it now,” cried Kraus’s wife, springing from her chair with renewed spirit. “Come and help me, Joseph. We can do it in three minutes! Tell Emily Jane to throw a jug of water onto the kitchen fire, then gather her things together and be ready to leave the house in five minutes!”
“Is it your intention to take the girl with you?” Holmes enquired of Kraus, as his wife and son hurried from the room.
“Certainly,” returned Kraus. “We have grown very fond of her and could scarcely imagine life without her. Besides, she is an orphan and has nowhere else to go.”
“Are there any other servants in the house?”
Kraus shook his head. “We have a cook, but she is away at present, visiting her sister. Mr Harte,” he continued, turning to the solicitor, “I must thank you for returning my satchel. It is very kind of you. I could not think where I had lost it. I had not even mentioned the loss to my wife, for I knew that she would be angry at my carelessness. When she informed me yesterday that you had called with it, I wanted to go after you, to speak to you, but she would not hear of it, and said I should be putting myself in danger unnecessarily. And whenever I went out in future, she insisted, I should take a cudgel with me, in case I was attacked. Then Joseph said he would walk to the village and take a look in the inn, to see if he could find the satchel. His search was not successful, and we concluded that you had left the district and gone home. He informed me, however, that he had heard a man on the road ahead of him in the dark, but he had not been able to see who it was.”
“I was that man,” said Harte. “I thought he was pursuing me.”
“Dear, dear!” exclaimed Kraus. “I am very sorry if you were alarmed, my dear Mr Harte. I know only too well how dreadful it is to be pursued! Do you know, gentlemen,” he continued after a moment, “why it is that I have been pursued so relentlessly?”
“Because you were head of the government in Bohemia at the time of the Prague riots,” replied Holmes. “Lives were lost and, rightly or wrongly, you were blamed.”
Kraus nodded his head slowly. “That is indeed the immediate explanation of the matter,” said he, “but there is a larger, more abstract reason. Everything bad that has happened to me in my life has happened because I was persuaded against my better judgement to enter the world of politics. It was not a world for which I was suited, either by nature or by education. I was naive and gullible and believed what I was told. This fact was my undoing.
“As you may be aware, I taught for many years at the Charles University in Prague. In that relatively modest capacity I was content to serve, and had no desire to make any greater mark upon the pages of history. Some years ago, however, when certain issues concerned with both the history and the future of Bohemia were the subject of intense public debate, I wrote several letters to the Press, in order to correct what I saw as misapprehensions which were prevalent at the time. My letters were responded to, I wrote more, and soon, to my surprise, I found that my opinion was being constantly sought by influential parties on every side of the debate. I was, with some reluctance, persuaded to address public meetings. Then the regional government itself requested my advice, and later appointed me to lead a committee of enquiry into the governance of Bohemia. I flattered myself at the time that the merits of my views had been recognized. The truth, of course, was somewhat different. As I learned later, express orders had been received from Vienna that I be appointed to the committee of enquiry in order that my hands should thereby be tied and my tongue stilled.
“After a time, my committee presented its report, and shortly afterwards I was asked to join the government itself. I had never for one moment sought such a position, but the circumstances were such that it was practically impossible for me to turn down the request. It seemed to be as it says in the book of Ecclesiastes: ‘The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong; but time and chance happen to them all’. Time and chance certainly appeared to be happening to me. I had been in the government for but a few months when a singular series of events took away my senior colleagues one by one – one man was implicated in a financial scandal and resigned his post, another man resigned for family reasons, a third fell ill and retired – and I found myself elevated to the position of prime minister almost by default. I thus found myself, a man who had never sought any role in public life, at the very pinnacle of the Bohemian regional government. What I did not appreciate then, however, was that my colleagues, more experienced in the subtle twists and turns of politics than I could ever be, had already foreseen the troubles which were fast approaching, and were taking steps to remove themselves from the arena, leaving me alone to bear the assault. Needless to say, most of them miraculously overcame their personal difficulties and returned to public life once the troubles had passed and I had fallen from grace. Still, I knew none of this at the time, and saw only that I had arrived at a surprising and unlooked-for position of eminence. I was determined not to stay in that position for very long, but to do as much good as I could while I was there. As you will imagine, the first of these two aspirations was satisfied somewhat more fully than the second.
