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

Автор книги: Denis O. Smith

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Текущая страница: 33 (всего у книги 36 страниц)

“This is my brother’s room,” said Miss Borrow, indicating a dark, panelled door, halfway along the corridor. We tried the handle, but the door was locked and no key was in sight. As Holmes was bending down, squinting through the keyhole to see if the key was on the inside, another door was opened further along the corridor, and a large, fat, slatternly-looking woman emerged. Miss Borrow let out a little cry, stepped back in alarm and pressed herself against the corridor wall. “It is Mrs Hard-castle,” said she in a whisper.

This, then, was the woman who had been charged with taking care of Miss Borrow’s brother, and of overseeing his return to full health. She was, I must say, every physician’s nightmare of a nurse, and the expression upon her coarse features spoke only of brutality and ignorance.

“Who might you be?” asked this unpleasant apparition in a rude and impertinent tone, addressing Holmes.

“I am the man that is going to enter this room,” returned Holmes in a sharp tone. “Where is the key?”

“That’s none of your business,” said she, but there had been a momentary flicker of her eyes towards the doorway through which she had just emerged. Holmes had evidently observed this, too, for in an instant he had stepped past the woman and into the room behind her. In a moment, he emerged again with a large iron key in his hand. She tried to snatch it from him as he passed, but he evaded her and bent to the lock with it. A low, muffled moan came from beyond the door, as if the rattle of the key had roused the occupant of the room from slumber.

A cry from Miss Borrow made me turn, to see that Mrs Hardcastle had darted into her room and re-emerged with a large stick in her hand. She moved with remarkable speed for such a large woman, and now, in what appeared to be a blind rage, dashed forward before I could stop her and struck Holmes a sharp blow across the shoulders. He turned, eyed her coldly for a moment, then stood up and wrenched the stick from her grasp. In a slow, deliberate fashion, he snapped the stick across his knee and tossed the broken pieces onto the floor.

“If you are not out of my sight in two seconds,” said he in an icy tone, “I shall personally throw you down the stairs.”

For one second she stood there, defiance struggling with fear upon her face, then, as Holmes made some slight motion towards her, fear gained the upper hand and she turned and ran into her room. The door slammed shut behind her and I heard the key turn in the lock.

“Quickly,” said Holmes, returning to the lock of the boy’s room. “We have no time to lose! There may be others in the house who will present us with more formidable opposition!” He turned the key and pushed open the door, and as he did so Miss Borrow dashed forward and into her brother’s room. It was dark within, for a heavy curtain was drawn across the window, but the light from the open doorway sufficed to illuminate a scene more shocking than anything I could have imagined. Upon the bed, under a single dirty sheet, the little boy lay still, his head upon a filthy pillow, and the eyes which turned in our direction were wide with fear. But what riveted my attention was that the lower part of his face was completely covered by the windings of some bandage-like cloth.

Quickly I untied the knot behind his neck and unwound this filthy cloth, as Holmes drew back the curtain to admit the grey light of that dull September day into the room. Beneath the bandage, a further clump of rag had been forced into his mouth. There appeared nothing whatever wrong with his face and it was evident that the cloth was nothing more than a gag, designed to prevent him crying out. As I removed it, he began to sob, although the gaze of his dark-ringed eyes never left his sister. For a moment I was puzzled as to why he did not sit up, or extend his hand to her, but as I drew back the filthy sheet that covered him, the reason became plain. Beneath the sheet, several lengths of stout cord had been passed across his chest and under the bed, binding him fast. Further lengths of the same cord had been tied tightly round his wrists, and secured to the frame of the bed. These I at once set about unfastening. As I did so, I noticed with horror that his arms and legs were covered with livid bruises. It was apparent that he had been beaten, repeatedly and severely.

“Here,” said Holmes, unfastening his clasp knife. “I’ll cut the bonds. It will be quicker. Never mind about your medical instruments, Watson. The boy comes with us. See if you can find him some outdoor clothes!”

