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

Автор книги: Denis O. Smith

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“Half of this letter was written to me by my mother. Alas, it was the last communication I was ever to receive from her! I received two further letters from my father before the end of the year, but then heard nothing more – despite writing several letters myself – until some seven or eight months later. Then I received a brief note from my father, in the form almost of an official notification, to inform me that my mother’s illness had at last overcome her and that she had died in the spring. This news saddened me greatly, although it was not, in truth, entirely unexpected. My mother had been in poor health for some years, and I had always feared that she might die while I was abroad. The news was made especially distressing to me, however, by the curt, impersonal character of the note that conveyed it. I replied at once, expressing my sorrow, but received no further communication from home whatever.

“I have given you a sketch of the part I played in the Afghan campaign, so I will not weary you with further details, except to say that no group of men could have acted with more resolution and dedication to duty than did the men of the West Sussex. You may have observed on my tiepin the regimental motto, Fidus et Audax. Believe me when I tell you that no men could have been more ‘faithful and bold’. Some of my colleagues lost their lives in the campaign, and will not be forgotten; but every man that survived left that accursed country with his honour enhanced, and there is not one among them that does not deserve a decoration. For myself I make no claim to heroic status, but I did believe, as I returned to England, that I would be greeted as one, at least, who had fulfilled his duty to his native land to the fullest extent of his physical and mental capacities. I could not have imagined, on the long voyage home, that I would be met, instead, with cold indifference and contempt. What has happened in recent days has quite turned my brain, so that I feel I am losing my grip upon sanity, and can no longer trust my own thoughts or actions.”

Sherlock Holmes frowned. “Pray, continue,” said he in a soft voice as his visitor paused. “It is evident that something very strange must have occurred to disturb you in this way.”

“The West Sussex Infantry returned to England towards the end of last month,” continued Captain Reid after a moment. “I wired home as soon as I landed at Portsmouth, to say that I had arrived back safely and should be home in a few days. To this message I received no reply. I wired again from the regimental headquarters at Horsham on the morning I was leaving, with my time of arrival at the local railway station. When my train pulled in there, however, I saw, to my surprise, that there was no one there to meet me. Fortunately, the station fly was there, and was, I observed, still driven by the same fellow, Isaac Barham, who had often jested with me and teased me in my youth. I greeted him cordially, expecting some rustic witticism in response, or at the very least a smile of recognition. To my utter astonishment, a shudder of distaste seemed to pass across his features as he saw me. In a moment it was gone, and his face was once more impassive, but I knew that I could not have been mistaken.

“‘What is it?’ said I. ‘You look as if you have seen a ghost!’

“He mumbled something in response, which I did not catch, threw my bag aboard and we set off, rattling along the narrow, hilly lanes. Not once did he open his mouth, although once or twice I caught him stealing a glance at me. We passed by fields and hedgerows and wooded dells, all alive with the scents of late summer, and an uprush of joy filled my heart to be home in this beautiful countryside once more.

“‘It is good to be back in England,’ said I aloud at length, unable to contain my thoughts any longer.

“‘Is it?’ was his mumbled response.

“‘There were times in India when I feared I might never return,’ I remarked, ignoring his surly, unfriendly manner.

“‘It’d be better if you never had,’ said he under his breath.

“‘What did you say!’ I cried, although I had heard it clear enough, but he just grunted and averted his eyes.

“This greeting, from the first person I had met who knew me was both remarkable and unpleasant, but I thought that Barham had perhaps suffered some personal tragedy recently, which had affected his brain, and I determined not to let it lower my spirits. Our way took us presently through the village of Topley Cross, and as we passed through the market place I saw several people I knew. I raised my arm to wave a greeting as we passed, but they turned away hurriedly, as if in a pretence of not having seen me, although it was perfectly plain that they had. I could conceive of no explanation for this, at least as pertaining to myself, and I wondered if it were Isaac Barham they were shunning. Perhaps, I speculated, my driver’s morose and unfriendly manner was the result of some general falling-out between him and the rest of the district.

