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

Автор книги: Denis O. Smith

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“Near where you found the girl’s body?”

“Yes, a foot or two further into the tangle of brambles than the place from which we had entered the water. Just over there.” He pointed across the water to a spot on the far side, a few yards higher up the pool than where we stood.

“It was not in the water?” asked Holmes.

“No. If it had been in the water it would probably have been unreadable. It was a foot or so back from the bank.”

“I see,” said Holmes. “I should very much like to see the note, to complete my mental picture of the matter. Do you think that would be possible? I understand that the girl’s brother keeps it.”

“That is so. I doubt he would take very kindly to exhibiting it, as it were, to strangers, especially if he thought those strangers were acting on behalf of Captain Reid, but perhaps I could persuade him to let us all have a look at it together.” Yarrow glanced at his watch. “I happen to know that he will be at home this afternoon, so if you wish we could go along there now.”

“Capital!” cried Holmes. “I shall be greatly indebted to you, Mr Yarrow!”

The day seemed very bright as we emerged from the shade of the woods, and the sun was surprisingly warm for so late in the year. It was pleasant indeed to walk down that rolling country road in such balmy weather, and to see the hedgerows ablaze with berries, and the clear blue sky alive with birds. When I reflected on our day’s employment, however, I could not but think that we might as well have remained sitting in the parlour of the inn all day, for all the good our expedition had achieved. We had seen for ourselves the place where Sarah Dickens had died, and Holmes had drawn from our companion the details of the matter, but of what use was this to his client, Captain Reid? Whether the girl’s death had been an accident or a deliberate act of suicide could make little difference now, I reflected, and would make no difference whatever to Reid’s predicament. However she had died, he would still stand condemned in the eyes of the parish for having used her so ill, and having brought sorrow and anguish into her happy young life. I was curious to know what Holmes would do next, but could not but feel that so far his energies had been largely wasted.

In ten minutes we had reached the village. Our guide led us on, past the vicarage and the curving wall of the churchyard, and down the high street a little way to the crossroads. Here he turned left and, passing a few outlying cottages, we found ourselves in a pleasant lane, lined on either side with hawthorn hedges and large, spreading trees. Presently, when we had gone perhaps half a mile, we came to a small thatched cottage, behind which was a jumble of farm buildings.

“This is the place,” said Yarrow, pushing open a small wicket gate and leading us along a path, which passed by the side of the cottage and brought us, through another gate, into a yard at the back. “Old Dickens has something of a reputation for keeping an untidy farm,” murmured the vicar under his breath, and as I glanced about the yard I could not but think the reputation was well earned. Ducks, geese and hens milled about in apparent confusion around crates, sacks, mounds of straw and pieces of old machinery. In one muddy corner, a stout pig with a chain around its neck was rooting about in the earth, and in another corner, tethered to a post, a goat was chewing on a dirty-looking pile of hay, and eyeing us with no very friendly expression.

The vicar’s knock at the door was answered by a robust woman in an apron, whom he greeted as Mrs Dickens. She invited us in, but he declined the offer, saying he would not trouble them, but wished to speak to her son, John, for a few moments. She disappeared from the doorway, and a moment later a short, powerfully built young man of perhaps four-and-twenty appeared. His manner was friendly enough, until Yarrow explained to him our purpose in calling there, whereupon he assumed a look of stubborn intransigence.

“No offence intended to you, Vicar,” said he in a resolute voice, “but I should like to know why I should oblige John Reid or his friends.”

“It is not a question of your obliging them, but only of obliging me,” the vicar returned.

Several minutes of such debate ensued, the upshot being that Dickens grudgingly agreed to let us see his sister’s final note. “You can hold it, Mr Yarrow,” said he, “but I don’t want these gentlemen touching it.”

He disappeared into the shaded interior of the house and returned a moment later with a slip of white paper in his hand, which he passed to the vicar.

“I’ll just take it out of the shadow of the house, if I may,” said Yarrow, taking a few steps into the middle of the yard. “Here, gentlemen,” he continued, holding it out so we could see.

It was an unexceptional little sheet of white notepaper, which showed evidence of having been folded and refolded many times. Upon it, written in pencil, in a copybook script, were the following lines:

My heart is broken, for you have cast me away and do not care for me any more. You have gone away and left me, all alone in my sorrow. Now what can I do? I trusted you and you betrayed me. I loved you and you used me. How could you use a poor girl so?