In two minutes I had the lad dressed. He offered no resistance to this, but nor did he take any active part in the process. His manner was one of strange, silent passivity. Several times, I spoke to him, to ask a question or make some reassuring remark, but although he appeared to follow all that I said, he never uttered a sound, and it was clear that he was in a state of shock. As I pulled some clothes onto his thin little figure, I had made a rapid assessment of his condition. In my opinion, there was very little physically wrong with him – or nothing that a few solid meals would not cure anyway – but probably as a result of the treatment he had endured, and the lack of food, his temperature was up and his brow was clammy, so I wrapped him in an old blanket I found in a cupboard.

“I’ll carry him,” I said as we prepared to leave the room.

“Good man!” cried Holmes. “Now, Miss Borrow, is there a way we can reach your guardian’s study without passing through the main hall?”

“This way,” said she, and led us quickly along the corridor to the other end, where there was a second staircase, narrower than the one by which we had ascended. “This leads all the way down to the ground floor,” said she, “and comes out directly opposite the door of Mr Hartley Lessingham’s study.”

As we followed her down the stair, I could hear the sound of hurrying footsteps and urgent voices calling from elsewhere in the house, but we reached the study without encountering anyone, and shut the door firmly behind us. It was a large room, situated at the back of the house, with a tall window overlooking a broad terrace. Beyond the terrace, a smooth lawn sloped gradually down to a large ornamental lake, perhaps two hundred yards away. Three of the study walls were lined with bookshelves, and in the centre of the room was a very large mahogany desk. I laid the boy gently on a couch, and watched as Holmes rapidly pulled open the drawers of the desk.

“It was not my original intention to search this desk,” said he, without looking up, “but we have already laid ourselves open to a charge of aggravated trespass – not to mention kidnapping when we get the boy away from here – so that whatever else we do will scarcely make our guilt any worse in the eyes of the law. We may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. Ah!” cried he all at once, pausing in his rapid survey of the contents of the desk. “This is interesting! It is as I suspected!”

Miss Borrow and I leaned forward to see. Holmes had been sifting through a thick sheaf of loose papers, which he had taken from a drawer. The one that had particularly arrested his attention contained the name “Margaret Hartley Lessingham”, written over and over again at random, all over the page, with, here and there, a few other odd words and phrases.

“Is this your uncle’s handwriting?” Holmes asked Miss Borrow.

“Undoubtedly,” said she. “But what does it mean? Can it be that under his harsh exterior he yet harbours a deep affection for my aunt, and that this repeated invocation of her name is his means of expressing his grief at her continued absence?”

“I fancy it might bear some other interpretation,” returned Holmes, as he continued to sift through the contents of the desk.

“But surely those words there,” the girl persisted, pointing to a line of writing, “are ‘send love’, and are followed by Aunt Margaret’s name?”

Holmes glanced quickly at the words she had indicated. “I think,” said he, “that if you examine it more closely you will see that your aunt’s name has nothing whatever to do with the words which appear to precede it. The two groups of words appear to me to have been written at two different times. Moreover, the words which you have interpreted as ‘send love’ look to me more like ‘see above’.”

“What, then?”

“I shall tell you later. Are the stables far from the house?”

Miss Borrow shook her head. “No,” said she, “they are no distance at all.”

“Do you think that the groom would put a pony in the shafts of a trap upon your instruction?”

“I believe so.”

“Then have him do so at once, bring it round to the front of the house immediately, and wait for us there.”

She made for the door, but Holmes called her back.

“I think,” said he, “that it might be easier and quicker if you went this way.” He threw up the window sash and indicated the terrace outside. In a trice she had climbed through the window and run off along the terrace. “There’s quite a party building up in the hall out there, by the sound of it,” said he to me, nodding his head in the direction of the door as he continued to work his way methodically but swiftly through the contents of the desk drawers.

I had heard the noises myself, the rapid footsteps and growing murmur of voices. It sounded rather as if the whole of the household were assembling outside the study door, waiting to confront us. I glanced at the boy. He appeared to be recovering with the usual rapidity of childhood, and although he had still not uttered a word, he was now sitting up, and there was a brighter light in his alert, dark eyes. I turned back to my companion. “What do you think we should do?” I asked him.

“It might be as well—” began Holmes, but I was not to learn what was in his mind, for he broke off as the noise in the corridor outside abruptly increased and someone began to turn the door handle. “Quickly!” cried he in an urgent tone. “Pick up the boy and be ready to leave at once!”

