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

Автор книги: Denis O. Smith

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Текущая страница: 32 (всего у книги 36 страниц)

Perhaps more intriguing than these general considerations were the curious night-time events that Miss Borrow and her brother had witnessed. Who was the witchlike woman who came in the night? What was her purpose? And what was the significance of the slips of paper she appeared to leave upon the sundial? Captain Legbourne Legge was clearly implicated in this matter in some way, as Miss Borrow had observed him take one of the slips of paper, without exhibiting any apparent surprise that it should have been there upon the sundial; but what the connection might be between Legbourne Legge and the strange nocturnal visitor, it was difficult to imagine. The best explanation we could suggest was that this business was connected in some way with his gambling activities – that the woman was the conveyor of some secret information concerning forthcoming race meetings.

I was running over the whole matter again in my mind on Friday morning when I set off to meet Sherlock Holmes as we had arranged. It was a wet, blustery day, and the streets were thronged with slow-moving traffic. In the Strand, a cart had lost a wheel and collapsed onto the road surface, strewing the barrels and sacks it was carrying all across the road. Eventually, when my cab had remained stationary for more than five minutes and it began to appear that I would be late for my appointment, I paid off the cabbie and made my way along Fleet Street on foot. As I neared the eastern end of the street, a train passed over the viaduct above Ludgate Hill, sending up huge clouds of smoke, which hid the dome of St Paul’s from view. My mind returned at that moment to Miss Borrow’s account of the mysteries at East Harrington Hall, and they struck me all at once as quite incredible. Here we were, just a few years from the end of the nineteenth century, in a modern, noisy world, a world of great cities, of steam engines and express trains, of gaslight and electricity and telegrams, surrounded constantly by the noise and smoke and bustle of vigorous modernity. In contrast, the account Miss Borrow had given us, of excessive drinking and gambling in a country house, of half-overheard and perhaps misunderstood conversations, and of the witchlike figure who came in the night-time, seemed to belong to another century altogether, and I found myself, somewhat against my own will, beginning to doubt the girl’s veracity. She had certainly impressed me, at the meeting in the library, as being honest, intelligent and trustworthy, but in truth we had no real corroborative evidence for any of what she had told us. One does occasionally in life meet people for whom the truth appears to be of no special significance. Such people will say whatever occurs to them, whether true or completely untrue, so long as it furthers the impression they wish to make upon their audience. Could Harriet Borrow be of this type? She did not find her present situation entirely congenial, which was understandable, and would naturally do what she could to escape from it. Would this include exaggerating and lying about what had been happening at East Harrington Hall, and about what she had overheard there? I could scarcely believe it of such an innocent-faced young girl, but I admit that there were doubts in my mind upon the point when I met Holmes at the corner of Fleet Street.

“The girl has not yet arrived,” said he. “I suggest we cross the street and wait at the foot of Ludgate Hill. We shall easily be able to see when she comes, but will be far enough away to avoid drawing attention to ourselves.”

“Have your enquiries progressed at all?” I asked as we made our way between the traffic.

“A little,” he returned. “I wrote to the tutor, Theakston, at the address Miss Borrow gave us, and have had a letter back this morning. It is not from Theakston himself, however, nor from his mother, but from the vicar of Hembleby, a Mr Daniel Blanchard. He informs me that he has been asked by Theakston’s mother to reply to my letter. Mrs Theakston, he says, has been exceedingly concerned for her son, for she has not seen him for nearly a year and has had no communication from him for over six months. Mr Blanchard says that in July he wrote on the mother’s behalf to Hartley Lessingham, and received a brief reply, informing him only that the tutor had left East Harrington in the spring, and that his present whereabouts were unknown.”

“It seems odd that he should not have written for such a long time,” I remarked. “Even if he perhaps felt a little ashamed at his dismissal from his post, you would think he would have written by now. What can it mean?”

Holmes shook his head. “We cannot yet say. There are several possible explanations. I also wrote to Edgar Shepherd, the family friend in Sussex, giving him a very brief account of the state of affairs at East Harrington and enclosing a letter for the aunt, in which I gave a more detailed account of the matter. I have not yet, however, received a reply from either of them. One thing, at least, which I have been able to discover is that the Borrow children are worth a very great deal of money. Under the terms of their late father’s will, they stand to inherit, between them, almost all of his fortune. This, as far as I have been able to make out, is something in excess of a quarter of a million pounds.”

