Текст книги "The Mammoth Book of the Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes"
Автор книги: Denis O. Smith
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“And you are certain that none of these letters contained any information which might have a bearing on your present situation?”
“No. They were all friendly and consisted almost entirely of quite trivial news.”
“I see. Well, whatever the quality of the letters you received, which is, of course, a matter of which only you can judge, their quantity would, I feel, strike even the most casual observer as somewhat on the meagre side, considering the length of time you were away. Did this infrequency of communication cause you any surprise, Captain Reid?”
“Not with regard to my sister, Louisa, for she has always been a notoriously poor correspondent; but with regard to the others it certainly did. I am sure that there was scarcely another man in the regiment who received so few letters. Each time there was a delivery, I would enquire if there was anything for me, and generally I would be disappointed. My friend Ranworth was given charge of postal matters for our battalion, following an injury to Major Bastable, and I fear that he eventually became quite disconcerted by my constant queries. It embarrasses me now to recall the many times I obliged him to shake his head apologetically, as I enquired yet again if any letter had arrived for me.”
“India is, of course, a vast place,” remarked Holmes, “and with the troops being so widely scattered, especially during the Afghan campaign, I suppose it is possible that letters might sometimes go astray?”
“No doubt it happens occasionally, but the Army postal service is remarkably efficient, all things considered. I am sure I should eventually have received any letter which had been sent to me.”
“No doubt. You have not seen your sister since your return?”
“No. I had been looking forward with pleasure to visiting Louisa and her family in Truro, but under the present circumstances I have decided to postpone it. I should not wish to inflict these difficulties upon them.”
“Quite so. Do you know if your sister paid any visits to Oakbrook Hall while you were in India?”
“She returned very briefly for our mother’s funeral, which she subsequently described to me. Apart from that occasion, she has not left Cornwall in the last three years, so far as I am aware.”
“I see,” said Holmes, nodding his head in a thoughtful manner. “Now,” he continued after a moment, “how do you propose to spend the next few days, Captain Reid?”
“I shall be at my club for two more nights. On the thirteenth I am going down to stay with Captain Ranworth at Broome Green, and may be there a week.”
“His address, if you please,” said Holmes, opening his notebook. “I may need to write to you there.”
“You will take the case, then?”
“Certainly.”
“It is, as you will understand, a very delicate affair.”
“Most are which are brought to my attention.”
“It is such a personal, family matter that I should never have given details of it to a stranger were it not that I am utterly at my wits’ end.”
“I understand that perfectly,” said Holmes. “You have acted wisely. I shall go down to West Sussex tomorrow and make a few discreet enquiries.”
Captain Reid shook his head, an expression of perplexity upon his features. “I cannot think that there is anything you can learn which would explain the nightmare in which I have dwelt in recent days. The circumstances must surely be unique.”
“They are certainly unusual,” remarked Holmes, “but not, I think, unique. There is little in this world that is truly unique, I find. I shall communicate with you in a few days’ time, Captain Reid. Until then, remember your regimental motto, Fidus et Audax, and do not despair.”
When our visitor had left us, Holmes lit his pipe, and sat for some time in silence, then he turned to me with a smile.
“A very pretty little puzzle, Watson, would you not agree?” said he in the tones of a connoisseur, his eyes sparkling. “What would you say to a few days in the pleasant Sussex countryside?”
“Why, there is nothing I should like better than to exchange the London reek for the fresh air of the Downs,” I returned, more than a little surprised at the question. “But would my presence there not hamper your investigation, Holmes?”
“On the contrary,” said he. “It would be a great convenience to me to have a companion upon whom I can rely as events unfold, as I am certain they will. I have no doubt that Captain Reid will be more than willing to defray your expenses as well as mine if it means his problem is the more speedily solved.”
“Then I accept your invitation with pleasure,” said I.
II: IN QUEST OF A SOLUTION
In the morning a fresh breeze was blowing. A few wraiths of fog still hung about the streets as we made our way to the railway station, but by the time our train had passed Croydon and was through the North Downs the mist had cleared from the fields and the sun was shining. Wrapped in a long grey cloak, and with a close-fitting cloth cap upon his head, my companion appeared the very picture of the rural traveller, which was a strange sight to one who had only ever seen him upon the bustling pavements of London. He had scarcely spoken since we left Victoria, but stared silently from the window, completely absorbed in his own thoughts.
