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

Автор книги: Denis O. Smith

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Текущая страница: 34 (всего у книги 36 страниц)

So saying, and with an expression of resolute determination upon his features, he stepped to the stair and began to ascend. I followed, some distance behind, as he had requested, the children clinging tightly to my jacket. The landing at the top of the stairs was as dark as the ground floor, but just as we reached it, Holmes pushed open a door, and a dull grey light spread across the landing from the room beyond, where, as I could see, a broken window on the far side of the room overlooked the river.

“Nothing here,” murmured my companion. “The presence of that odious woman downstairs suggests that what we seek is here somewhere, though. Ah! Signs on the next staircase that it has been used recently! Let us try the floor above, then!”

Again we followed slowly up the creaking and uneven stair. The wood was so rotten that some of the steps crumbled at the edges as I put my weight upon them. At the top was another landing. It was not quite so dark as the one below, for a little light was admitted by a cracked and dirt-smeared window in the right-hand wall, which looked out over the woods through which we had passed in the trap. But the stench of damp and decay here was as strong as ever, and the filthy, broken boards of the floor seemed alive with beetles and woodlice.

At the side of the landing, in the centre of a wall of wooden boards opposite to the stair, was a door. I saw Holmes try the handle, but it was evident that it was locked, for he glanced about the floor and walls as if looking for a key.

“That woman must have taken it with her,” said he. “Keep the children to the side, Watson!”

I put my arms round the children, and we watched as Holmes kicked at the lock with the heel of his boot. Twice it resisted his efforts, but at the third attempt, with a cracking and splintering of wood, the door flew open. As it did so, there came a muffled cry from within the room, a cry so strange that I could not for a moment be certain whether it were human or animal. As I joined my friend in the doorway, an appalling sight met my eyes.

It was a large room, stretching the full width of the building. In the wall to our left was a door and a row of windows, overlooking the river, and in the wall to the right was a window overlooking the woods. The floor was of bare, dusty boards, littered with rubbish, and with disordered heaps of wooden planks and poles everywhere. But what riveted my attention more than any of this clutter was what lay directly opposite the door. There, spread upon the floor, was a bed of sorts, which consisted mainly of old sacks, a rough, coarse blanket and a couple of dirty cushions. Beside this dishevelled and unattractive heap stood a wooden table and chair, and sitting at the table was a woman in a pale blue dress. She stood up as we entered, and I saw she was of medium height and about five and thirty years old. There was something refined and educated in her expression, but her face was streaked with dirt, as if she had been weeping, and her hair was disarranged. Harriet Borrow took one look at her, then released her grip on my arm and ran forward with a cry.

“Aunt Margaret!” cried she, flinging her arms around the woman’s waist.

At this, the boy, who had been burying his face in my side, looked round, then he, too, ran forward with a cry of joy and spoke for the first time. “Auntie!” cried he.

“Who are these gentlemen?” asked the woman in a nervous, uncertain tone, eyeing us cautiously as she hugged the children to her.

“It is Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson,” cried the girl excitedly as she turned to us. “They have come to rescue us!”

“Can this be true?” asked the woman in a tone of disbelief.

“Certainly it is,” returned Holmes with a chuckle. “I cannot claim that that was our clear intention when we left London this morning, but now that we have found you, rescue does indeed seem the most appropriate course of action!”

“Then you will have to do something about these,” said she. As she spoke, she moved her arm and her foot, and I saw for the first time, with a shock of horror, that around both her wrist and her ankle were metal manacles, connected by chains to iron rings in the wall. “This, as you will no doubt surmise, is my husband’s doing,” she explained. “He wished to be sure that I could not escape. But strangely enough, these chains have probably saved my life. For I have many times thought that if I could only free myself from them for but a moment, I should at once fling myself from that window over there and thus end forever my miserable existence!”

“Tut! tut!” cried Holmes, as he examined the manacle on her wrist. “You must banish such thoughts from your mind altogether! We shall soon have these chains removed, and then we can get you and the children far away from here! The woman downstairs has keys for these, I take it.”