I just had time to gather up the boy in my arms once more, and wrap the blanket about him, when the door was pushed wide open. In the doorway stood a grey-haired, distinguished-looking man of fifty-odd, who was evidently the butler. Upon his features was an expression of both incomprehension and censure, and it was evident that the present circumstances fell quite outside his experience. In a crush behind him, pushing forward to see what was happening in the study, were ranged puzzled faces of every age and type, both male and female; it seemed that the whole domestic complement of the household must be present. Two liveried footmen, in particular, caught my eye, for they were both carrying stout cudgels and had expressions of great ferocity upon their features. Holmes glanced up, then returned to something he was writing in his notebook. Presently he finished, closed the notebook and replaced it in his pocket in a deliberate, unhurried manner. Then he turned to address the butler.

“Yes?” said he in an unconcerned tone. “What is it?”

“May I enquire, sir,” responded the butler after a moment, “what you are doing here, and by what right you are examining private papers belonging to my master, Mr Hartley Lessingham?”

“Certainly you may,” returned Holmes in an affable tone, “if you will provide me with a satisfactory explanation as to why you have done nothing to protect this child while he was in this household.”

“Really, sir,” said the butler, who was clearly surprised at this response, “it is hardly my place to speak of matters that are no concern of mine.”

“I see,” said Holmes. “Well, then, I will make it your concern.” He motioned to me to bring the boy to him, then he carefully turned back the blanket to reveal the child’s hideously bruised leg. There was a sharp intake of breath from those in the corridor, and the butler frowned and put his hand up to his face. “Have you ever seen bruises as bad as these on a child before?” asked Holmes.

“No, sir,” returned the butler, a pained expression upon his features.

“No,” said Holmes, “and nor, I believe, has my colleague, who is a medical man of considerable experience.”

“As I understand the matter, sir,” the butler ventured after a moment, “Master Edwin had a bad fall near the river.”

Holmes shook his head. “The only fall of any significance has been the repeated fall of a large stick upon this poor boy’s body. Furthermore, I believe I have identified the stick in question, which is now lying in pieces upon the floor of the upstairs corridor.”

There was a general murmur of voices from behind the butler. He turned with a frown on his face, evidently intending to tell them all to keep quiet, but one of the maids abruptly spoke out in a nervous, breathless manner, as if it had taken her some courage to do so.

“He’s right,” said she in a defiant tone. “I’ve heard the poor lad screaming, enough to make you weep.” This daring statement appeared to embolden the others, some of whom murmured their agreement, and said that they, too, had heard screams.

“I fancy, though,” said Holmes, “that you have not heard him so much in recent days.” There was general assent to this suggestion and Holmes continued. “This is not, however, because his suffering has been any the less in recent days, but because he has been gagged to prevent him crying out, and tied to the bed to prevent him moving.”

There were horrified gasps at this revelation, and one of the young maids began to sob loudly. The butler appeared torn between his natural human sympathy for the boy and a desire to impose his authority upon his subordinates, and a variety of emotions passed in confusion across his features.

For a few moments, Holmes regarded his audience in silence, then he spoke again in a calm and measured tone. “No doubt,” said he, looking past the butler and addressing those behind him, “you have observed the very heavy rain that has fallen in these parts recently and flooded the fields?” There was a general, quiet murmur of assent. “Perhaps you have heard that it is very likely that every minute of every day, it is raining somewhere in the world? But has it ever occurred to you that it is also very likely that, each and every minute of every day, someone, somewhere in the world, is suffering grievously? Indeed, it is more than likely that human suffering is somewhat more prevalent in the world than rainfall; for there are some places – Timbuctoo, for instance – where, as you may be aware, it hardly ever rains at all, but we cannot suppose that human suffering is any less frequent in Timbuc-too than elsewhere.”

“No, sir,” said the butler.

“Now one cannot, therefore, actively lament each and every occasion of suffering and injustice in the world, any more than one can lament every drop of rain that falls. There is too much of it for it to be a practical proposition. Were one to try, one would be unable to continue with one’s own life.”

“No, sir.”