It was a touching little epistle, moving in its simplicity, and I read it through several times. Holmes, too, read it over and over, his brows drawn into a frown of concentration. Then he took from his pocket a small lens and, craning forward until his nose almost touched the paper, examined it with the minutest attention.

“Here! What’s your game?” came a cry from behind us. I turned as John Dickens advanced towards us, a look of anger upon his face. “I said you wasn’t to touch it!” said he, taking the sheet from Yarrow’s hand.

“No more they have,” responded the vicar.

“Thank you for letting us see this note,” said Holmes to Dickens in a pleasant, measured tone. “It has been most helpful.”

The young farmer regarded him with a sullen expression, clearly indicating that he had not the slightest desire to be helpful.

“I understand,” Holmes continued, “that your sister composed poetry, which she kept in a special exercise book.”

“What of it?” demanded Dickens gruffly.

“I wonder if it would be possible for us to see it, just for a moment?”

“No, it would not,” retorted the other. “You’ve got a nerve,” he added in an angry tone. The set of the young farmer’s face was one of resolute defiance, and there appeared little prospect of his agreeing to my companion’s request. But Mr Yarrow intervened once more and, after considerable entreaty and persuasion, Dickens disappeared into the house again, with a great show of reluctance, and emerged a minute later with a slim, blue-covered exercise book in his hand.

“I’ll hold it and turn the pages,” said he in a tone that precluded debate upon the issue.

“By all means,” responded Holmes affably.

On the first page of the book was inscribed a poem entitled “The Storm”, which began with the words “The seagulls cry; the clouds race by” and described very well, I thought, the gathering gloom that precedes such an event. The poem on the second page was entitled “The Robin”, and captured nicely the character of that friendly little bird. Thus the poems continued, painting a charming picture of everyday country life in that secluded corner of rural England.

“These really are very good,” said the vicar after a moment in a quiet voice, to which I murmured my assent. Holmes, however, said nothing, but craned his head forward like some strange bird of prey inspecting its quarry. His face was tense and still, his every feature displaying his intense concentration. Only his eyes moved, darting about the pages swiftly as Dickens slowly turned them over for us, as if determined to absorb every square inch of their surface.

The poems came to an end just a few pages short of the middle of the book. The remainder of the leaves were blank. I could not wonder at Dickens regarding the book with some reverence; it was perhaps the most personal memento anyone could possibly have of the girl, displaying as it did so clearly the author’s simple and unaffected character.

“Thank you,” said Holmes again as Dickens closed the book at last. He extended his hand but the young man declined to take it.

“We shall speak again,” said Holmes.

“I think not,” returned the other.

“Perhaps not, but we shall nevertheless. I intend to get to the bottom of this matter.”

With that, Holmes turned on his heel, and Yarrow and I followed him out of the farmyard. I glanced back as I closed the gate, and saw that John Dickens was still standing by the back door of the cottage, observing our departure. There was an odd expression upon his features, which had something of defiance about it, certainly, but something also, I thought, of grudging respect, and even perhaps of apprehension.

We parted from the vicar in the village high street, Holmes thanking him warmly for his kind assistance, and made our way back to the White Hart.

“The girl’s exercise book yielded several points of interest, did it not?” remarked Holmes as we walked along together. “You observed, I take it, that two pages had been removed?”

“I saw that one leaf had been torn out near the middle of the book,” I responded. “As it came after the last poem, I assumed that it was a blank sheet.”

Holmes nodded. “Yes, that was of interest, although it was no more than we might have expected, of course. But the second missing leaf is certainly of very great significance.”

“I did not observe any other.”

“Really? It was near the beginning of the book, between the poem about the robin and the one about the daffodils – which, incidentally, I thought somewhat superior to Wordsworth’s effort on a similar theme. It had been removed very neatly, with a small pair of nail scissors.”

“But surely these things are of no great importance?” I protested.

“On the contrary,” returned my friend in a tone of surprise, “they are very significant links in the chain of events that stretches unbroken from the summer of ’78 to the present time.”

“You will not, I hope, take it amiss,” I ventured after a moment, “if I express my opinion on the whole matter?”