“I cannot imagine how you intend to proceed in the case, Holmes,” I remarked at length, breaking the silence in the compartment. “The mystery surrounding Captain Reid appears utterly inexplicable.”
“There are one or two indications,” responded my friend, turning from the window and beginning to fill his pipe.
“If there are, then I confess I have missed them.”
“You have no doubt been pondering the matter overnight,” said he.
“I have certainly given it some thought,” I returned, “but can make nothing of it. It seems to me to be perfectly impenetrable!”
“Let us apply a little logical analysis, then,” said my friend as he lit his pipe, “and let our starting point be the one thing we know for certain: that the entire parish of Topley Cross appears, for some reason, to have turned against our client. We do not yet know what this reason might be, so let us, in the manner of mathematicians, call it ‘x’, the unknown, and see if we cannot, by reasoning around it, succeed in defining it a little more precisely. In the first place, whatever it is that has caused all these people to alter their opinions of Captain Reid must be considered by them a most serious matter. For surely only an occurrence of the utmost seriousness could have led them all – including, of course, Reid’s own father – to act in the way that they have done.”
“Well, that is fairly obvious,” I agreed.
“Yet Reid himself disclaims all knowledge of such an occurrence. Now, if the matter in question pertained to his military career, he would surely have heard something of it from his fellow officers in the regiment. We are therefore led to the conclusion that our unknown ‘x’ occurred in West Sussex, in the parish of Topley Cross. This is also indicated by the fact that whereas letters to Captain Reid from Topley Cross practically ceased after a short time, those from his sister in Cornwall did not. We must take it that she knows no more of the matter than her brother, and that during her stay at Oakbrook Hall at the time of her mother’s funeral, it – whatever it is – was not mentioned in her presence. As to ‘x’ itself, we must suppose that the facts of the matter are very clear, with evidence which appears to implicate Captain Reid directly, for we cannot think that his friends and family would turn against him on account, merely, of casual hearsay or local gossip.”
“That seems indisputable.”
“But here we encounter a difficulty. For it seems that when Captain Reid departed the area for India, his reputation was unblemished, his character unstained.”
“Whatever occurred, then,” I suggested, “must have occurred after he had left.”
“But how, then, can it reflect badly on Captain Reid? You see the difficulty, Watson? Clearly, it is not the date of the incident itself which is important, but the date when the facts came to light. Something occurred while Reid was still in England – otherwise he could not possibly be blamed for it – but did not become public knowledge until after he had departed, otherwise he would have become aware of it before ever he left the country. We can, I feel, date these events quite precisely. He received a friendly letter from Miss Blythe-Headley soon after his arrival in India. This must have been written within a week or so of his leaving. He replied, but heard nothing more. Some matter therefore came to public attention in Topley Cross approximately two weeks after his departure. We have thus narrowed down the place and the time quite precisely.”
“I cannot see that that helps us very much.”
“On the contrary, it helps us a great deal. To have established the place and time so closely will save us wasting our energies in irrelevant enquiry, and will undoubtedly help us to reach the truth much more speedily than would otherwise have been the case. Now we must address the nature of the problem itself.”
“There, I fear, we have nothing whatever to help us,” I observed. “Captain Reid has no idea what it is he is supposed to have done, and as no one, it seems, is prepared to tell him, we have nowhere to begin.”
“Come, come,” said my companion, smiling, “the matter is not quite so featureless as you suggest. In the first place, it cannot be that our client is believed guilty of an act that is criminal, or otherwise illegal, for we may suppose that if that were so, he would have long since been made aware of the fact by the authorities. Nor, on the other hand, can the matter be a trivial one, which might be soon forgiven and forgotten, since he remains subject to obloquy three years after the supposed date of the incident. Clearly, the censure to which he is subject is moral censure. We must therefore seek an act or series of acts which are generally held to be morally reprehensible – and seriously so – but which are not criminal in the strict legal sense of that term.”