“There might for instance, at this very moment, be someone suffering grievously in Timbuctoo.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But we can do nothing about it.”

“No, sir.”

“But if someone informed you that you had a power, a magic power, perhaps, to alleviate the suffering of the person in Timbuctoo, what then?”

“An unlikely supposition, if I may say so, sir.”

“No doubt, but suppose for a moment that it were true – that by simply lifting your hand you might alleviate that person’s suffering. Would you do it? Do you think you ought to do it?”

“Most certainly, sir,” said the butler, to which there was a general murmur of agreement.

“And if, knowing that you had this power, to alleviate someone’s suffering, you refused to exercise it, what then? Would you be a generous person, or a mean person? Of course, as you all agree, you would be a mean, ungenerous person.”

Holmes regarded his audience in silence for a moment, before continuing. “Here,” said he at length, “is a little boy who has suffered at the hands of adults. He is not living in Timbuctoo, but here in England, at East Harrington. Which of you lifted your hand to alleviate his suffering?” This question was followed by a complete silence, during which I heard the clock on the mantelpiece ticking loudly. “You are thinking, perhaps,” Holmes continued after a moment, “that in our real world, where none of us has magic powers, things are not so simple. You are thinking that had you spoken out, you would have been at once dismissed from your position, without a reference.” The loud murmur of agreement that followed this suggestion indicated that Holmes had read the minds of his audience accurately. “This little boy has been beaten and starved. Had we not come today, I believe he would have died. And if he had died? What then? Is your position here worth this little boy’s life? Are all the domestic positions in the country worth a little boy’s life? I tell you this, if he had died, all the rain in heaven would not have sufficed to wash away the stain of this wickedness from East Harrington.”

Holmes surveyed his audience in silence for several minutes before continuing. The domestic staff had now fallen completely silent, save for the young maid, who was still sobbing. “We are now going to reunite this boy with his aunt,” said he at length in a calm tone. “She has, as you may be aware, the same legal right to have the boy with her as her husband, Mr John Hartley Lessingham.” He stepped forward and motioned to me to follow him, and as I did so, the staff silently pressed themselves back against the wall of the corridor and made a clear pathway for us. We had almost reached the corner of the corridor when the butler spoke.

“Pardon me, sir,” said he, “but who are you?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” returned my companion. “You are Hammond, I take it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well, Hammond. Here is my card. You may inform your master that I can be reached at the address given there on most days of the week.”

With that he turned on his heel and we left the house.

“For a moment there, as the crowd began to muster, I thought we were undone,” said Holmes to me in a quiet tone as we descended the steps to the drive.

“It did seem a little unlikely that they would willingly let us leave the house.”

“Indeed. Those two big fellows with the cudgels might have presented a formidable obstacle.”

“They could hardly stop us, though, after your eloquent words.”

“Well, well, one’s tongue gains strength from the justice of one’s cause. I am not certain what will happen next, Watson, but if the worst comes to the worst, I know an excellent barrister to defend us. But here is Miss Borrow with the pony and trap!”

The trap had appeared at a clatter round the corner of the building as he spoke, with the groom holding the reins and Miss Borrow seated in the back.

“If you will climb in the back with the boy,” said Holmes to me as the trap drew to a halt before us, “I shall take the reins. We shall drive the trap ourselves,” he continued, addressing the groom. For a moment, the latter hesitated and appeared a little reluctant to yield up his vehicle. “This pony is a very fine-looking animal,” continued Holmes. “What is its name?”

“Buttercup, sir.”

“Well, you may rest assured that we shall take great care of Buttercup, and she will be returned to you later.”

With that, he took the reins from the groom’s hand and sprang aboard, and in a moment we were rattling up the drive and away from East Harrington Hall.

“Are we going to the railway station?” asked Miss Borrow.

“No,” said Holmes. “We cannot leave until we have got to the bottom of this business once and for all. We are going to the mill.”

