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

Автор книги: Denis O. Smith

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 36 страниц)

“By this time, I was so annoyed that I flatly refused to listen to any more such remarks, and we left it at that. As I travelled home on the train later that afternoon, however, Mr Martin’s words came back to me, rattling around in my head, and I found that I could not dismiss them so easily then as I had done earlier in the day. What the future might bring, I could not say, but I determined there and then that I would try my best to remain hopeful and cheery, and that if anyone were gloomy or downcast, it would not be because of me.”

Miss Calloway paused and sipped her tea in silence for a few moments, a thoughtful expression on her face.

“Some weeks passed, the bright spring turned into a fine summer, and our existence at Bluebell Cottage settled down once more into a peaceful and placid routine. Professor Palfreyman worked on his manuscripts most days and, once I had attended to the routine work of the household, I assisted him in keeping his papers in order, and also proceeded slowly in identifying and cataloguing his archaeological and artistic specimens. I was also able to indulge my own interest in botany by making sketches of the many wild flowers that grow in the woods behind the house. Sometimes the professor accompanied me and made sketches of his own. He is quite an accomplished artist. One of the books he is working on is an account for younger readers of daily life in Ancient Greece, which he hopes to illustrate with simple drawings of his own. He asked me if I would mind posing with a small amphora on my shoulder, so that he could make a naturalistic sketch of it, which of course I didn’t, and he subsequently made numerous other drawings of me in a variety of interesting poses, so one day I may be immortalized in an illustrated book!

“During this period, the professor’s academic colleagues continued to drop in to see us from time to time, and in August we had Professor Schultz of Berlin University to stay for two weeks. During the summer vacation, Mr Martin came more frequently, too. Sometimes he would help me in attempting to bring order to the chaos of the professor’s possessions, and sometimes, if the weather was fine, we would go for walks through the nearby countryside. Of course, throughout this period, Professor Palfreyman continued to talk to himself, but in a subdued, amiably eccentric sort of way, and I never once heard him sound alarmed or angry. Sometimes, too, I heard him talking in his sleep, but there was no repeat of what had occurred that night in the spring, and if he suffered any nightmares, he kept the fact to himself. A new problem now arose, however, concerning the professor’s memory, which had become a little unreliable. Sometimes, he would put something down somewhere and then forget where he had put it, and I would have to search round the house to find it for him. Generally, I was successful, but on one particular occasion I was not, although my failure led to the professor’s making an interestingly philosophical admission. The object in question was an ancient Phoenician terracotta oil lamp, which had in the past stood on a low shelf at the side of the study, although it had often been buried under mounds of loose papers and other things. On the day the professor happened to miss it, I searched high and low for it, but in vain. Eventually, although I was reluctant to blame Beryl as she was no longer there to defend herself, I suggested that she had perhaps knocked it off the shelf and broken it some weeks previously, while dusting, and, afraid of admitting what she had done, had simply hidden the pieces somewhere. Professor Palfreyman did not seem very convinced by this explanation at first, but at length he conceded that it might be correct.

“‘Although Mrs Wheeler is a charming and warm-hearted lady,’ said he in a low voice, closing the study door so that we should not be overheard, ‘her children, I regret to say, do not take after her, but rather follow her late husband, who was something of a bad lot.’

“‘Children?’ I repeated. ‘Do you mean to say there are more than just Beryl?’

“The professor nodded his head. ‘Mrs Wheeler also has a son, Sidney. His father was often in trouble with the police, and Sidney has followed his father closely in that respect, causing his mother considerable anxiety and unhappiness. He came to visit her here once, and although I tried to be welcoming, I found him rude, charmless and unpleasant. It turned out, anyway, that the only reason he had come here was to try to get some money from his mother, to help him escape from the police, who had a warrant out for his arrest. Where he is now and what he is doing, I have no idea. Anyway,’ he continued with a shake of the head, ‘with regard to the Phoenician lamp, I felt sure I had seen it since Beryl left us, but I suppose I must now accept that my memory is not as good as it used to be. Ah, well!’ he added in a philosophical tone. ‘Perhaps it will turn up again, some time in the future. Then again, perhaps it won’t! Life is too short, Georgina, to waste it in fretting about inanimate objects, however much one might feel attached to them!’ This remark, I felt, rather typified the professor’s new attitude: a reluctant acceptance of his slightly declining powers, and a sort of resolute determination to make the most of what remained. All in all, then, I think I could be forgiven for believing that the troubled times were behind us and that our future prospects were in the main only happy ones. Alas! Our troubles, like some foul beast of mythology, were not dead, but simply sleeping, and about to burst upon us anew.