“Not at all,” returned my companion, raising his eyebrow slightly. “Indeed, I should welcome your observations.”

“Then I must, in all honesty, declare that I see little point in much of what we have done today, Holmes. A few details of the matter may perhaps have been elucidated – the circumstances surrounding the girl’s death, for instance – but aside from that, which, in any case, scarcely seems pertinent to your client’s predicament, our day’s work has surely been essentially profitless.”

“There, my dear fellow,” returned Holmes, “I must beg leave to differ. You clearly believe that we have wasted our energies today. That is a suggestion with which I must disagree most strongly.”

“Why so?” I asked, surprised at the vehemence with which he spoke.

“Because,” said he, “I have solved the case.”

IV: AT THE WHITE HART

When the mood was upon him, my friend Sherlock Holmes was undoubtedly the most maddeningly uncommunicative person I have ever known. Upon our return from Hawthorn Farm he had called in at the post office and sent a wire to Captain Reid, but had then fallen into a moody silence, and all my efforts to engage him in conversation had been answered only by preoccupied grunts, when they had been answered at all. At length I had admitted defeat and abandoned my attempts altogether. By dinner time that evening, however, he had evidently resolved whatever it was that had been exercising his mind, for he seemed more at ease as we ate, and spoke freely of many matters, although not of the case.

After dinner we repaired to the private sitting room of the inn, which was on the first floor, overlooking the market square. There, over a cup of coffee and a pipe, my friend’s thoughts at last turned once more to the business that had brought us down to Sussex.

“I have a case here, Watson, which will ring about the country!” said he in a tone of suppressed excitement. “If this case does not make my name, then no case ever will! I have the whole matter here,” he continued, holding out his hand with his fingers extended, “in the very palm of my hand!”

“You astound me, Holmes,” I cried. “You spoke earlier of having solved the case, and I confess I was never so surprised in all my life! Surely you cannot be in earnest?”

“Perfectly so.”

“But how can it be?” I protested. “For save only the information you gained from the newspaper office, which has been confirmed and amplified a little by Mr Yarrow, I cannot see that the case has advanced to any significant extent since we left Baker Street. You have certainly amassed a considerable amount of detail concerning the death of Sarah Dickens; you have established beyond all reasonable doubt that it is ill-use of that girl that is alleged against Captain Reid; but much of this must be common knowledge in these parts, so how can it go any way to proving Reid’s innocence, or the guilt of another?”

“Is it possible that you do not yet perceive the truth of the matter?” said my friend. “Why, Watson, you have seen all I have seen, and have heard all I have heard! Like archaeologists sifting through the remains of some ancient Greek city, we have been delving into the past. The separate facts we have unearthed are like the shattered fragments of a decorated amphora, found scattered in the dust. Each fragment, considered in isolation, conveys very little to us, but we know that once, when joined together, the fragments bore a clear picture. Can you not put all the fragments of this puzzle together to reveal that picture?”

I shook my head. “It does seem that Sarah Dickens was seeing someone,” I responded, “and if it was not Reid, then it was someone else. But there seem too many possibilities for us to be able to form a clear picture of the events, too many questions to which we are unlikely ever to find the answers.”

“When we began our enquiries,” said Holmes in a measured tone, after a moment, “there were indeed a number of possible explanations of the affair. But each little item of knowledge that we have collected has served to narrow down the field, until now only one remains. It is, as you know, an axiom of mine that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however unlikely, must be the truth.”

“I should very much like to hear your view of the matter,” I remarked. “You stated earlier this afternoon that you regarded it as important to establish, in your own mind at least, the precise circumstances of the girl’s death. I cannot see that this issue is of the first importance, but if you regard it as such, I am willing to allow it, for the sake of the argument. I take it that you are now satisfied that you know the truth of that matter?”

“I am.”

“What then, Holmes, is your opinion?”

“I shall give you my opinion,” responded my companion after a moment, “and then, I think, you will appreciate, Watson, why the issue is such an important one. But, wait! What is that?”

There had come the sound of footsteps on the stair and voices outside our room. A moment later there was a knock at the door, and Mr Coleman put his head into the room.