“Good Lord!”

“Yes, it is a considerable sum, is it not? I very much doubt that the children themselves are aware of it, but you can be sure that Hartley Lessingham is. I have verified that he and his wife were appointed the legal guardians of the children after the death of their parents. In that capacity they have full use of the income from the Borrow fortune, so long as the children are residing with them, although they cannot touch the capital without the agreement of the Borrows’ solicitor, Jervis and Co. of Gray’s Inn. This, I suggest, explains some, at least, of Hartley Lessingham’s anxiety for the children’s safety, and also his insistence that they remained with him when the aunt left. If the children are lost to him, then so is the money. Of course, he is supposed to use the money only for the children’s benefit, but I should not imagine that a mere technical consideration of that sort would weigh very heavily in Hartley Lessingham’s consideration of the matter. From what I have learned, it seems that he is not so well off as he might wish to be. His racing is a very expensive hobby, and my information is that he has been living far beyond his means for some time. As you are probably aware, agricultural income and rents are all depressed at present and show no prospect of rising in the near future, and then, of course, he has had the little difficulty with the mill, of which Miss Borrow informed us. All in all, I think we can see why he required the children to remain with him, even though, in many ways, the situation suits no one. What the rest of the girl’s story might mean, it is hard to tell at the moment. It is always difficult when, as in this case, one is presented with a miscellaneous assortment of facts, to judge which of them are related and which are not. I suspect that a personal inspection at East Harrington might clarify my ideas on the matter somewhat, but there are practical difficulties in the way of that course of action, as you will appreciate. But, here, unless I am much mistaken, is Miss Borrow’s carriage!”

I watched as the carriage pulled into the side of the road, outside the entrance to St Martin’s. A moment later, the girl alighted, crossed the pavement and entered the porch of the church. I made to walk up the hill, but Holmes put his hand on my arm.

“Don’t make your attention too obvious, Watson,” said he, without turning his head, “but take a look at the fellow in the hansom at the end of Fleet Street. He seems to be taking an uncommon interest in Miss Borrow.”

I took what I hoped appeared a leisurely glance around, allowing my gaze to wander first up Ludgate Hill, then down towards Blackfriars, and finally into Fleet Street. In a stationary cab near the corner sat a large, clean-shaven, powerful-looking man in a top hat. I had been looking for only a second or two when he turned abruptly in my direction. I quickly looked away and pretended to consult my watch. Next moment, his cab had crossed the road junction and was clattering past us, at a gallop, up Ludgate Hill. Beyond it, the carriage that had brought Miss Borrow was just reaching the top of the hill, near St Paul’s, and passing out of sight. In a few moments, the much quicker hansom cab had also reached the top of the hill and vanished.

“Now, I wonder what we should make of that little episode,” said Holmes, as we made our way up the hill.

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“It is a deep, dark business, Watson, and may yet become both deeper and darker before we have seen it through.”

“I would not doubt it. I cannot imagine what you will do next.”

“I will let you know when I have made my decision,” returned he as we approached the church doorway.

We entered the shadowed porch and passed through into the interior of the church. It was cool and seemed extraordinarily silent and peaceful after the bustle in the street outside. Miss Borrow was sitting at the end of a pew, her head bent to a book, and appeared a small, solitary figure, alone in the broad expanse of the nave.

“I’m afraid I must ask you to wait as a sentry by the door again, old fellow,” said Holmes in a low tone. “The consultation should not take long, but if the woman should return and catch the two of us speaking, it would seriously prejudice Miss Borrow’s position and severely compromise my own options.”

“Certainly,” said I, and returned accordingly to the porch. After several minutes of watching the unbroken flow of traffic up and down Ludgate Hill, I was struck again by the incongruous nature of the mysterious events Miss Borrow had narrated to us earlier in the week, and as my thoughts ranged over all that she had told us, the time flew by without my being aware of it. Though physically I was within a few inches of the bustle of Ludgate Hill, mentally I was a hundred miles away, in Leicestershire, when I was abruptly brought to myself by the sudden arrival of a carriage, practically in front of me. I stepped back into the porch as the carriage door was opened and a woman began to descend. It was undoubtedly Miss Rogerson. I turned quickly on my heel, pushed open the door of the church and rapped my knuckles sharply on a table near the door, on which an assortment of books and other publications was neatly stacked. Miss Borrow was still seated where I had seen her before, but now Holmes was seated next to her.