“Presently, we turned in at the gate of Oakbrook Hall, and as the drive passed between the gnarled old oaks, the tall elms and beeches, all clothed in the colours of autumn, I almost cried aloud, so joyful was I to be home. When we drew up before the Hall, I sprang down from the trap, paid off my surly companion with a sense of relief and hurried indoors.

“There was a stillness and silence about the house that seemed strange to me and was not how I remembered it. For a moment, I stood in the hallway and called, but this elicited no response. I glanced into the library, which is also my father’s old study, but there was no one there. At length, I tugged the bell rope in the hall, and Bunning, my father’s butler, appeared presently from the back of the house; but when he saw who it was that had summoned him he stopped dead in his tracks and clutched his chest. I thought at first that he was suffering some kind of heart seizure, but when he spoke it was clear to me that it was simply my presence there that troubled him.

“‘Master John!’ said he in a breathless tone.

“‘None other,’ said I. ‘This is a fine welcome, Bunning, I must say! Is my father not at home?’

“‘Colonel Reid is in the upstairs study, sir,’ replied he. ‘He is engaged upon his manuscript.’

“‘I see. Well, kindly inform him, if he can spare a moment, that his son is home from India.’ With that I returned to the library in no very good humour. But the library of Oakbrook Hall has always had a soothing effect upon me. There is a serenity there, in the smell of old leather and polish, and on that day these scents were mingled with those of late summer flowers, for the French windows stood open to the garden. I poured myself a glass of sherry from a decanter and emptied my mind of every thought save that of the pleasure I felt just to be there, at home at Oakbrook once more.

“A few minutes later I heard footsteps in the passage. It was not my father who entered the library, however, but his secretary, Northcote. He blinked at me from behind his spectacles, and informed me in his customary nervous, embarrassed manner that my father was indisposed. He had retired to his room, having left strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed, and would see me that evening at dinner.

“It seemed a strange, cold homecoming for one who had travelled so far, and for so long, in the hope of seeing once more his familiar house and home, but there was nothing I could do about it. I occupied myself as best I could for the remainder of the day and, in truth, the exhaustion that I had resisted during my long journey finally swept over me like a wave upon a beach, and I spent long periods of the day asleep on my bed.

“At dinner that night, my father greeted me with a cool formality. He had never been a very expressive man, and it was clear that my mother’s death had affected him deeply, and I explained his lack of warmth on those grounds. Also, Northcote was dining with us, which perhaps placed a further constraint upon the conversation. Physically my father seemed much as ever, although his hair had turned white while I had been away, but mentally and spiritually he seemed to have aged by more than the three years I had spent in India. When I ventured to allude to my mother, he brushed aside my remarks and indicated quite clearly that he did not wish the subject to be raised. I told him, then, something of my exploits in Afghanistan, and was rewarded by a spark of interest in his eyes. But soon this spark had faded again, and when I paused for a moment in my account, he did not ask me to continue, but excused himself from the table and left the room.

“This left me alone with Northcote, and I endeavoured to learn from him what had wrought this change in my father’s manner.

“‘Did you not receive the letter that Colonel Reid sent you at Horsham?’ said he.

“I shook my head.

“‘No matter,’ said he. ‘Your father has had many worries, Captain Reid. Your mother’s death was a blow from which he has never fully recovered.’

“I would have asked him more about all that had happened in my absence, but at that moment my father returned and summoned his secretary away, saying that he had some work he wished him to do, in connection with tenancy leases on the estate which were up for renewal. As Northcote followed my father from the room, he shot a glance my way, his features expressing confusion and apology. I shook my head slightly to convey to him that I understood the awkward position in which he was placed and would hold nothing against him on account of it. Indeed, I had the distinct impression that my father’s true purpose in calling his secretary away was simply to prevent the two of us talking any further. Whatever the reason, I was thus left utterly alone in the silent dining room, upon the day of my return from the Afghan War.

“The following morning I had a letter from Horsham, which I opened while I was waiting, alone, for breakfast. It was from the regimental post office, and merely contained the letter from my father, which had arrived there the previous day, just after I had left. Intrigued, I opened this second envelope. Inside was a brief note above my father’s signature. There was no word of greeting and just two lines of writing: ‘It is better that you do not come home. Kindly make other arrangements. I have let it be thought in the district that you are dead.’