“That leaves rather a wide field,” I remarked with a chuckle. “Most people’s idea of morality covers a very broad sweep of miscellaneous virtues and vices, great and small, but save for its sound provisions against murder and theft, the law of England chooses to concern itself with very few of them.”
“A wide field it may be,” returned Holmes, “but it is also an interesting field for speculation. We have also, let us not forget, the mysterious initials S. D. to help us in our enquiry. But, come! This next station is Pulborough, where we must take the branch-line train.”
The countryside through which the branch railway passed was a delight to the eye. On either side lay a multi-coloured patchwork of fields, and between them the bright autumnal hues of the hedgerows and spinneys. As if he had said all that he wished to say of his case for the moment, my companion began then to discuss the farming methods of the land’s first settlers, drawing numerous interesting observations to support his thesis from the landscape through which we were passing. He spoke almost as if he had made a special study of the subject, which surprised me very greatly, for I had never before heard him speak of anything save the ways of the denizens of London, and I had come to believe that his brain contained only such knowledge as was directly useful to his work, and which had its application strictly within a dozen miles of Charing Cross.
Presently, as our train pulled into a little rural station, its platforms brightened by tubs of flowers, Holmes sprang to his feet.
“Here I must leave you,” said he abruptly, much to my surprise. “The station for Topley Cross is the next but one, Watson. Take care of the bags, if you would, old fellow, and see if you can secure a couple of acceptable rooms at the best-looking inn you can find. I shall join you there later this afternoon.”
With no further word of explanation my companion was gone; the carriage door slammed behind him, and I was left to continue the journey alone. I did as he asked and took two rooms at the White Hart, a large, handsome old inn, which stood in the marketplace of Topley Cross. Then, I regret to record, although it was a beautiful autumn day, and I longed to walk to the end of the village and explore the countryside there, my illness overcame me. Tired by the journey from London, I lay exhausted upon my bed and soon fell into a deep sleep.
I was awakened by a tugging at my shoulder. Holmes was standing by my bed.
“I have made progress,” said he. “I have ordered a pot of tea, if you would care to come downstairs and hear the details.”
In a minute I was in the private sitting room of the inn and Holmes was giving me a sketch of what he had discovered.
“I have spent some time in the office of the local weekly newspaper,” said he, “where I was able to study the editions of three years ago. My hope was that I might uncover some suggestive fact there, some clue, however slight, to Captain Reid’s problem. I was prepared for a long and possibly fruitless search, and certainly could not have expected that success would be so swift. So narrowly, however, had we managed to define the time of that which has caused our client so much difficulty – our unknown ‘x’ – that in a matter of but a few minutes I was satisfied I had identified it beyond all possible doubt.” He took a long folded sheet of paper from his pocket and spread it out on the table before him, before continuing: “Upon Tuesday, 10 September 1878 – that is less than two weeks after Captain Reid sailed for India – a local girl, twenty years of age and well-known in Topley Cross, where she lived with her parents, was found dead. She had drowned in a pond about a mile from the village. Her name, Watson, was Sarah Dickens.”
“S. D.!” I cried. “Those were the initials in the letter Reid received!”
“Precisely. The stretch of water in which she drowned, incidentally, was the ‘Willow Pool’, to which Reid referred yesterday. Her body was discovered by two local youths, who were passing along the footpath that skirts the pool. So far as I can make out from the newspaper reports, the girl was from traditional yeoman stock. She was not especially beautiful, nor especially intellectual, but had a simple charm that endeared her to all who knew her. The reports describe her as friendly, good-hearted and very popular in the district. Now, at the inquest, which was held a few days later in Topley Cross, the verdict recorded was that of accidental death. There was no mark upon the body, save a small bruise to the side of the head, and it was suggested that the girl had slipped from the bank while picking blackberries – her purpose, apparently, in being at that spot – had fallen into the water, and had struck her head on a submerged stone. However, to judge from the tone of some of the newspaper reports, it was widely suspected in the district that the girl had in fact taken her own life while in a state of extreme distress. As you are no doubt aware, Watson, coroners’ juries are notoriously reluctant to bring in a verdict of suicide, save in those cases where the evidence admits of no other conclusion. This is especially so in rural areas, when the deceased is often someone well known to the jurors.”