It was clear that they were deep in conversation, but they looked round sharply upon my signal. I began to make a silent gesture, but even as I did so I heard the door open behind me, so turned instead to the publications on the table, which I made a show of studying. The woman who had entered walked swiftly past me. I lifted my head slightly and looked from the corner of my eye. Miss Borrow was now standing up, and appeared to be reading the inscription on a plaque affixed to the wall near where she had been sitting. Of Sherlock Holmes, there was no sign at all.

The girl turned at the sound of the woman’s footsteps, and after a last glance at the plaque, began to make her way towards where the woman was waiting, a few feet from where I stood.

“Hurry up!” I heard the woman say in a sharp whisper. “If we miss that train, you’ll know about it!”

In order to have something to do which would get me out of their way, I picked up a tall stack of hymn books, and carried them across to a low wooden cupboard, which stood at the other side of the door; there I pretended to sort them for a few moments until I heard the door close, whereupon I gathered the books together again and carried them back to where I had found them. When I looked round, Holmes was standing behind me.

“Hello!” I cried in surprise. “Where did you disappear to?”

“I simply crouched between the pews,” said he. “I don’t think the woman suspected anything.”

“She came in so quickly I was unable to make myself scarce,” I remarked, “but I don’t think she paid me any attention.”

My friend nodded. “I have made a decision,” said he, as he pulled open the door and we emerged into the noise of Ludgate Hill once more. “I have gone carefully over Miss Borrow’s testimony with her again. It seems to me that she has acted very sensibly so far, and it would be unworthy of us to let her down now. The more I consider her story, the less I like the sound of it. Now, Hartley Lessingham and his cronies, including Miss Rogerson, are travelling to the race meeting at Towcester tomorrow. I am therefore going to go down to Leicestershire in the morning to look things over for myself. I should very much value your company.”

“I should be very pleased to give it.”

“Good man! I should warn you, though, Watson, that our position, legally speaking, may be a trifle precarious.”

“What do you mean?”

“I intend to enter East Harrington Hall while its master is absent. I have arranged with Miss Borrow that she will admit us, but as she is a minor, legally speaking I am not sure that that will count for anything in the eyes of the law.”

“What do you hope to do there?”

“That rather depends on what I discover. Apart from anything else, however, I wish to see for myself the condition of Miss Borrow’s brother. I should thus be obliged if you would bring with you tomorrow your stethoscope and anything else you feel you may need for an examination of the boy. Having listened again to Miss Borrow’s account of the matter, I am seriously concerned that they are, as she suspects, trying to kill him.”

“What! But I thought it would be in Hartley Lessingham’s interests to have the children living there in good health for as long as possible, so that he can enjoy their money.”

“Yes, but he only needs to keep one of them alive to qualify for it,” returned Holmes in a grim tone. “He can afford to let the boy die without diminishing his income. That is what especially concerns me, and why we must go down there without delay. But here is a cab! If you will accompany me back to Baker Street, we can discuss the matter further, and make our final plans for tomorrow!”

East Harrington Hall

We met at eight o’clock on Saturday morning at Euston station, as we had arranged, and caught a fast train to the north. I had equipped myself with tweeds and a cap, as my friend had suggested, and he was similarly attired, his idea being that we should be less likely to attract attention on the East Harrington estate in rural garb than if we appeared to be city men. In my pocket I had my stethoscope and a few other odds and ends, which I thought might prove useful if I was able to examine Miss Borrow’s brother. I asked Holmes if he had received any reply, either from Margaret Hartley Lessingham or from Edgar Shepherd, but he shook his head. He had with him a large-scale map of the East Harrington district, which he had purchased the previous afternoon, and this he studied for some time in silence.

“It seems likely,” said he at length, as he folded the map up and slipped it into his pocket, “that Hartley Lessingham’s party will get a connection to Northampton and pick up a train for Towcester there. The distance from East Harrington to Towcester is about forty miles, and the journey will involve at least one change of train, probably two, so it will take them a fair while. All being well, therefore, they should have departed from East Harrington some considerable time before we get there, and the way will be clear for our little inspection!”