“For a long moment, I stared in stupefied disbelief at this message. Then I read those two lines over and over and over again as I paced the floor of the dining room, unable to believe that I had understood them correctly. What on earth could it mean? Why should my father, so proud when I sailed for India with the regiment, now think so little of me as to prefer that his neighbours think me dead? He wrote as if he were deeply ashamed of me, but there was no conceivable reason why he should be. I had certainly not given either him or the regiment any cause to regard me with shame. Could it be that there was something dishonourable I had done which had entirely passed from my memory? That was surely inconceivable. Or had I done something the significance of which I had not realized? I racked my brains until my mind reeled with the effort, but could think of nothing that might explain the matter.

“I determined there and then to have it out with my father, but my purpose was thwarted, as he kept to his own room and sent word that he was indisposed. I then remembered that my friend, Captain Ranworth, was arriving for a visit by the late morning train, as we had earlier arranged, and I hastened to the railway station to meet him. When I described to him the difficult situation at home, he was all for cancelling the visit altogether, but I insisted he stay for one night at least. As I drove the trap back through Topley Cross, it seemed to me that the eyes of the villagers bored into my back as we passed. Ranworth, too, could sense that something was wrong, but could suggest no explanation. After lunch, which we ate alone, Ranworth took himself off for a walk over the neighbouring countryside. It was clear he felt uncomfortable at the odd situation in which he found himself, and did not wish by his presence to add to my difficulties. For a while I sat alone, but eventually I could bear the silence no longer, and made up my mind that I would walk over to Topley Grange, the home of our friends, the Blythe-Headleys.

“It was a beautiful autumn afternoon as I stepped out across the fields, and I was glad to be out of doors and away from the house. The sun was shining brightly in a sky of blue, bathing the countryside in its warm golden light, and all along the hedgerows of the bare ploughed fields the hips and haws glowed a vivid red. But this beauty, which would on another day have thrilled my very soul, now served only to make my predicament seem yet stranger and more disturbing. What place had I in all this beauty, a man whom others would prefer were dead?

“About a mile north of Oakbrook Hall, at the boundary with the Topley Grange estate, there is a narrow, steep-sided little valley in which lies a small spinney known as Jenkin’s Clump. A public footpath runs up the valley, from the Topley Cross road, over the hill to Belham Green, and in my younger days Jenkin’s Clump had always been a popular spot with the local boys. I myself passed many a long summer’s day there as a boy, in climbing trees, pretending to track wild animals like a Red Indian and suchlike games. Down through this wooded valley meanders a stream, and in the very centre of the spinney lies a long, narrow rushy pool, overhung for about half its circumference by graceful weeping willows, and known, in consequence, as the Willow Pool.

“My childhood memories of the place are of the woods ringing with boyish laughter; but now, as I began to make my way down the steeply sloping path through the trees towards the pool, I was conscious only of a great silence and stillness about me, so that my own footsteps upon the woodland floor and through the fallen leaves seemed an almost impertinent intrusion. No doubt my mood suggested strange fancies to my mind, but it seemed to me then that the stillness was like the stillness of death, the silence the silence of the grave. All at once, however, my solitary brooding thoughts were interrupted by a sudden rustling sound ahead of me, and a young man stepped out from behind a clump of bushes, down near the bottom of the path. He was not looking in my direction, but I recognized him at once as Noah Blogg, a slow-witted youth who lives with his family in Topley Cross. I know the family well, for his father, old Jack Blogg, has been the best bat in the village cricket team for nearly thirty years. It is Noah’s habit to wander here and there without apparent purpose, and to appear without forewarning wherever he is least expected. He endures some gentle teasing from the local men, but this is unfair of them, for though a simpleton, he is a good-hearted lad and quite harmless. I called to him and he turned. I was perfectly prepared for his not recognizing me after my three years’ absence, but what I could not have expected was the awful look of fear, which came like a spasm upon his face as he saw me. His eyes opened wide and his mouth fell open, as if I were a demon from the underworld, then with a shriek he turned and ran, his footsteps crashing away through the undergrowth.