“Yes, she does,” returned she, but then, as Holmes made for the door, she cried out in a pitiful tone. “Don’t leave me, I beg of you!” she said, and it was clear that her hopes of release having been raised, she could not bear any possible disappointment.

“Do not fear! I shall only be a moment. You had best remain here, Watson, to keep an eye on things.”

“Certainly.”

My friend was back again in a couple of minutes. In his hands were a variety of hammers, chisels and other tools.

“I could not find the woman anywhere,” explained he. “She is evidently keeping herself out of sight. However, I found these tools on a lower floor and am confident we can soon get the manacles off with them. If you would bring that block of wood over here, Watson, to rest the edge of the manacle on, and hold this chisel for me, I’ll see if I can smash the hinge. You have been held captive here since last winter, I take it,” he continued, addressing Mrs Hartley Lessingham as he cast his jacket to the floor, rolled up his sleeves and set about trying to force apart the manacle on her wrist.

She nodded her head. “Eight long months have I lain here in lonely imprisonment, eight long months during which I have had no knowledge of the world outside, nor of my family, and no companion save that cruel half-wit downstairs that my husband set here to guard me. Can you wonder that I have been driven half-mad, and have thought so often of flinging myself from that window?”

“But Aunt Margaret,” cried Miss Borrow, “how can this be? We were told by Mr Hartley Lessingham that you were residing in a cottage on the estate of Mr Shepherd!”

“What! I have never been within a hundred miles of it! What a wicked thing to have told you, when all the time he was keeping me a prisoner here!”

“But I wrote to you there, and you replied!” protested the girl in a baffled tone.

“My poor dear!” returned the woman, her eyes brimming with tears. “I have received no letter from you nor from anyone, and nor have I been able to write any. If Mr Hartley Lessingham told you it was a letter from me, then he lied. No doubt he wrote the letter himself.”

“I should have known!” cried the girl in an angry tone, and burst into tears. “I should have known that you would never have told me not to write to you again.”

“I certainly should not! Whatever was said in that letter, Harriet, was nothing but wicked lies!”

“But Mr Hartley Lessingham did receive one letter from Sussex,” said the girl after a moment, “for I remember seeing the Lewes postmark on the envelope. He told me that it was from Mr Shepherd, informing him that you were residing at Tattingham. He said he had thrown it in the fire.”

“I imagine,” said Holmes, addressing the woman as she shook her head in puzzlement, “that he made up that story on the spur of the moment, when he realized that Harriet had seen the postmark. No doubt the letter really was from Mr Shepherd, but was simply enquiring after you all and sending you his news. Your husband may not have bothered replying to it at all, or, if he did, he probably told Shepherd that you had gone away and he did not know your whereabouts. One moment!” said he, then he brought the hammer down with all his strength onto the chisel which I had positioned on the hinge of the manacle. “There!” he cried in triumph as the hinge burst apart. “Now for the other one! Perhaps,” he continued, addressing Mrs Hartley Lessingham as I positioned the hinge of the second manacle on the edge of the lump of wood, “you could tell us what occurred last January. Shortly after you left, on New Year’s Eve, your husband informed Harriet that you had written to say that you were staying in an hotel in London.”

“That, at least, was true.”

“He then went off to visit you, to try to persuade you, so he said, to return to East Harrington, but as he reported, you declined the proposition.”

“That, also, is correct.”

“Yet somehow he managed to get you back here.”

“That is easily explained. When he came to my hotel in London, he said that if I would not live with him at East Harrington any longer, I had best take the children with me, as he did not wish to be troubled with them. Of course, this was what I had wished all along, so I readily agreed. I therefore accompanied him back here from London simply to collect Harriet and Edwin. We were met at the railway station by the carriage, which was driven by his unpleasant friend, Captain Legbourne Legge. This struck me as a little odd, but I thought no more about it. As we drove through the park, my thoughts were only on the children, and I could not have imagined the evil plan that my husband and his odious companion had contrived. Then, when we had almost reached the Hall, Legbourne Legge turned the carriage off the main drive at the obelisk, and instead brought it here. When I realized what they intended, I struggled to escape, but it was of no avail, and I received only bruises for my troubles. Since then I have been a prisoner here, with that evil woman you have met as my gaoler; without hope of release, and subject to constant threats and intimidation.”