“Two gentlemen to see you,” said he, opening the door a little wider to admit a broad-chested elderly man, with grizzled grey hair and beard, who carried a heavy, bulbous-headed stick. Accompanying him was a thin, dark-haired, pale-faced young man whom I recognized as the man on horseback to whom we had spoken near Jenkin’s Clump earlier in the day. “Admiral Blythe-Headley and Mr Anthony Blythe-Headley,” announced the landlord as he withdrew.

Holmes waved the two men to a seat and regarded them with an expression of curiosity. “To what do we owe this pleasure?” he asked at length.

Admiral Blythe-Headley thumped his stick upon the floor with a snort.

“It is no pleasure for us, sir!” said he in an angry tone. “It is no pleasure to be obliged to leave one’s hearth and home in the evening to pay a visit to vermin!”

“Well, pleasure or not, I did not compel you to come,” returned Holmes in an affable tone.

“Have a care, sir!” said the younger man sharply.

“You are come down here from London, I understand,” continued the admiral in a loud voice.

“That is true,” returned Holmes.

“You are acting on behalf of Colonel Reid’s son.”

“That is also true.”

“You young men from London!” said the admiral in a tone of distaste. “You think you are so clever, in proving once a season that black is white and white is black.”

Holmes’s eyebrows went up in surprise, but he did not respond.

“Well, you had better understand this, young man,” the other continued: “we do not care for your sort in these parts, and the sooner you are gone the better.”

“We shall be leaving just as soon as we have righted the wrong that has been done to John Reid.”

“Pah!” cried the old man. “In my day, any young man found guilty of such disgraceful behaviour as his would have lost his place in society for ever.”

“Those who would take away a man’s place in society would do well to be sure of their facts.”

“Facts? Pah!” cried the admiral angrily, banging his stick on the floor once more. “For your information, Reid’s conduct is common knowledge in these parts. Is the blackguard ashamed of himself? Does he seek to hide his face? Not a bit of it! The first thing he does upon his return is to call upon us as if nothing had happened, to pay court to my daughter! The brazen impudence of the fellow! The arrogant presumption that my daughter would want anything to do with such a vile scoundrel! He ought to be horsewhipped, and drummed out of the county! And as for your leaving, young man, you can pack your bags this evening, for you are leaving in the morning!”

“We shall leave when we are ready.”

“You will leave in the morning. I own this inn, young man, and I do not care to have its name sullied by connection with Reid or any of his verminous associates. Anthony!” he continued, rising to his feet. “Let us be gone!”

“Well!” said Holmes, when our visitors had left. “Admiral Blythe-Headley is certainly a man of fierce disposition!”

“I should certainly not have cared to be under his command in the Navy,” I concurred.

Holmes flung himself back into his chair and burst out laughing. For several minutes he was so convulsed with laughter that I thought he would choke.

“So,” said he at length, “he fears that our presence will sully the name of his inn! Perhaps he fears we shall use our London cleverness to prove that the White Hart is really the Black Hart! Vermin, indeed! Why, there are enough mice in this inn to pull Cinderella’s carriage ten times over!”

“He does seem mightily aroused by the business,” I remarked.

“Indeed. When one considers how many soldiers have toyed with the affections of how many country maids over the last five hundred years, his uncontrollable wrath at Reid’s supposed conduct appears almost excessive, especially as, on the face of it at least, the matter does not concern him. But no doubt his daughter plays a part in the calculation somewhere. It was ever thus, Watson: no prospective son-in-law is ever quite good enough for the girl’s father! My advice to you, my boy, should you ever contemplate matrimony, is to ensure that the young lady that captures your heart is an orphan. It will save you an uncommon lot of trouble!”

“I shall remember the advice,” I returned with a chuckle. “But what will you do now, Holmes? Does the admiral’s intervention affect your plans?”

My friend shook his head. “I shall bring the case to a conclusion tomorrow, just as I intended. Whether I shall accept the apology that Admiral Blythe-Headley will then offer me, I have not yet decided. Halloa! More visitors?”

He sprang from his chair and pulled open the door, whence had come a gentle, almost timid knock. There, framed in the doorway, was a young lady, wrapped in a dark cloak. My first impression was one of almost radiant loveliness. Her hair was of a rich dark brown, and thickly waved, her complexion milky-white, with a roseate blush upon her bonny cheeks.