“I quickened my pace and hurried down the hill. When I reached the bottom of the dell, where the public footpath runs alongside the stream, I peered to left and right, but there was no sign of Noah anywhere. My spirits had scarcely been improved by this strange encounter, as you will imagine, but I tried to put it from my mind as I continued my walk across the stream, up the hill on the other side, and so on to the Topley Grange estate. As I emerged from the woods, I descried a figure in the distance, on the brow of a hill, and thought at first that it was Noah Blogg, but saw in a moment that it was in fact my friend, Captain Ranworth, striding out vigorously. I called to him, but he was too far away and did not hear.

“The way from Jenkin’s Clump towards Topley Grange passes over steeply undulating terrain, and as I surmounted a ridge a little further on, I could see the house in the distance, somewhat below me. To the side of the house, surrounded by a high brick wall, is the Topley Grange rosary, which is famous for its collection of old roses. There, in an alley between the rose bushes, I espied a young lady in a white dress, with a wide-brimmed straw bonnet upon her head. My heart leapt at the sight, for I knew that it must be Mary Blythe-Headley, and I pressed on with increased speed. Even as I saw her she seemed to turn and look in my direction, but I was still a long way off, and I could not say whether she had seen me or not. The path I was following descended steeply after that, and for a time Topley Grange passed from my view. When next I had a clear sight of it, neither the young lady in the white dress, nor anyone else, was anywhere to be seen.

“When I reached the house, I was shown into the drawing room, where I waited for some time. Presently the servant who had admitted me returned with the information that Miss Blythe-Headley was not at home. I was struck speechless by this, for I felt certain it was quite untrue. My mind reeled. What was the meaning of it? Why should she avoid me in this way? I had waited so many years to see her again, and invested so much hope in our reunion, that this conclusion rendered me almost senseless. For several minutes I stood in the drawing room in silence, quite unable to think what to say or do, then the servant asked if he might show me out, and I followed him meekly, in silence, to the door. It was then, for the first time, that I began to doubt my own sanity. Had I really seen Mary in the garden, or had the whole scene been merely a product of my own fevered imagination? Were any of these strange events really happening as I believed, or were they all but episodes in a chaotic and evil dream? I no longer felt confident in my ability to distinguish between reality and fantasy.

“Scarcely aware of what I was doing, I walked slowly round to the side of the house and into the rosary. There, on a low wooden stool between two rows of bushes, was a shallow basket containing gardening scissors, a pair of stout gloves and half a dozen cut blooms. Someone had certainly been there recently, cutting flowers. But I was unsure, quite frankly, whether that made my situation better or worse. Then a gardener appeared round the end of the row of bushes and, seeing me, hurried away with a look of concern upon his face. Whether he intended to inform his master that a stranger was loitering in his garden, or was merely frightened at the very sight of me, I did not know, but I did not linger to discover the answer. I made my way out of the garden through a gateway in the wall, and round to a little summer house that stands outside the garden wall, at the top of a long gentle slope, from which there is a wonderful view across the countryside to the Downs. Inside this pretty little structure, about which roses climb and ramble, there is a wooden bench upon which I had often sat with Mary and our other friends in sunny summers past. Now I sat there all alone, at my wits’ end and feeling more forlorn than I had ever felt in my life before. What was happening to me seemed utter madness. I could hardly suppose, however, that all others in the parish had lost their wits at the very same moment, and could only conclude, therefore, that it was I who had slipped into insanity. But if this were so, why did no one tell me?

“Of course, such thoughts reached no sensible conclusion, but followed each other round in an endless spiral. Presently, I heard someone approaching, and then the sound of voices from the garden, over the wall behind the summer house, so I thought I had best be off. When I had gone some distance down the hill, I glanced back and saw that my progress was being observed by two men standing in the gateway of the rosary, but I was too far off by then to make out who they were.

“That evening at dinner, my father questioned Captain Ranworth about his Indian experiences, but it was clear that it cost him some effort to do so, and he soon made an excuse and left the table, requesting that Northcote accompany him to his study. When they had left us I described to Ranworth my experiences at Topley Grange. He was as amazed as I was by the strange reception I had been afforded there.