“Did the woman sometimes carry messages between here and the Hall?”

“Yes. I recall once hearing my husband giving her instructions to that effect.”

“The children saw her once or twice at night, I believe, leaving a message on the sundial in the garden behind the house. Those messages were subsequently collected by Legbourne Legge.”

“He and my husband seem to have planned everything together. I do not know which of them I detest the most!”

Holmes nodded. “The threats you mentioned, were these to try to persuade you to sign money over to your husband?”

“To try to force me to assign everything I possess to him, and all my rights and responsibilities in what is due to the children, too.”

“I thought as much,” said Holmes, nodding his head. “I have seen in his study that he has been forging your signature. But while the solicitor would accept your signature through the post on relatively minor matters, on more important questions he would wish to see you in person, to discuss the business with you and witness your signature. This is why it was vital for your husband to persuade you to agree to his plans.”

“But I should never have done so. I told him I would rather die. At least,” she continued in a hesitant tone, “I had remained defiant until the last fortnight. But he has recently found a chink in my armour.” Her gaze flickered momentarily downwards.

“He threatened to harm the children if you did not do as he wished? It does not surprise me. I will tell you later all that has happened recently.” Holmes broke off as he brought his hammer down with great force upon the chisel several times. Presently he paused, and stood for a moment recovering his breath. “You have not yet signed anything for your husband?” he continued, addressing Mrs Hartley Lessingham.

“No.”

“Good! Then all the cards are still in our hands! I must ask you now if you know anything of the fate of Mr Theakston, the children’s tutor at the time you left.”

“Mr Theakston?” returned she in surprise. “Why, what has happened to him?”

“He has vanished without trace, and, to speak frankly, I fear the very worst,” said Holmes. He then described to Mrs Hartley Lessingham the quarrel between the tutor and his employer, which Miss Borrow had overheard.

“That was in the spring, you say?” said she. “Then I think I can cast some light on it. Outside that door in the wall over there is a wooden platform, from which a long staircase descends on the outside of the building, until it reaches the ground by the millrace. One evening in the early spring, just as the light was fading, someone climbed up that staircase and looked in here through the window. I was startled, and because the light was poor and the window dirty, I could not at first make out who it was. I thought it was probably some peasant from Dedstone, so I remained perfectly still, for I was very frightened. But after a few moments, as he moved about on the platform and tried to open the door, I realized that it was Mr Theakston and called out to him. I am not sure if he heard me or knew who it was that was in here, for this room must have appeared very dark to him, but after trying unsuccessfully for some time to open the door – it is bolted on the inside, as you see – he went away, and I heard his footsteps descending the stair. For several days I hoped that something might come from this incident, that perhaps he would tell someone that I was being kept here, but when nothing happened, I abandoned my hopes, concluded that he had not realized I was in here and put it from my mind.”

“Something had evidently aroused his curiosity as to what was happening here,” said Holmes, “possibly the behaviour of that woman downstairs, or perhaps some rumour he had heard. Whatever it was, it seems likely that he did in fact recognize you, for he confronted your husband over the matter, either that same night, or soon afterwards. This was, of course, a terrible mistake, and the very last thing he should have done, but honest men frequently make mistakes that villains never would. He has not been seen again since that evening, and I am afraid that we must conclude that he was done to death by these villains to prevent him from speaking of what he knew.”

“I recall now,” said Mrs Hartley Lessingham, “that about that same time – not the same night, but it might have been the next one – I heard the carriage coming very late in the evening, when it was already pitch black. I thought that my husband was coming to persecute me further, but no one entered the mill. Instead, after a while I heard Legbourne Legge’s voice and, I believe, my husband’s, from somewhere outside. Then came the sound of digging in that little wood out there. This carried on for some time, then, eventually, I heard the sound of the carriage leaving again.”

Holmes shook his head, his features grave. “Then we can only conclude that somewhere in that little wood is the last resting place of the unfortunate Mr Theakston. I am sorry to speak of these things so bluntly, Harriet,” he continued, addressing the girl, “but we cannot avoid the truth.”