“Was there any specific evidence that might have suggested the girl had deliberately taken her own life?”
“Her family deposed that she had not seemed quite herself for a week or two, and had taken to wandering off alone, as she had done on the day she died. When questioned during the inquest, they stated that she had been in somewhat better spirits on the day of her death, but this was not confirmed by other witnesses, and it seems likely that the observation was made chiefly to influence the jury against a verdict of suicide.
“It seems there was a man in the case somewhere – the old story, by the sound of it – but he is not named in any of the newspaper reports, and it is not clear from the reports if his identity was known to anyone. A note was found, which the girl had apparently written shortly before her death, in which she had expressed her anguish at being cast aside by this man. Her family confirmed that she had been seeing someone during the summer, but stated that they did not know who it was.”
“Is the man not named in the note she left?” I asked.
“It would appear not. The tone of the note, to judge from the newspaper report, was one of melancholy distress, and it seems that the man she had been seeing had thrown her over. But the court was clearly of the opinion that the note was by way of being an epistle to herself, a record on paper of her own thoughts, and did not constitute a suicide note of any kind, otherwise the verdict would undoubtedly have been different.”
“It appears the very epitome of a rural tragedy,” I observed with a sigh. “One cannot doubt that it is, as you say, the old story: young, simple, innocent country girl, her affections captured by the attentions of a man, perhaps older and more sophisticated than herself, who later drops her without a care.”
My friend nodded. “In which case, although not guilty of any crime in the eyes of the law, strictly speaking, the man in question would be widely held to bear some responsibility for the girl’s death, whether she took her own life or lost it accidentally while in a state of distress. He would thus be subject to the very severest moral condemnation from all who knew of the case. There is little doubt in my mind, Watson, that this is the dishonourable act of which our client stands condemned in the eyes of the district. They will see in the dashing young officer and simple peasant girl the very type of one of the oldest tales known to man. He has sailed away to foreign lands, leaving her desolate, and, in her own eyes at least, ruined. And yet . . .”
Holmes broke off and stared for a moment at his untouched tea.
“And yet,” he continued at length, “Captain Reid expresses astonishment at the reception he has been afforded upon his return and can make nothing of it. He is an intelligent man, and could not have failed to realize the meaning of it were he really guilty of this moral lapse.”
“He did not recognize the initials S. D. in the letter he received,” I observed.
“Indeed. He may know something of the girl, however, as she lived locally, without, perhaps, recalling her name. I have wired to him at his club on the matter, in the hope that seeing her name will stir his memory. I hope to receive a reply shortly.”
Holmes had not long to wait, for within the hour a messenger arrived with a telegram for him. Eagerly, he tore open the envelope and scanned the contents, then passed it to me.
“Name you mention that of local girl,” I read. “Bade good morning. Carried basket once or twice. Not seen since return. Ask Yarrow.”
“It appears he is unaware of the girl’s death,” I observed.
“So it would seem. I wonder—” He broke off as the innkeeper entered the room. “Could you tell me, landlord,” he asked, “who Mr Yarrow might be?”
“Why, sir, that’s the vicar,” returned the man in surprise.
“Oh, of course,” said Holmes, smiling. “How foolish of me. I think I shall go to see him now, Doctor, while it is still light!” With that he stood up, put on his hat and was gone.
“Is your friend interested in the Roman remains?” asked the innkeeper of me when Holmes had left us.
“Among other things,” I replied, judging it best not to reveal our true purpose in being there. “Why do you ask?”
“The last gentlemen down here from London were from the British Museum, come to study the remains,” he explained. “The Reverend Yarrow is the local expert.”
He produced a small pamphlet on the subject, which Mr Yarrow had written. It was certainly a very thorough account. But fascinating though the subject was, I found my mind wandering constantly from its explication of ancient mysteries to the more pressing mystery which had brought us to Sussex, so that I was still only upon the second page of the pamphlet when Holmes returned, just as the daylight was fading. He ordered two glasses of beer and lit his pipe before he described to me what he had managed to learn from the vicar.