“The summer had passed and autumn was well advanced when, one day, the morning post brought a small package for Professor Palfreyman as we were seated at the breakfast table. This was just two or three weeks ago, in the middle of October.

“‘It is probably one of those Etruscan specimens I have been after for a while,’ said he in an enthusiastic tone as he cut the string and unwrapped the parcel. ‘Let us see!’

“Within the brown paper was a stout cardboard box, and within the box was loose straw and similar packaging material. Professor Palfreyman thrust his hand into this and withdrew a wide, flat object, wrapped in tissue paper, which I thought might be a tile of some kind. He laid it on the table, and I stood up and came round behind his chair to get a better look at it. As he unwrapped the tissue paper, I saw that it was indeed a glazed tile, about four or five inches square. In colour, it was a creamy-white, and on it, in shallow relief, was depicted a most beautiful smiling female face.

“‘Oh, how lovely!’ I cried aloud, but even as I did so, I knew that something was wrong. With a strange, inarticulate cry, Professor Palfreyman pushed his chair back from the table and staggered to his feet. For a moment he stood there, swaying unsteadily, his eyes staring wildly, his mouth agape, then, abruptly, he pitched forward senseless upon the breakfast table. I called Mrs Wheeler, and between us we managed to lay the professor on the hearthrug, with a blanket over him and a cushion under his head. Mrs Wheeler brought in some fresh strong coffee a few minutes later, and when he stirred, I got him to take a sip. Presently he sat up, but as he did so, he groaned and clutched his head.

“‘Oh, my head!’ said he. ‘What happened?’

“Then, as he remembered, a grim expression came over his face. He stood up unsteadily, then, without another word, picked the tile up from the table and walked out of the house with it. A few moments later, I heard a noise outside, and when I looked out I saw that he had taken a hammer from the tool shed and, with a series of violent blows, was smashing the tile up on the ground. He then picked up all the broken pieces, placed them in a small pail, and carried them off down the back garden and into the woods. When he returned to the house ten minutes later, he made no reference to what had happened. He simply asked me if I would be so good as to clear the debris from the breakfast table, then disappeared into his study to work on his manuscript.”

“One moment,” said Holmes, holding his hand up to interrupt Miss Calloway’s narrative. “When you cleared away the wrapping paper and other materials that had enclosed the tile, did you observe where it had come from, or where it had been posted?”

Miss Calloway shook her head. “It was the first thing that occurred to me,” she replied, “but there was no label or other identifying mark anywhere on the package. The postmark was smudged, and all I could see of that was that it had been posted somewhere in London. I also went most carefully through the packing materials, to see if there was a note anywhere in it that we had missed, but there was not.”

“What became of this material?”

“I burnt it all in the incinerator in the garden.”

“Very well. Pray continue with your account.”

“The professor has never referred to this incident since, and there is something in his manner that has prevented my asking him about it. Of course, I have often thought about it and wondered what it might mean, but could make nothing of it. But that it had had a profound effect upon the professor I could not doubt. The following day, I carried some papers into his study and found that he was not at his desk as usual, but had pulled out an old tin trunk from under a chest of drawers and was rooting around in it. Presently, he found what he was looking for and held it up, and I saw that it was a very small revolver. I was aware that he possessed such a weapon, for he had often told me how some of his archaeological expeditions in years gone by had taken him into wild and dangerous places, in which possession of a pistol might be the difference between life and death, but I had never seen it before. He then spent the next hour cleaning and oiling this revolver and, having found an old box of cartridges, spent half the afternoon in target practice at the bottom of the garden. When I went out to ask him what he was doing, he answered me in a grave tone.