“Pray, come in!” said Holmes, smiling at this vision of loveliness as she held back in the doorway. “Come in and take a seat!”

“My name is Mary Blythe-Headley,” the young lady began in a hesitant tone as she seated herself on the edge of the sofa.

“Your father and brother have left only a few minutes ago,” said Holmes.

“I know,” said she. “I have been waiting for them to leave, in the alley beside the inn. My father has forbidden me to leave the house, and the first opportunity I have had was when he himself left to come here. You are, I understand, acting on behalf of John Reid?”

“That is correct, Miss Blythe-Headley.”

“He has been shunned by the whole district, and my father forbade me to see him when he paid us a visit last week.”

“So I understand. Did he also forbid you to write to Captain Reid when he was abroad?”

She nodded her head sorrowfully. “At first I needed no forbidding, for I was angry at what they said John had done. But later I thought I could perhaps forgive him if he were truly remorseful. I wished to write to him on the point, but my father forbade it. The last three years have been very miserable ones for me, as they have for many in the parish. But during the last year I have begun to wonder if John is really guilty of using that girl in the way everyone says. It seems so unlike all else that I know of his character.”

“Miss Blythe-Headley,” interrupted Holmes, “be reassured of one thing at least: Captain Reid is utterly innocent of what is alleged against him. The truth is that he scarcely knew this girl. He had once or twice performed little kindnesses for her, had carried her basket and so forth, purely out of gentlemanly courtesy, and these actions, following her death, were grossly misinterpreted.”

“I knew it,” cried our visitor, her eyes shining with tears. “I knew the stories could not be true!” She clutched her hands together. “It was some other man that treated the girl so badly, and drove her to her sorrowful death.”

“You may find the matter a little more complex than you suppose,” said Holmes. “However, I shall present my findings later. First, I should like to take the opportunity of your presence here to satisfy myself on a point on which I am in ignorance.”

“Certainly,” said the young lady in surprise. “What is it you wish to know?”

“I understand that on the day that Captain Reid visited Topley Grange last week, a bench in the summer house was found to be damaged. Could you describe to me the nature of that damage?”

Mary Blythe-Headley blushed to the roots of her hair.

“Was something written upon the bench?” asked Holmes, eyeing her closely.

She nodded her head. “It was silly, really,” she answered at length. “My father described it as vulgarity, but I thought it simply stupid. Someone had carved a few letters into the wood with a knife.”

“Which said?”

“My own initials, ‘M. B. H.’, followed by the word ‘PIG’.” Sherlock Holmes fell back into his chair and shook with silent laughter, and I confess that I, too, could scarcely suppress a chuckle. Mary Blythe-Headley bit her lip as a smile spread across her face.

“Yes,” said she, “it is ridiculous, is it not?”

“It is somewhat puerile,” said Holmes, endeavouring to stifle his laughter.

“I do not mind your laughing,” said she. “I would have laughed at it myself, in other circumstances. But my father took it so seriously. He had no doubt that John was responsible, but I was convinced that could not be – unless John had become quite mentally deranged while in India. I became determined to find a way to speak to him, but before I could do so he had left the district again. Then, when I heard of your presence here, and learnt that my father intended to see you this evening, I made a plan to follow him as soon as he had left the house.”

“I am very glad that you have come,” said Holmes warmly. “This meeting has been of benefit to us both. Have no fear, Miss Blythe-Headley. By tomorrow afternoon, if all goes well, I intend that the truth of this matter should be known once and for all. The shadow that has lain so unfairly across Captain Reid’s character will be removed.”

“Oh, can it be?” cried she, clasping her hands together once more.

Holmes nodded his head. “I must now ask something of you,” said he. “Tomorrow I shall send your father and brother a summons to come to Oakbrook Hall. When it arrives, pray do all in your power to ensure that they attend as I request.”

“I will,” said she.

“Until that time, you must not under any circumstances speak of this meeting, nor of anything which has passed between us this evening. Do you understand?”

“I do,” said she. “You can depend upon me.”

At that moment, there came the sound of a carriage in the street outside the inn.

“Oh, Heavens! It is my father returned!” cried Miss Blythe-Headley, clutching her throat in alarm. “What am I to do?”