“I found Mr Henry Yarrow a very pleasant, middle-aged man,” he began. “He received me with every courtesy, and appears to have as good a grasp of all that occurs in the parish as anyone could have. He is highly intelligent and well-educated, Watson, and I should say a little out of place in such a rural backwater as Topley Cross. Such free time as he has he fills with intellectual pursuits, and he is a great pamphleteer: he has produced numerous monographs on such subjects as local antiquities, the flora and fauna of the district, and the parish church, which, he informs me, is one of the oldest in the county. At present, he is labouring on a history of the sheep breeds of West Sussex. However, to return to more pertinent matters: he knows Captain Reid very well, and it is clear that he holds him in the very highest regard. Indeed, so sincere were his expressions of affection for our client that I ventured to lay before him the whole matter, in the hope that he could shed some light upon it. You have often seen me work out a case, Watson, from such things as the measurement of footprints, or the traces of mud upon a man’s trouser knee, but I am not averse to taking a more direct route when it offers itself. In this case, my confidence was rewarded. The vicar shook his head in sympathy when I described to him all that had befallen Captain Reid since his return from India.
“‘If only he had come to me last week,’ said he. ‘I could at least have explained to him the likely source of his troubles, if not their solution.’
“He confirmed what we had surmised, that rumours have circulated ever since the death of Sarah Dickens that Reid was the cause of her sorrow and despair. He assured me that he gave no credit to these rumours himself, but having had no countervailing information, had been unable to combat the prevalent belief. ‘I have always found,’ said he with feeling, ‘that an evil rumour is quite the most difficult of opponents to destroy: like the hydra of classical mythology it is a many-headed beast: cut off one head and another seven will spring up in its place.’ I concurred with this opinion, and asked if he knew anything of the rumour’s origins.
“‘I cannot be certain,’ said he, ‘but the dead girl’s brother, John, has undoubtedly played some part in it. If he did not originate the rumour, he has at least contributed to it, and to no small extent.’ This brother, Yarrow informed me, had been extremely distressed by his sister’s death, and treasures the note that the girl left, both as a memento of his sister and as an indictment against the man he believes treated her so ill. I asked the vicar then if he had any knowledge of the content of the note.
“‘Indeed,’ said he, ‘for it was I that found it.’
“This was news indeed, Watson, for I had assumed from the reports in the newspaper that the note had been found among the dead girl’s belongings at her home, probably by one of the family. I asked the vicar how he had come upon it.
“‘It was on the day following the girl’s death,’ he explained. ‘Her mother expressed a wish to visit the place at which the girl’s body had been found, and asked me if I would accompany her. I of course agreed to this request, and the two of us walked up to that fateful spot at the Willow Pool. It was while we were there that I chanced to observe a crumpled sheet of paper lying among the brambles by the water’s edge and, with some difficulty, managed to retrieve it. We had missed it the previous evening, which is not surprising. The light had almost faded by the time we eventually recovered the girl’s body from the water.’
“‘Did the finding of the note at the scene of her death not tend to confirm the suspicion that the girl had taken her own life?’ I asked him, but he shook his head.
“‘It was not a suicide note,’ said he with emphasis. ‘I should be more inclined to describe it as a rhetorical address to the man that had wronged her. The general opinion, with which I agreed, was that the poor girl had probably been reading the note to herself and reflecting upon it when she lost her footing and slipped into the water. As to the note itself,’ he continued, ‘I can recall its contents clearly, even though it is three years since last I saw it. The phrases it contained were just such as one might imagine a young country girl to use: “I trusted you and you betrayed me. I loved you and you used me”. Need I say more, Mr Holmes?’
“I shook my head, for I could see that it caused him some pain to recall this distressing matter. ‘Why do you suppose that everyone believed Captain Reid to be the man who broke this young girl’s heart?’ I asked him after a moment.
“‘I cannot say for certain,’ he returned. ‘It may be that something the girl had previously said to her family suggested it to them. It cannot have been any more than a suggestion, however, for I know that they had no more definite knowledge as to the man’s identity than anyone else. Reid had certainly spoken to the girl on many occasions. He is an exceptionally affable young man and was on conversational terms with almost everyone in the parish, irrespective of their rank or station. He also played regularly in the village cricket matches before his overseas posting, and as Sarah Dickens often helped with the refreshments on those occasions, no doubt the two of them came into contact then.’