“You may have surmised from my name that I am of the German race, and you may be aware that the population of Bohemia is part German and part Czech, the latter being the more numerous. I determined to do what I could to address various grievances, which were causing ill-feeling among the Czechs, and believed that I was making some progress in this respect, when certain repressive laws and regulations came into force by order of the Imperial Government in Vienna. These led to great resentment and public unrest. Although I bore no responsibility for these laws, as the head of the regional government I was blamed for them, and became the focus of popular hatred. This was grossly unfair, but what was worse was that I was hated most bitterly by those I had striven so diligently to help. Still, that distinction scarcely matters, as I was hated by all parties alike. I was hated by the Germans of Bohemia because they considered that I had betrayed their interests and favoured the Czechs, and I was hated by the Czechs simply because I was a German. I struggled to restore public order once more, but at last I was forced to admit failure and composed my letter of resignation. Alas, before it could be announced, heavily armed troops were sent from Vienna to put down the riots in Prague. I tried to prevent the troops from entering the city, but I was overruled. There was great violence, and many of the rioters were killed. Within days it became clear to me that I was held responsible for this tragedy, even though I of all men had done my utmost to prevent it. I resigned then, but unfortunately this only confirmed the popular belief that I admitted responsibility for what had occurred. Shortly afterwards, two attempts were made upon my life, and I realized that we could no longer live safely in Bohemia. We moved to Berlin, but had been there scarcely six months when every window in our house was broken one night, and I received a death-threat through the mail. Once again we were obliged to move, and this time we came to England. We stayed for a time in London, but I was recognized in the street one day and decided that it would be safer to move to the countryside, where no one would know me.
“We chose this house as it was the most isolated place we could find, and here we have lived peacefully for several years. Now, it seems, we must move again, for there are men in the shrubbery with murder in their hearts. Are they Czech? Are they German? Are they even Austrian, perhaps? Who can say? It makes no difference: they all hate me, and for things I did not even do.”
As Kraus finished speaking, he shook his head in a gesture of weary resignation, and at that moment his wife and son returned.
“Do not be downcast, Adolf!” cried his wife, as she saw his forlorn countenance. “Do not despair! Have strength once again and we shall make a new home somewhere else, even better than this one. Consider also your work,” she continued, as he showed no sign of responding to her encouragement. “The research in which you are engaged cannot be done so well by any other man in Europe. You must not yield to these murderers.”
“If you are all ready,” said Holmes, consulting his watch, “we had best be off. You do not keep a pony and trap?”
Frau Kraus shook her head. “We have had no need of one,” said she. “It takes only twelve minutes to walk to the village, and fifteen to the railway station. If you gentlemen will help us with our bags, we shall manage perfectly well.”
In a minute we were in the road, and Kraus and his family had turned their backs on the house that had been their home. The little serving girl, Emily Jane, was in a state of great agitation and fear. Although she did not fully understand what was afoot, she understood enough to know that danger was pressing. I took her bag and spoke a few words of encouragement to her. I hoped that I sounded calm, but in truth any calmness I displayed was almost entirely an act. Within, my heart beat with just the same agitation as hers, I am sure, for I knew only too well the peril of our situation.
We made a strange, and oddly assorted party upon that quiet country road that evening: the striking, almost comic figure of Herr Kraus, his top hat wedged crookedly upon his unruly mane of snow-white hair; his wife beside him, tall and queenly in her poise; Harte and I following behind, two vaguely professional-looking gentlemen, quite out of place on that dusty country road, and the pretty little servant girl, Emily Jane, her eyes wide with fear, keeping close to my side; beside us, guarding the right and left flank respectively, Holmes and Kraus’s son, the latter lean and tense as a coiled spring, his sharp eyes darting this way and that in constant vigilance. What might a chance onlooker have made of this singular group? Could anyone possibly have divined the strange and fearful business that was taking us along that deserted road on that pleasant spring evening?
Above us, the pale blue sky was streaked with bands of red. The sun had been sinking below the horizon just as we left the house. Now, the deepening shadows within the woods and the purplish light upon the tree tops spoke eloquently of the fleeting time that is twilight. A few unseen birds still twittered fitfully among the trees as they settled down to roost for the night, but save only these soft sounds, the countryside had already slipped into the deep silence of evening.
As we approached the brow of the hill, a pony and trap came over the crest, appearing as a black silhouette against the pale sky behind. Down the hill towards us it came, at a slow, unhurried trot, and we moved in slightly to the side of the road to let it pass. Two men were on the seat, I observed, clad in overcoats and soft hats.
“Why it’s my acquaintance, Mr Bradbury, the farm-machinery man from the Fox and Goose,” cried Harte. He raised his arm and called a greeting as the trap drew level with us.