“‘There are circumstances, Georgina – and one must recognize them when they arise – in which one must be on one’s guard at all times.’ He then offered to teach me how to use the little pistol effectively, but I declined the offer.

“A few days after this, I had been up to town on various errands, and returned by the late afternoon train. It was a cold, foggy day, and the light had almost gone by the time the train reached Beckenham. There were few people about as I left the station, and by the time I had been walking for two minutes, I was all alone on the road. This did not particularly concern me: I had walked alone down that quiet and remote road so many times in the last year that I felt I could have done it with my eyes closed; but as the grey, drifting fog closed in around me, it did feel uncommonly cold and lonely. I could see only a few feet in front of me, and practically nothing on either side. I had been walking for perhaps ten or twelve minutes, and had turned down the long narrow lane that leads towards Bluebell Cottage, when I had the distinct impression that there was someone else on the road, somewhere behind me. Of course, the fog creates strange echoes of one’s own footsteps, in addition to the constant dripping noises among the trees, but on this occasion the impression was so strong that I stopped and turned. There was nothing to be seen there but a white wall of fog, and the other footsteps I’d thought I had heard had stopped when my own did. I turned again and resumed my progress through the fog, but this time at a brisker rate. Then I had the impression that someone or something was in the wood at the side of the road, keeping step with me, and I hurried forward. But the other steps, and the rustling in the trees, at once increased in pace, too, and I began to run as fast as I could. By the time I reached the garden gate of Bluebell Cottage and could make out the hall light shining through the fanlight over the door, I was almost completely out of breath. However, relieved though I was, I did not pause, but pushed open the gate, ran up the short path and hurried in at the front door.

“As I took my coat off, I put my head into Professor Palfreyman’s study to tell him I was home, but saw to my surprise that he was not there. I then went through to the kitchen, where Mrs Wheeler was making pastry, and asked her if she knew where the professor was. She said that she thought she had heard him go out to the garden half an hour previously and had not seen him since.

“‘But it’s quite dark now,’ I protested. ‘What is he doing in the garden in the dark?’

“Before she could answer, we heard the front door open and, looking out of the kitchen, I saw it was the professor, looking grim-faced. As he came in, I saw that he slipped his little pistol into his jacket pocket.

“‘I thought I heard someone moving about out there,’ said he in answer to my query. I suggested that it was perhaps me he had heard, as I had only recently arrived, and asked if he had been up the road at all, but he shook his head. I then ventured to suggest that we had perhaps both been mistaken, but this suggestion seemed to irritate him intensely, and I wished I had not made it. Then, as we stood there in the hall, we both heard the unmistakeable sound of footsteps on the garden path. A moment later, there came a loud rat-a-tat-tat at the doorknocker. Professor Palfreyman yanked the door open and there, blinking in the light of the hall, stood Professor Ainscow.

“He looked from one of us to the other, an expression of curiosity on his features. ‘I’m sorry to barge in on you without warning, Palfreyman,’ he said at last. ‘You appear a little preoccupied. But I wanted to discuss the exhibition at the British Museum with you.’

“‘That’s perfectly all right, Ainscow,’ returned the professor in an affable tone. ‘We were just discussing something. It’s nothing, really. We thought we heard someone out in the garden, that’s all. Do come in, old man. Will you stay for supper?’

“‘If it’s not too much of an imposition.’

“So Professor Ainscow dined with us that evening, and I must say I was glad he did, for his presence lightened the mood considerably. The two men continued their discussion for some time after supper, then Professor Palfreyman accompanied his colleague to the railway station. I was unsure whether this was out of courtesy to his guest, or because he wished to see if there was anyone loitering outside in the lane. When he returned, he looked a little agitated again, but this might simply have been the result of coming into the bright house from the dark lane outside.

“‘Did Professor Ainscow catch his train?’ I enquired.

“‘Yes, yes, he did,’ Professor Palfreyman replied, but in an abstracted tone, as if his mind were on something else. ‘Georgina,’ said he after a moment, ‘there is something I wish to tell you. However,’ he added, ‘I think I will wait until tomorrow. Thank you, by the way, for being such very good company at the supper table this evening. I am sure Ainscow was very glad he came. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but he paid you a great compliment as we walked up the road. He said he thought you must be the prettiest assistant that any archaeologist had ever had, and if I ever felt that I no longer required your services, he would take you on like a shot.’