Holmes stepped swiftly to the window and pulled back the curtain. “I cannot see who it is,” said he, “but they have entered the inn and may be coming up here. Quickly! This way!”

He flung back the door and ushered the young lady into the corridor outside.

“There is an alcove along here,” said he. “You can hide in there and slip away when they have passed.”

A moment later he was back in the room and seated in his armchair.

“I really cannot tell you how pleased I am that you are here, Watson,” said he in a tone of great amusement, as he filled his pipe and put a match to it. “These little excursions and adventures would not be half so enjoyable were I alone.”

“I am very glad to share them with you,” I returned, filling my own pipe. “Perhaps when we get a moment free from interruption you could give me your analysis of the case. I am certainly looking forward to hearing it!”

“By all means,” returned my friend, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs over the chair-arm. “I am certain you will find it compelling, my dear fellow! But I fear that the pleasure for both of us must be postponed a little longer!”

At that moment had come another knock at our door. I had been expecting it, for I had heard, as had my companion, the sound of more footsteps on the stair. The landlord’s face appeared round the edge of the door once more.

“Two more gentlemen to see you,” said he: “Colonel Reid and Mr William Northcote.”

Colonel Reid was a tall, spare man, with a lined, weather-beaten face and snowy white hair. I judged from his lean, athletic build that his usual posture was erect and upright, but now he was bent and leaned heavily on his walking stick and was clearly not in the best of health. Northcote was a thin, nervous-looking young man of about six-and-twenty. His spectacles and anxious manner gave him a scholarly, bookish appearance. The two of them sat down on the sofa.

“Good evening, Colonel, Mr Northcote,” said Holmes in a pleasant voice.

“You are Sherlock Holmes?” the elderly man enquired in a thin, reedy voice.

“I am,” returned Holmes, “and this is my colleague, Dr Watson.”

Colonel Reid nodded to me in a weary way, as if even that small action cost him great effort.

“Your presence here has come to my attention,” said he, then broke off as there came a slight sound from the corridor outside the door, and then on the stair. “What was that?” he asked.

“Mice,” said Holmes quickly. “Or perhaps a rat. This inn is full of vermin.”

The colonel gave him an odd look, as if he thought him a little mad, then shook his head slightly.

“I have come here tonight to ask you to desist from whatever it is you are doing, and to leave the district forthwith.”

Holmes did not reply, and after a moment the colonel continued:

“Your presence here can do no good. This parish has suffered enough, and anything you do here can only serve to reopen old wounds. Three years ago, a tragedy befell the parish. I do not pretend that there was anything unique about it. These things happen, have always happened and probably will always happen. Nevertheless, it was distressing. When the facts came out, it seemed that my son held some responsibility for what occurred. I was, as you will imagine, devastated by this information.”

“You call it information,” interrupted Holmes, “but it was, in reality, merely rumour. Rumours may be right and they may be wrong. In this case, they were wrong.”

“No!” cried the old man. “Would that it were so! Do you not think, Mr Holmes, that I wished it otherwise, wished it otherwise every morning I awoke? But there could be no doubt. The two of them, my son and that girl, had been seen together on numerous occasions. And they had evidently been together on other occasions when they had not been seen, for it was said that she oft-times slipped away from her home without telling anyone where she was going, and these unexplained absences of hers often coincided, as it turned out, with times when my son, too, was absent from home without adequate explanation.”

“That seems slim evidence,” began Holmes, but the old man cut him short.

“Hear me out,” said he. “The note the girl left referred to someone that had gone away and left her. No one else in the parish had gone away at that time but my son. The reference could be to no one but he. Furthermore, in a pocket of her dress when she was found was a gilt cufflink, marked with the crest of the West Sussex Regiment.”

Holmes nodded his head slightly, but did not respond, and after a moment, Colonel Reid continued: “Now, rather than admit his responsibility in the matter, he acts as if he has done nothing wrong, and recruits a hired-by-the-day detective in London, in an attempt to twist the facts and thus prove his innocence! I mean you no offence, Mr Holmes – every man must make his living as he sees fit, and if a man chooses to earn his keep by poking his nose into other people’s business, then it is for him to answer for it – but I tell you again, you can do no good in this case; you can only make matters worse. Leave now, I beg of you.”