There are moments in a man’s life that stay for ever in his memory, good moments and bad moments, and moments which seemed at the time neither conspicuously good or bad, but which are still lodged firmly in one’s mind. Good, bad or indifferent, all can be brought into one’s conscious thoughts at any moment, at the very slightest of bidding. You glance for a moment at the fire, and you are once again the five-year-old boy, gazing into the nursery fire and wondering what causes the little spurts of flame upon the sides of the black coals; you see a woman riding in the park and you are translated at once to a chilly schoolroom of long ago, where a nursery-rhyme illustration hangs on the wall, of “a fine lady upon a white horse”.
There are other moments, too, dark, terrible moments, which need no bidding to emerge from the mysterious shaded recesses of memory, but which appear periodically of their own volition, for no apparent reason, often in the long drowsy watches of the night. The result is always the same: a sickening, jarring sensation, a frightening jolt to the mind, and in an instant one is fully awake and living again through that dreadful moment, the blood throbbing in one’s veins, the beads of perspiration breaking out upon one’s brow. It was a moment of this latter type that followed Mr Harte’s friendly wave to the men on the trap. I cannot count the many times the scene has been replayed upon the stage of my memory, where each second of time occupies a minute, and each minute seems an eternity.
The echo of Mr Harte’s greeting still hung in the air as the driver of the trap reined in his horse and drew it to a halt just in front of us. The man to the right of the driver seemed to grunt a response to the greeting and, as he did so, he drew back with his left hand the front of his overcoat, which was unfastened, and with his right brought out a heavy shotgun, which had been concealed beneath the coat, and began to raise it towards us. Mesmerized though I was by the strange, silent elevation of the deadly muzzle, I was conscious too of other movement, from Holmes on my right and Kraus’s son on my left. Then, as the shotgun reached the horizontal and pointed straight at us, my eyes for an instant met those of the man holding it, and I read there his evil, remorseless intent, even as his finger tightened on the trigger. The girl beside me was gripping my right arm so tightly that I could not move it. Then came a flash of fire from either side of me, and the simultaneous reports of two pistols. The man holding the shotgun let out a blood-curdling cry as the two shots struck home, I saw blood spring from his breast as he reeled over backwards, and as he did so, the gun in his hand discharged with a flash like lightning and a roar like thunder, and the deadly shot passed mere inches above our heads. Frau Kraus screamed, the horse in the shafts reared up in terror, and the young girl beside me slumped senseless upon my arm. Even as all these things were happening, the driver of the trap had dropped the reins and pulled out a large revolver from within his coat. Again, two shots rang out in unison from beside me, and the man on the trap pitched sideways from his seat and fell in a heap to the ground.
Holmes stepped forward quickly and seized the reins, as the horse whinnied and made to bolt, his eyes bulging with fear. I carried the young girl to the side of the road and laid her down on a grassy bank, then quickly examined the two strangers who had come with such murderous intent into our lives. They were both dead.
I looked round. The sound of the explosions was still ringing in my ears, and the air was thick with smoke and the smell of gunpowder. Rhodes Harte was standing in perfect stillness in the middle of the road, as if stunned into senselessness by the terrible rapidity of the events. “But, Mr Bradbury . . .” he began in a tone of stupefaction. “I thought . . .”
“It was almost certainly he you saw hiding in the garden of Owl’s Hill yesterday,” said Holmes. “He was no machinery salesman, but must in reality have been the advance scout for the assassination party. No doubt he wired his confederates with the information this morning. They would have killed us all without a thought, Mr Harte. Here,” he continued, thrusting his pistol back into his pocket, “help me turn the trap round and get the other man aboard. We have no time to lose!”
We passed no one on the road through the village, and reached the railway station with just a few minutes to spare. There, Kraus was momentarily nonplussed when he learnt that the last train was headed east, towards the Colchester line, and he would not be able to reach Cambridge that night.
“We can get from Colchester up to Ipswich, at least,” cried Harte. “You must come with me and stay the night at my house, Herr Kraus. You can make your way over to Cambridge on the other line, via Bury St Edmunds, tomorrow morning.”
Kraus seemed reluctant to impose upon the solicitor’s generosity, but his wife assured him that it was the only sensible thing to do, and he at length agreed. Harte then quickly sent a wire to his wife, instructing her to expect visitors, and as he rejoined us on the platform, the last train of the day drew noisily into the station of Little Gissingham.
Herr Kraus, his wife and son, Rhodes Harte and Emily Jane were quickly aboard, and the doors were slammed shut. Then, with a roar of steam and smoke, the train pulled away, quickly picked up speed and vanished into the darkness. For a few moments, Holmes and I stood there in silence, watching the red lamp on the last carriage until it had vanished round the curve, then we made our way out to the station yard.