With that, my companion lapsed into silence once more, and I was left to my own thoughts. Much of the countryside through which our train passed that morning had a wet, bedraggled appearance, but as we reached the midland counties it was evident that they had experienced exceptionally heavy rain in recent weeks. A great many of the fields beside the railway line were flooded, to a greater or lesser extent. In some, not a blade of grass was to be seen, and save for the regular interruption of trimmed hawthorn hedges, the countryside beside the line might have been one vast shallow lake.

We changed trains at Rugby and alighted at length at a small wayside station, the only travellers to do so. As the little branch train with its two short carriages pulled away from us across the flat landscape, I took stock of our surroundings. The station was situated where the railway line crossed a small country road on the level. Save for a couple of station buildings and the crossing-keeper’s cottage, there was no sign of habitation upon that broad, flat landscape. The fields beside the road were all flooded to some extent, and the road, which was slightly higher than the surrounding land, appeared like a narrow muddy causeway across the wet plain. Above us, the clouds were leaden-coloured and heavy, and appeared likely at any minute to disgorge more rain onto the sodden countryside.

“This should be the most direct route,” said Holmes, indicating the road to the west, and we set off in that direction. The countryside soon proved to be not quite so flat as I had at first supposed, but undulated gently, like a ruffled counterpane thrown carelessly across the land. Presently, when we had been walking for about half an hour and had not seen a soul, our road turned a corner and dipped slightly, and we found our way barred by a broad sheet of water, which appeared about two feet deep in the middle. It was impossible to get round it, and we were just examining the best direction to take to wade through it when a farm cart pulled by a gigantic horse came up behind us. The driver reined in his horse and invited us to climb up beside him.

“I’ll get you on a-ways, through the worst of it,” said he in an affable tone. “Where be you bound for?”

“We’re taking a walk for our health, and to see the countryside,” I responded.

“You’ve picked a rum time for it, if I may say so,” said he with a chuckle. “Mind you, the wild geese are a sight at the moment,” he added. “Thousands of ’em, there are. They come every year when the fields are flooded. You’d be interested in that, I suppose, sir?”

“Certainly,” said Holmes. “Would that be on the East Harrington estate?”

“That’s it, sir! Over by the river, on the water meadows. Them’s as watery as water meadows can be at the moment, too,” he added with a chuckle, “but that’s how the geese like ’em!”

For several miles, the cart trundled on across the Leicester-shire countryside, the huge horse never once breaking his gentle jog-trot, and the driver displaying a similar rhythm in his conversation. Holmes remained silent throughout this journey, but I could see that he was in a state of heightened tension.

Presently, as the driver announced that he was turning off down a lane to the left, we alighted, thanked him warmly for his assistance and continued on foot. I had observed that the hedge on our right had given way in the last half mile or so to a high brick wall.

“This wall marks the boundary of the East Harrington estate,” remarked my companion as we walked along. “If I have read the map correctly, one of the main entrances to the estate should lie just ahead. Yes, there it is!” cried he as we rounded a bend in the road and a large imposing gateway came into view. The pillars on either side of the entrance must have been nearly twenty feet tall, and were surmounted by large carved figures, which appeared to be winged lions. The gates themselves, which were standing open, were of ornately wrought ironwork, and were, I think, the largest such gates I have ever seen.

“It appears a wealthy estate,” I remarked.

Holmes nodded. “And yet,” said he, “we know that its owner is in financial difficulties and is desperate for all the income he can garner.”

“Of course, expenditure has a habit of rising in line with income,” I remarked, “and usually manages to keep one step ahead.”

“Quite so,” returned my companion with a chuckle. “It was ever thus. The man who has no money believes that just a little would undoubtedly secure his happiness; the man who already has a little dreams of having a lot; and the man who has a lot feels confident that if he had yet more his situation might be immeasurably improved. This consideration alone should suffice to discredit the suggestion that there is any significant relation between money and happiness. But,” he continued, putting his finger to his lips, “we had best keep our reflections on the subject to ourselves while we are on the estate!”