Dedstone Mill

Just before we entered the narrow belt of woods, and the stately brick mansion vanished from view, I looked back and saw that several of the domestic staff were at the front door, watching us depart. No doubt they were wondering who, exactly, we were, and what we were going to do. If so, their wonder could scarcely have been any greater than my own. I could not help feeling that we had entangled ourselves somewhat more intimately in this thorny business than I had expected, and I confess that I could not quite see how we would extricate ourselves, nor how it would all end up. Although I had complete confidence in Holmes’s judgement – more so than I had ever had in that of any man – it seemed to me that we were wading rather too deeply into what were dark and treacherous waters.

When we reached the obelisk, Holmes reined in the pony for a moment and consulted his map once again. I looked up at the huge stone pineapple far above our heads. There seemed something monstrous about it, and something grotesque, too, in the notion that one could express one’s hospitality in a stone monument, as if in doing so one had done one’s duty and need not thenceforth trouble oneself with all the little acts of kindness that are the true mark of hospitality. Above this monument, the clouds were darker now – almost the colour of slate – and the wind that whipped about us was laden with raindrops.

In a moment, Holmes had made his decision and turned the trap into the roadway to the right. As we rattled along between the trees, the rain began to fall, and Miss Borrow, who was clad only in a light dress, began to shiver. The boy, who had been sitting on my knee, appeared to be recovering a little, so I sat him down beside her, unwrapped the blanket a little, and extended it over the girl’s head and shoulders. The two of them huddled close together and pulled the blanket tight around them, as the heavens opened and the rain teemed down.

A minute later we were through the narrow belt of trees and into open countryside, our way taking us between the dripping hawthorn hedges that bordered the sodden fields. To be soaking wet was no new experience for me – I was once caught in a cloudburst in India which was so heavy it almost knocked me to the ground – but I do not think that rain had ever before made me feel quite so cold and miserable. Fortunately, the shower, although heavy, was not prolonged, and in a few minutes had abated.

Holmes glanced round at us, caught my eye and chuckled. “Dry clothes, a hot drink and a pipe,” said he.

“You have divined my deepest desires,” I returned, “although I don’t imagine that in this case it was very difficult.” To myself I reflected, as I had many times before, upon my friend’s remarkable resilience of spirit. However daunting or depressing the circumstances might be, his resolution never faltered, his enthusiasm for the challenges of life never appeared to wane one iota, but, on the contrary, seemed to bubble over with an almost prodigal superfluity and remedy the want of effervescence in those around him. The infectiousness of his enthusiasm made him the very finest of companions in all circumstances, but especially so in adversity. Would this indomitable strength of spirit and good humour ever flag, I wondered, this side of the grave? I rather doubted it. I had scarcely ever known Holmes morose, save only when he was bored by the tedium of inaction.

“Mr Holmes?” said Miss Borrow abruptly, emerging from under the blanket and interrupting my own train of thought. “May I ask a question?”

“By all means,” returned he, removing his hat and slapping it on his knee to knock off the raindrops. “What is it you wish to know?”

“You said that you would explain to me why my uncle had written my aunt’s name over and over so many times.”

“I think it likely,” replied Holmes after a moment, “that in writing her name, and the other miscellaneous words and phrases we saw earlier, he was endeavouring to imitate her hand, so that he could sign letters and papers in her name and give the impression that she had signed them herself.”

“Why should he do that?”

“There may be some official documents, which require both their signatures, and as your aunt is not here to sign for herself, your uncle has no doubt forged her signature.”

“Will people not know that she is no longer at East Harrington?”

“Not necessarily. Your uncle has dealings with, among others, solicitors in Gray’s Inn, in London. No doubt they will occasionally send someone up here, but most of the time the business will be conducted by post. I doubt that they are aware that your aunt is not still at the Hall. I have made a note of the solicitor’s address. Tomorrow, I shall run down to Gray’s Inn and swear an affidavit of all that I have discovered here today.”

“Do you think that the documents you mention have anything to do with Edwin or me?”

“Quite possibly.”

“I know that we were left a little money in my father’s will, and that our aunt and uncle draw on this, to pay for our upkeep.”

“The sum of money involved is perhaps somewhat greater than you realize, but yes, that is part of the subject of your uncle’s dealings with the solicitors at Gray’s Inn. Now, Miss Borrow, if you could answer a question for me: do you recall how your tutor, Mr Theakston, left the house on the evening he departed?”

The girl nodded. “He left for the railway station in this trap. I was watching from an upstairs window.”