“I understand,” said she, biting her lip.

“I promise you that I will do my utmost to bring these wicked people to justice.”

“If the matter is as you surmise,” said Mrs Hartley Lessingham, “Mr Theakston’s blood may not be the first they have upon their hands. When first I was held captive here, my gaoler was a man called Meadowcroft, who had at one time been in charge of the mill, although he was a dreadful drunk. But one night I heard a terrific quarrel down by the riverbank, between, as far as I could tell, Meadowcroft and my husband. What it was about, I do not know – perhaps Meadowcroft was trying to blackmail my husband over my presence here – but it ended with the sound of a violent struggle, and then a scream from Meadowcroft. After that evening, I never saw him again, and did not know what had become of him.”

“He was found in the river,” said Miss Borrow. “Everyone thought he had just fallen in and drowned.”

“There!” cried Holmes as, with a final powerful blow, he managed at last to force the hinge of the manacle apart. “When you are ready, madam, we can depart. But what is that?” cried he, as the unmistakable sound of honking and gabbling, and the heavy beat of a thousand wings, came to our ears. “Something has put the geese up again!”

“I cannot see,” said I, looking from the window. “Something has certainly startled them, but the view is obscured by the wood. No, wait! There are horses coming! It is a carriage!”

I craned from the window as the carriage drew up in front of the mill. “It is Hartley Lessingham!” I cried.

“Let us take a look at this outside staircase,” said Holmes, sliding back the bolts and opening the door in the far wall. “It looks a little precarious, does it not?” said he as I joined him there. Outside the door was a small, splintering, rotten-looking wooden platform, from which a very long, dilapidated stair led down, in stages, to the stone embankment of the river far below, by the great mill-wheel.

“For myself, I would risk it,” said I, “but we cannot ask Mrs Hartley Lessingham and the children to descend that way.”

“I agree,” said Holmes. “We must therefore stay and meet Hartley Lessingham face to face in here.”

We turned back to the room as there came the sound of rapid footsteps on the stair. Then, for a moment, they stopped, and I heard a man’s voice, harsh and angry. “Get out of my way, you stupid woman!” he shouted. This was followed by a cry of fear and the sound of someone falling heavily down the stairs. Moments later, Hartley Lessingham burst into the room, brandishing a stout black walking stick, followed by Miss Rogerson and Captain Legbourne Legge. The children cried out with terror at the sight of him and clung to the side of their aunt, who had pressed herself back against the wall. I could not wonder at their alarm, for Hartley Lessingham was indeed a fearsome sight, well over six feet tall, and as broad as an ox. For a moment, this gigantic figure stood in silence, surveying us all, his features twisted and purple with rage.

“That’s the man!” cried Miss Rogerson all at once in a shrill voice, pointing her finger at me. “He was with the girl in London; I’m sure of it!”

“You!” said Hartley Lessingham in a thunderous tone, approaching me. “How dare you trespass upon my property! You are this person, Sherlock Holmes, I take it,” he continued, reading from a card in his hand and spitting the name out with fiery venom.

“No, he isn’t,” interjected Holmes in a calm voice. “I am.”

“Oh?” said Hartley Lessingham, turning to Holmes and advancing upon him menacingly. “So you are responsible for this impudent intrusion into my private affairs?”

“If you wish to put it that way, then, yes, I am.”

“You impertinent scoundrel!” cried Hartley Lessingham, tearing up Holmes’s card and casting the pieces to the floor. “You scum! I didn’t like the look of you when I saw you earlier! I should have run you off the estate there and then, you infernal, interfering busybody!”

“Well, we all have regrets from time to time,” remarked Holmes in a careless tone.

“You dare to trifle with me?” thundered Hartley Lessingham. “You who are nothing but the dirt beneath my feet?”

“Dirt I may be, but at least I haven’t imprisoned my own wife and vilely abused children who were left in my care.”

“I’ll teach you to meddle in my affairs!” cried Hartley Lessingham in a menacing tone. He took his black stick in both hands, there came a sharp click, and from within the stick he drew forth a long, deadly-looking steel rapier.