We passed through the wide gateway and beneath the menacing stare of the winged lions. Immediately behind the right-hand gate was a small brick-built lodge. In a little vegetable plot to the side of it, a man was digging with a spade.

“A bright day to you, sir!” called Holmes as we passed by. “If anyone challenges us,” he added to me in an undertone, “just follow my lead.”

The drive before us was almost as wide as a city street. It made a long, gentle sweep to the left, to avoid a rushy mere on which hordes of ducks and moorhens were busy, and then curved to the right and resumed its original direction. Ahead of us now it lay dead straight and level, as far as the eye could see. Once past the mere, it was flanked on either side by woods, and far in the distance, a focal point for all travellers on the drive, stood a very tall obelisk. So very long and straight was the drive that after we had been walking briskly for almost ten minutes, the obelisk at the end of it appeared scarcely any closer than when we had begun. I was remarking on this fact to my companion when, far in the distance, a closed carriage came into view by the obelisk, making its way at some speed towards us.

“Now who, I wonder, is this?” murmured Holmes.

So great was the length of the drive that although the carriage was clearly travelling at a great pace, and we were walking briskly, it was several minutes before it reached us. As it came closer, a man leaned from the window on our side and called something to the driver. The latter at once reined in his horses and brought them to a slow trot, and at this rate they approached us, until the driver brought the carriage to a halt next to where we were standing.

A large, powerful-looking man leaned from the window of the carriage and surveyed us. His features were large and coarse, his brows were heavy and his chin seemed to jut forward aggressively. The look in his eye as he glanced from one to the other of us was not a friendly one.

“Who are you?” he demanded in a belligerent tone.

“The name is Hobbes,” said Holmes, stepping forward and extending his hand. “This is my companion, Mr Wilson.”

“What are you doing here?” demanded the other, ignoring Holmes’s outstretched hand. I glanced past him, at the other two occupants of the carriage. Seated opposite him was an obese, rather stupid-looking man with puffy lips, whose chin seemed sunk in rolls of fat. He was playing the fool with what appeared to be a pair of antique duelling pistols. The woman I recognized at once as Miss Rogerson. For the briefest of moments, as my glance passed over those mean features that I remembered from our previous encounters, our eyes met. I looked away quickly.

“My companion and I are enthusiastic naturalists,” Holmes was saying. “We have been informed that the flocks of migrating geese are worth seeing at this time of the year.”

“Oh, have you? Have you also been informed that this is private property?”

“Indeed,” said Holmes, pulling the map from his pocket. “But my information is that there is a public right of way along this drive, and to the river.”

“So some people claim!”

“Anyhow, I am sure that the owner of this land would have no objection to our seeking to witness such a fascinating spectacle.”

“Oh, you’re sure, are you? Well, let me inform you that the owner of this land does not give a tuppenny damn for your ‘fascinating spectacle’! For two pins he would fling you both in the river with the damned geese!”

“Oh, leave ’em, Lessingham!” called the other man in the carriage in a bored drawl. I glanced his way and saw that he was making a play of aiming one of the pistols at me and squeezing the trigger. “Bang!” said he. “That’s one of ’em gone, anyhow. Leave ’em, I say,” he repeated to his companion. “Let ’em go on their wild goose chase. Perhaps they’ll fall in the river!” He and the woman laughed loudly at this.

The large man was still leaning from the carriage window. Now he raised his fist to us. “You have the right of way marked on your map there?” he demanded.

“Certainly,” said Holmes.

“Well, then. You stray one inch from it and you’ll find yourself in court faster than you can say goose! Do you understand?”

“Absolutely.”

“Drive on!” cried the other and leaned back into his seat, as the coachman lashed his horses and they sped away at a gallop.

“That was a somewhat unlooked-for encounter,” remarked Holmes to me after a moment in a wry tone. “What a very unpleasant brute he is! If he were a dog, he would probably be put down by order of the court!”

“That other fool – Captain Legbourne Legge, I presume – pointed a pistol at me and pretended to fire it,” I cried angrily. “I can scarcely believe that an ex-Army man could ever do such a stupid thing!”

Holmes turned and looked at me. “My dear fellow!” said he in a concerned tone. “You look quite white! Those idiots have upset you!”

“I don’t mind admitting it,” I replied. “When a man has had the muzzle of a gun pointed at him in deadly earnest, in the heat of battle, it ceases for ever to be amusing.”