“Was the trap driven by the groom?”

“No, by Captain Legbourne Legge.”

“I see. Is that Dedstone Mill over there, on the other side of that little wood?” Holmes asked abruptly, pointing with his whip to where the gable end of a tall roof showed above a belt of trees.

“Yes, that is it,” replied the girl. “This road continues all the way to the river bank, and then turns and follows the river past the mill to the village of Dedstone.”

“And here,” I observed, “are the geese.”

The fields by which we were now passing were almost completely flooded, save where an occasional small hummock of land stood a little above the surrounding level plain and formed a little island in the flood. Upon these cold grey sheets of water, rippled constantly by the chill, blustery wind, were scores and scores of wild geese, their strange cacophonous honking and babbling as constant as the noise of traffic in a city street.

“I am surprised that our passage has not disturbed them,” I remarked.

“It will,” returned Holmes. “Yes, there they go!” cried he, as first one, then two or three, then a dozen, then hundreds and hundreds rose up from the watery ground in a great babbling crowd, until the grey sky was darkened by a thousand beating wings. “It gives away our position somewhat,” remarked Holmes in a rueful voice as the clouds of birds wheeled about the sky and circled above us, “but I doubt that matters now.”

A few minutes more and we had reached the side of the swollen, turbid river, where the grey surging waters, thick with branches and twigs, matted heaps of decaying vegetation, and all manner of debris, boiled and frothed against the banks, as if determined to scour and grind them away. In some places, indeed, this relentless assault had already been successful, and the riverbank had collapsed into the water. By the side of this seething torrent of destruction we rattled along for some time, then the road turned away from the river and wound its way through a little wood, until, all at once, we emerged into an open space, and there before us stood the mill, gaunt and dreary against the leaden sky.

It was a huge building, three or four storeys high, and sixty yards from one end to the other. No doubt it had once seemed the most modern establishment imaginable in the milling line. But now it resembled nothing so much as a medieval ruin, a crumbling relic of a bygone age. Half the roof tiles were missing, many of the windows were broken, and the timber walls of the upper storeys had a rotten, decayed appearance, and had clearly not received a coat of paint in fifty years. Towards the right-hand end, the destruction of the building was especially severe, and the missing section of roof and blackened, charred timbers indicated clearly that that was where the fire which Miss Borrow had mentioned had burnt most fiercely.

As we drew to a halt before this dirty and dilapidated building, the little boy, who had seemed more lively by the minute, became extremely agitated and clung to his sister’s arm. I was helping them down from the trap when a door in the mill was abruptly opened and a scrawny, filthy-looking woman looked out. The boy let out a little shriek and turned away.

“It is Lizzie Bagnall, Mrs Hardcastle’s sister,” said Miss Borrow in a voice tinged with fear.

This unsavoury apparition stared uncomprehendingly at us for a moment, then, as abruptly as she had appeared, she withdrew into the darkness within the building and made to shut the door. Holmes was too quick for her, however. He dropped the reins he had been holding, ran forward and put his foot in the door before it could be fully closed. A stream of foul oaths issued from behind the door, and there followed a struggle between the two of them, she to force the door shut, Holmes to prevent her from doing so. I hurried forward to lend my weight to the argument, and it is as well that I did so, for the woman seemed possessed of an almost superhuman strength. All at once, however, she gave up the struggle, the door burst inwards, and as we stood there for a moment to get our breath back, she charged at us out of the darkness, a large stick in her hand. Holmes put up his arm to break the blow, and snatched the stick off her.

“There is something of a family resemblance in the actions of these estimable sisters, is there not?” said he with a chuckle. “Evidently, the inflicting of blows is their one talent, and they are keen to make the most of it! Take the key from the lock, will you, old fellow?” he added as the woman retreated further into the darkness. “I shouldn’t put it past this charming female to attempt to lock us in. Now, let us see,” he continued, glancing about him. “Nothing much down here, it seems, other than dirt and disorder. I think we should try up there.” He indicated a rickety-looking flight of wooden steps, with a broken handrail. “We cannot leave the children down here with this woman about, so you had best bring them with you, Watson, but keep them back a little, if you would.”