“‘He also mentioned carrying her basket for her once or twice.’
“‘Ah, yes,’ responded Yarrow. ‘He may have done so many times, for all I can say, but on the occasion I recall, which occurred in the summer before he left for India, he and I were walking down the road from Oakbrook Hall to the village when we overtook Sarah Dickens, heavily laden with large baskets of fruit – plums, as I recall – which she had picked at one of the outlying farms. We naturally each took a basket to relieve her of some of her burden. At the church I left them, and the two walked on into the village together. I do recall now hearing that the girl had endured some light-hearted teasing on account of this incident. You can probably imagine the form that this took: “Now you have got the young gentleman to carry your basket for you, how much longer will it be before he is carrying you over the threshold?” It was, as I say, all light-hearted. Indeed, I believe it was Reid himself who mentioned it to me, in some amusement, the next time we spoke. But recalling this incident reminds me of another, which occurred at about the same time, just a few weeks before Reid left. In common with many of the young people in the village, Sarah Dickens was employed at Oakbrook during the apple-picking season. One day, during a period of exceptionally hot weather, she fainted with the heat and fell to the ground. With the help of one of the gardening staff, Captain Reid, who was nearby at the time, carried her to the house, where she remained, attended by the housekeeper, until she recovered. I suppose that that may have given rise to some talk, but if so it was absurd, for Reid would have done the same for anyone under the circumstances.’
“‘I believe I understand the situation,’ said I. ‘But if Sarah Dickens was indeed seeing a young man during the summer of ’78, and if that man was not Reid, who might it have been?’
“‘There, Mr Holmes, I fear I cannot help you. Of course, I have often pondered that very question. But the ways of young people have become something of a mystery to me in recent years, I regret to say, and even to speculate upon the matter would take me quite beyond my province.’
“There I left it, Watson – a sad business for all concerned, but a particular misfortune for Captain Reid to be condemned for something of which he is perfectly innocent. What a great pity it is that he should have left the district at just the moment he did, and thus presented the rumour-mongers with a defenceless quarry, unable to respond to their foul accusations!”
“If any accusations were being made,” I interjected, “it seems surprising that Reid’s father did not take some steps to rebut them. He might, for instance, have placed the details of the rumours before his son in a letter and sought his response.”
“Indeed,” concurred Holmes. “The father’s actions in this matter have caused me some puzzlement.”
“Unless,” I added, “the rumours and accusations appeared so overwhelming by the time they reached his ears that he felt unable to doubt their veracity. He is an old soldier and, from what we have heard of him, no doubt a man of unimpeachable integrity and honour. It is possible, also, that his wife’s health was causing him anxiety at the time. Perhaps, then, he was simply so shocked and appalled by his son’s alleged conduct that he could not bring himself to speak of it.”
“It is possible,” returned Holmes in a dubious tone, “but I would still regard the father’s conduct as astonishing. I should hope that if ever I had a son, and that son was faced with serious accusations, I should not see fit to condemn him without a fair hearing. Still, I long ago learned that one cannot hope to solve these little mysteries of human life by dwelling on how people might have acted, but only by studying how they in fact did act, however surprising or disagreeable their actions might seem.
“Now,” he continued in a brisker tone as he refilled his pipe and put a match to it. “If we review the case so far, Watson, I think we may say that we have made some definite progress. We have learned beyond doubt why it is that Captain Reid is shunned and condemned throughout the district. That seems to me a fair day’s work. Our task now must be to do our utmost to clear him of the charges laid against him.”
“That may prove considerably more difficult,” I observed. “Rumours are such nebulous, elusive things. It is almost impossible to get a firm grasp upon them; and that which cannot be firmly grasped cannot easily be cast down and beaten. You have also, it seems to me, the difficult problem of trying to prove a negative, that is, that Reid had no close connection with the dead girl, and I cannot see how you can possibly prove such a general notion, especially now that three years have passed since the time in question.”