I heard Holmes murmur my name, caught his eye for a split second, and saw it dart to a pile of short wooden staves that lay by my feet. Perceiving at once his meaning, I had, in another split second, stooped, picked up one of the staves, which was about three feet in length, and tossed it across to him. He snatched it from the air with his right hand, although his eye never for an instant left his adversary, who was advancing menacingly upon him, making slashes in the air with his rapier. Slowly and warily, the two men circled each other, their weapons held on guard. Without taking my eyes off them, I picked up another of the staves. What might happen in the desperate contest before me, I could not envisage, but I feared for my friend’s safety and held my stave ready to intervene the moment it appeared necessary.

I saw Hartley Lessingham’s eyes flicker in my direction, and he had evidently seen me pick up the stave, for he called to Legbourne Legge without turning his head. “Get your pistols, Legge! We’ll sort out these damned vermin once and for all!” At this, Legbourne Legge turned and hurried from the room, and I heard the rapid clatter of his footsteps down the stair.

My mind raced as I debated with myself the best course of action. I could position myself to the side of the doorway and strike at Legbourne Legge as he returned, and thus perhaps knock the pistol from his grasp, but Miss Rogerson might warn him that I was waiting for him. Perhaps, then, I should go to meet him on the stair, but then my own position would be too exposed and I should lose the element of surprise. Besides, if I left the room, I should not be able to help Holmes, and the children and their aunt would be left unguarded. Even as I considered the question, Hartley Lessingham made a slashing cut at Holmes. The latter managed to parry it with his stick, but then came another and another, as Holmes was slowly forced backwards towards the corner of the room. Upon Hartley Lessingham’s face was an expression of murderous hatred, and it was clear that we could expect no quarter from such a man. I could not possibly leave my post: I should just have to deal with Legbourne Legge as best I could when he returned.

The fight before me was becoming increasingly desperate. Back and forth went Holmes and his opponent, thrusting and parrying, slashing and blocking. Holmes had managed to extricate himself from the corner with a brief sally, but had been forced back again against the wall, and it was evident that Hartley Lessingham was slowly but surely gaining the upper hand and closing in, awaiting that split-second of a chance when his opponent’s guard would drop, and he could make the thrust which would end the struggle. Holmes, as I knew, was an expert at singlestick, and had taken part in competitions both at single-stick and fencing during his college days, but armed only with a stout stick against this gigantic, powerful opponent, who was clearly an accomplished swordsman, I doubted if he could resist for much longer.

Then, as Hartley Lessingham made a series of rapid thrusts, accompanied by blood-curdling cries of triumph, the sound of a horse’s hooves and the rattle of a carriage harness came to my ears. What it meant, I could not tell. I could only guess that Legbourne Legge was leaving, but for what reason, I could not imagine. Next moment, my attention was once more entirely taken up by the deadly fight before me. Holmes had been caught on the hand by his opponent’s rapier, for I saw a streak of blood across his knuckles. Hartley Lessingham evidently saw it, too, for he let out a howl of triumph and tossed his head back, like a wild beast scenting victory. At that precise instant, Holmes launched a sudden counter-attack of his own, and seized the initiative. Right and left went his staff, as he forced his way forward, and Hartley Lessingham attempted to parry. Then he struck a sharp blow on Hartley Lessingham’s sword hand and, in the split second that his opponent’s guard was down, made a straight thrust with his staff with all his might, and caught his opponent full in the face with the end of it.

There came a wild howl of pain from Hartley Lessingham, and as he clutched his face, which was streaming with blood, the sword slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor. In the same moment, Holmes caught him a powerful blow on the side of the head, and he staggered backwards, still holding his face in his hands, until his back was against the wall. There he stood, panting and howling for several minutes, like some wild beast at bay. Then as he began to recover himself, he lowered his hands from his blood-smeared face and looked with baleful venom at Holmes, who had remained all this time in the centre of the room, unmoving.

“You will pay for this,” cried Hartley Lessingham, in a voice that was hoarse and full of fury. “You will pay with your life! Legge!” he cried loudly. “Where is that damned fool? Legge!”