“I understand,” said Holmes, clapping me on the shoulder. “Let us stand here a moment and recover our composure before we proceed! I tell you this, Watson, if I had the slightest compunction before this incident of trespassing upon this man’s land and interfering in his business, I have none now. The time will come when he will regret having spoken to us in that way!”

There was a look of hardened determination upon my companion’s face such as I had rarely seen there, and I knew then that he would not rest until he had seen this business through to the bitter end.

“Are you ready to continue?” he asked me after a moment.

“There is something else troubling me.” I answered.

“Oh?”

“I fear the woman may have recognized me. I did not believe, on either occasion this week when I saw her, that she had taken any notice of me, but just now, when our eyes met, I thought I detected a flicker of recognition in them.”

“Ah! That is unfortunate,” responded my companion in a thoughtful tone. He glanced back the way we had come. “They have gone now, anyway. Let us hope her memory fails her. Meanwhile, we must make all haste to the Hall!”

We resumed our brisk pace, but it was another fifteen minutes before we reached the obelisk, where four roadways, like the points of the compass, went off at right angles to each other. Set atop the tall pillar was a gigantic stone pineapple. Holmes glanced up at it as we paused for a moment.

“I understand that such a symbol is supposed to indicate hospitality and a warm welcome,” he remarked with a chuckle; “items which are conspicuous only by their absence at East Harrington!” He glanced again at his map. “Up to this point,” he continued after a moment, “we were on solid ground, legally speaking. From here, however, the public right of way goes off that way, to the left, through the woods to the river, whereas we must go straight ahead. According to the map, East Harrington Hall lies just beyond that belt of trees. Are you ready to step beyond the law?”

“I am,” I replied.

“According to legal tradition,” Holmes continued as we followed the drive ahead, “an Englishman’s house is his castle, and a very sound rule it is, too, in most circumstances. But, like all sound rules, it yields before another rule, when that other rule is one that possesses greater moral force, as in the present instance.”

“I quite agree.”

“Unfortunately, that consideration will not do us much good if we are stopped by anyone. And nor, of course, will the story of the wild geese, for we are past the point where that would be credible. If we are challenged, our best course now is probably to speak the truth: that we are here to see Miss Borrow. As she is a minor, legally speaking, I am not sure that her invitation to us to enter into Hartley Lessingham’s property is of any substance in the eyes of the law, but I see no alternative. We must press on with our intended business so long as ever we are at liberty to do so, and just hope that we do not end the day in a police cell. But surely that is Miss Borrow there now!”

We had passed quickly through the narrow belt of trees and found ourselves atop a slight rise. Spread out a little below us, about a hundred yards further on, was the red-brick Georgian splendour of East Harrington Hall. In front of it lay a broad smooth lawn, around which the drive curved, and in the very centre of the lawn a girl in a pink dress was sitting at an easel, facing towards us, painting. Holmes raised his cap, and she made an answering gesture with a long paintbrush. “Come along!” said he, and we left the drive and set off across the lawn.

“Oh, I am so glad that you have been able to come!” cried the girl, hurrying towards us, her eyes shining with tears. “I sat here that I might see you as soon as you arrived, but I scarcely dared hope that I would see you at all!”

“Now that we are here, we must waste no time,” returned Holmes in an urgent tone. “We have had an unfortunate encounter with your guardian on our way here, and it is possible that he will send back his coachman, or some other servant, to see what we are up to. You must take us to your brother’s room at once!”

Miss Borrow put down her painting things and ran before us across the lawn and up a broad and shallow flight of steps to the ornate front door of the house. We followed her into the entrance hall, where a maidservant was polishing a large, gleaming piece of green marble statuary, and looked at us with curiosity as we passed. Miss Borrow paid her no heed, but led the way up a wide, thickly carpeted staircase and into a first-floor corridor, where the scent of beeswax polish filled the air. As she turned in to another, steeper flight of stairs, a manservant in livery came round a corner, stopped and stared at us in surprise, but we ignored him and pressed on. A third flight of stairs, steeper and less extravagantly carpeted than the others, brought us to the top floor. Here was the same gleaming, polished woodwork, but on a smaller and more modest scale than on the floors below.