“‘That is really too bad,’ said he. ‘Whatever can they mean by such behaviour? I am sure you are correct, Reid, by the way, and that both Miss Blythe-Headley and her father were at home this afternoon, for I believe I saw them in the gardens there while I was on my walk.’

“I made up my mind then. I would leave with Ranworth in the morning, travel up to London and stay a few nights at my club. Incredible though it seemed to be leaving so quickly the home to which I had yearned for so long to return, I could think of no other recourse. It was evident that for reasons I could not begin to imagine I was not welcome there, nor, it appeared, anywhere else in the district.

“The following morning at breakfast, a long buff envelope lay beside my plate. I picked it up full of curiosity, for I observed from the postmark that it had been posted locally the day before, and I did not recognize the hand that had addressed it. Before I could open it, however, there came a terrible cry from my father as he opened a letter of his own. He stood up from the table, his face grey and drawn, and I sprang up in alarm and approached him, for he appeared in the grip of a seizure; but with a feeble gesture of his arm he waved me away.

“‘Leave me!’ cried he in a frail, hoarse voice. ‘You have dishonoured your home; you have disgraced the name and reputation of your family; you have broken your mother’s heart and driven her to an early grave; you have estranged me from all my friends in the district, and still you are not satisfied!’ I opened my mouth to speak, but he threw down the letter he had received onto the table, turned his back on me and walked from the room in silence.

“I glanced across at Ranworth, whose face was horror-struck at the scene he had witnessed. ‘I must apologize profoundly for intruding upon your family troubles,’ said he in a strained voice.

“‘Not at all, Ranworth,’ said I in as careless a manner as I could muster. ‘It is I who should beg your forgiveness for inflicting such a business upon you.’ I picked up from the table the letter my father had cast down. It was from his old friend Admiral Blythe-Headley, and was in the form of an account. ‘To repair of wooden seat in garden pavilion, deliberately damaged by your son,’ I read, ‘including timber etc: seven shillings and sixpence.’

“I passed the letter to Ranworth and his mouth fell open in surprise.

“‘What on earth does it mean?’ cried he.

“‘I have no idea,’ said I. ‘I have damaged nothing.’

“‘I am sure you would not do such a thing deliberately, Reid,’ said he, after a moment’s thought, ‘but is it possible that you could have accidentally damaged the seat and not realized what you had done?’

“‘That is impossible,’ I replied, ‘unless I have become unaware of my own actions, which I take it you are not suggesting.’ As I spoke, I opened the envelope that had been addressed to me. Inside was a single, folded sheet of coarse paper. This was blank, save for two large, printed letters: ‘S. D.’ Folded within the sheet, however, was– ”

Captain Reid broke off abruptly, reached into his inside pocket and drew out an envelope. “Here,” said he. “You may as well see it for yourselves.”

He passed the envelope to Sherlock Holmes, who examined it for a moment.

“The address is in a somewhat uncultured hand,” said he, then let out a cry of surprise as he took out the sheet from within and unfolded it, for upon it lay a pure white feather, which slipped from the paper and floated to the floor.

“A white feather,” said Reid in a weak, broken voice, as I picked it up: “the worst insult a man can receive: the symbol of cowardice.”

“It has certainly been used for that purpose on occasion,” remarked Holmes in a matter-of-fact voice as he examined the sheet of paper that had enclosed the feather. “It does not always bear such a meaning, however, but is used sometimes to indicate other personal failings. Do the initials S. D. mean anything to you, Captain Reid?”

“Nothing whatever.”

“They are not the initials of any man known to you in your regiment?”

“No.”

“Nor anyone at Topley Cross?”

“Not that I can recall.”

Holmes nodded his head, then sat for some time in silence, his brow drawn into a frown of concentration.

“The incident of the feather completes your account, I take it,” said he at length. “Very good,” he continued, as his visitor nodded his head. “Let us now review one or two points. First of all, are you absolutely certain, Captain Reid, that nothing occurred during your time in India that might, however unjustly, reflect badly upon you? I need hardly say that you must speak with the utmost candour and completeness if we are to help you. You need not fear that anything you say will pass beyond this room.”