There came the sound of someone bounding up the stairs at a terrific rate, but the man who burst into the room a moment later was not the corpulent Captain Legbourne Legge, but a sturdily built, sandy-haired man. His face seemed vaguely familiar to me, but for several seconds I could not place him. Then, with a jolt of surprise, I realized that he was the man Holmes and I had observed in the cab in Fleet Street the previous day, watching Harriet Borrow.

“Edgar!” cried Mrs Hartley Lessingham. “What on earth—”

“I have long suspected that things were not right in these parts,” said the newcomer, “but I was loath to interfere. I wrote in the spring, but was told by your husband that you had gone away, and that he did not know your whereabouts. Then, just this last week, I received a letter from a gentleman in London, giving me some fresh facts. He seemed to be under the impression, for some reason, that I might know where you were. I decided to make my own enquiries, which I have been doing for several days, until I resolved last night that I would come down and see for myself what was happening here. And I have come, it seems, not a moment too soon!”

“You’re never too soon, Shepherd,” said Hartley Lessingham in a sneering tone. “You’re always too late! You’ve missed all the entertainment! Now get out of my way!”

“Not so fast, Lessingham,” returned Shepherd, holding his ground as Hartley Lessingham made to push past him. “I have some questions for you.”

“What you have is of no interest to me!” said Hartley Lessingham in a supercilious tone, but he stopped as Holmes and I closed in on him with our staves. “You scum!” he cried at us, backing away a little. “Legge!” he called again. “Where the devil are you?”

“Your fat friend is having a little trouble loading his pistol,” said Shepherd. “He can’t help you.”

At this, Miss Rogerson ran from the room, and I heard her shouting down the stairs to Legbourne Legge. Hartley Lessingham backed slowly away from us, his eyes darting this way and that, like a rat in a trap, then, abruptly, he turned and made a bolt for the door in the end wall, snatched it open and, before we could stop him, had dashed out and down the steps outside.

I raced to the doorway and looked down. Hartley Lessingham was already some way down the staircase, which was swaying alarmingly at every footfall. Then he turned and looked up at us, an expression of savage hatred upon his features.

“You will all regret this!” he screamed at the top of his voice, shaking a huge knotted fist at us in wild, uncontrolled rage. But in turning to face us, he had leaned his weight upon the flimsy handrail, and even as he shook his fist, I heard the splintering crack of the rotten wood, and watched with horror as the broken handrail fell away and Hartley Lessingham pitched headlong from the stair. He made a desperate grab for one of the upright poles that had held the handrail, but it snapped clean off in his grasp like a matchstick, and with a terrible scream, he plunged down, down, until he hit the great water-wheel with a sickening thud and lay there like a broken doll. For a moment I stared in horror at this dreadful scene, but even from that distance I could see that he was dead.

I turned as there came the sound of rapid footsteps from behind us. Legbourne Legge dashed into the room, brandishing one of his old-fashioned pistols. He looked from one to the other of us, and as he did so, his mouth fell open in an expression of stupid incomprehension.

“Where the devil is Lessingham?” he demanded of Miss Rogerson, who had followed him into the room.

“It’s all up, Legge,” said Holmes in a voice of authority. “Hartley Lessingham is dead, and you’ll be arrested for the murder of Theakston. We have a witness.”

For a moment Legbourne Legge stood there in silence, a look of indecision upon his fat, flabby face as he pointed his pistol at each of us in turn. Then, in an instant, he abruptly put the pistol up to the side of his head, pulled the trigger and blew his own brains out.

Mrs Hartley Lessingham screamed as Legbourne Legge’s lifeless body slumped to the floor, and the children buried their faces in her skirts. Then, as his blood spread out across the dusty floor, Miss Rogerson uttered a sharp cry and ran from the room and down the stair. With an expression of great weariness, Holmes cast aside his stave and picked up his jacket from where it lay by the wall. Then he stepped forward to usher the others from the room.

“What in the name of Heaven has been happening here?” cried Shepherd, a mixture of bewilderment and horror in his voice.

“Let us first get everyone downstairs and away from here,” responded Holmes as he pulled on his jacket. “I will answer later any questions you may have, Shepherd. For now, let us waste no time in shaking from our feet the dust of this vile and ill-starred place.”