“I quite understand. But I can assure you that it occasions no difficulty for me to speak frankly of my period of military service. The events are as I detailed to your friend earlier. I would add, only as you have asked me to be complete, that I was mentioned by name in dispatches several times, was promoted, recommended for decoration more than any other man in the regiment, and have heard in confidence from Colonel Finch that I am to be breveted Major before our next overseas posting.”

“Splendid!” said Holmes. “I am very glad to hear it! Now, if you will cast your mind back once more to the time immediately preceding your departure for India. Is there any incident you can recall that occurred then, however trivial, which struck you as odd, or unusual, or unexplained?”

Our visitor did not reply at once, but remained for some time with his eyes closed and his brow furrowed in thought. At length he opened his eyes and shook his head.

“I can recall nothing of the sort,” said he.

“Has there ever before been any animosity shown to you or

to your family, by anyone in the district?”

“I do not believe so. Topley Cross is generally a peaceful, harmonious little parish. I have never found there to be any significant ill-feeling there, directed either at us or at anyone else. We did have a windowpane broken one evening at Oakbrook Hall, just the week before I sailed, but I don’t believe that any ill-feeling lay behind it.”

“How did it occur?”

Reid shook his head. “I cannot be certain. Someone threw a stone through the window of the upstairs study. Who it was, we never discovered. One of the gardeners had reported seeing some of the village boys loitering in the orchard, earlier in the evening. He had told them to help themselves to a windfall apiece and then clear off. No doubt they returned later, when the gardener had gone, and were throwing stones, as boys do. I doubt very much that the breakage was deliberate, though. They are not bad lads, on the whole. Anyway, my father did not pursue the matter.”

“Was the window that was broken situated on the same side of the house as the orchard?” asked Holmes.

“No. The orchard lies to the north of the house; my father’s upstairs study is on the south side.”

“Was there anyone in the room at the time?”

“No. We were all down at dinner.”

Holmes nodded. “Admiral Blythe-Headley’s garden seat, now,” he continued after a moment, “do you know in what way it was damaged?”

Again our visitor shook his head.

“I have no idea. His note did not specify.”

“Do you believe that the seat was in good order when you were in the summer house, earlier that day?”

“I am sure that it was.”

“So whatever the damage was, it was done after you had been there. That would have been at about three o’clock, I take it.”

“That is correct.”

“But the damage must have been done before the evening, as there was evidently sufficient time after its discovery for Admiral Blythe-Headley to write the note to your father which was delivered at Oakbrook Hall the following morning. Why do you suppose they believed you responsible for the damage?”

“I really have not the faintest notion,” said Reid.

“Well, well. Perhaps it was simply that you had been seen there and no one else had. No doubt that seemed clear enough evidence from their point of view. Hum! It is certainly a tangled skein that you have presented us with, Captain Reid!”

“The whole business does indeed seem utterly incredible and inexplicable as I sit here speaking of it,” remarked our visitor with a puzzled shake of the head. “I could not be more dumbfounded if I had returned from India to find that the man in the moon had lately arrived in England and been proclaimed king. The behaviour of my family and friends towards me seems to admit of only one conclusion: either they are insane, or I am.”

“Tut! Tut!” said Holmes quickly in remonstrance. “Do not entertain such debilitating thoughts, Captain Reid. If the problem is to be solved, we must assume as a premise in our little chain of logical reasoning that all parties concerned are acting rationally, as they see the situation. Let us turn now to the letters you received from home when you were overseas. You cannot recall anything there that might shed light on the matter?”

Captain Reid shook his head. “As a matter of fact, I received very few letters during my time abroad. I received one from my mother and father fairly soon after I arrived in India, as I mentioned before, a second and third a little later from my father, and then heard nothing more from home until the brief note informing me of my mother’s death, after which I again heard no more. I received a single letter from Miss Blythe-Headley soon after my arrival. I replied to it promptly, but had no further communication from her. I also received three letters from my sister, Louisa, at very long intervals. Her letters were the only ones I received during my final two years in India.”