‘‘I laughed heartily at this, as much from embarrassment as humour, but the laughter died on my lips as I saw the professor’s grave face. ‘For my own shortcomings and failings, Georgina,’ he said, ‘I am very sorry. I sometimes think I may have outlived my usefulness in this world.’

“‘What nonsense!’ I cried, patting his arm. ‘Don’t say such things, Professor! Don’t even think them! What you need is a good night’s rest, and then I’m sure everything will seem better!’

“Alas! He might have needed a good night’s rest, but I don’t think he got one. I heard him talking to himself in his sleep in the small hours of the night, and it was clear he was experiencing a terrible nightmare, for his voice gradually grew louder and more agitated, though whether from fear or anger, I could not quite decide. Some of the phrases I heard him use were such as I had heard before: ‘Don’t look at it! For God’s sake, don’t look at the face!’ and similar exhortations.

“The following morning, the professor’s features bore a haggard look, but after a solid breakfast – which we ate largely in silence – and several cups of coffee, he seemed restored to his usual affable and urbane self. It was as I was about to leave the breakfast table that he spoke to me.

“‘Georgina,’ said he, in a kindly, thoughtful voice, ‘I will tell you now what has been weighing on my mind lately, and what I am going to do about it. I feel it is only fair to you. You have had to put up with a lot lately.’

“‘Not at all,’ I began, but he waved my protests aside.

“‘There are things in my past of which I am not especially proud,’ he continued after a moment, ‘and one thing in particular. This is not entirely a secret: most of the facts have always been known to my colleagues, to the relevant authorities and to anyone else who cared to enquire about the matter, but my thoughts – the thoughts I had at the time and have had since – are known to no one but me. They relate to some of the disturbances you have had to endure recently, Georgina. What I am therefore going to do is to write out a full, honest and accurate account of what happened, so that if – when – I die, you will be able to read it, and then you will understand everything.’

“‘Don’t talk like that, Professor!’ I interrupted. ‘I’m sure you have many good years ahead of you! You’d better have, for you haven’t yet finished even one of those three books you intended to write!’

“Professor Palfreyman smiled at me. ‘It is good of you to be so encouraging, Georgina! But I do sometimes wonder if I shouldn’t perhaps think of making way for the younger generation. I’m not sure I deserve to live any longer.’

“‘Nonsense!’

“‘This brings me to the other thing I wished to say to you. I know, from conversations we have had, that although of course you wished to care for your dear mother as well as you could, you nevertheless felt somewhat imprisoned in the house while you were doing so. You found life there very dull and tedious. You should know, then, that the very last thing I should ever wish upon you is that you should feel imprisoned in this house, Georgina. Much as I enjoy your presence here, you should not feel you have any duty to remain if you don’t wish to.’

“‘It is quite unnecessary for you to say these things,’ I responded. ‘I can assure you that the last year has been the happiest year of my life. If the remainder of my life were just half as happy, I should be more than satisfied.’

“‘It is kind of you to say so,’ said he, ‘but the fact remains that you are young, and may meet someone of your own age with whom you wish to spend the remainder of your life. In which case, I should not wish you to feel in any way restricted by the fact that I have found you such a pleasant companion here. I am not so selfish as that, and I do not wish you to think that I am.’

“‘If you are referring to Mr Martin,’ said I, ‘then I should tell you that he is simply a friend to me, and I certainly have no plans for our relations to be other than that. Besides, he himself has proposed nothing to me of the sort you suggest.’

“‘Perhaps not, and I express no judgement as to whether Mr Martin would or would not be a suitable candidate for you, Georgina, but I know that it is in his mind to make such a proposal to you. One man generally knows what another man is thinking so far as these matters are concerned.’

“‘Should he, or anyone else, ever make such a proposal to me, then I will let you know what my response is,’ I said. ‘Until then, I should prefer to drop the subject.’

“Professor Palfreyman laughed. ‘Very well!’ said he, ‘At least I have aired what I wished to air. Now let us be about our work!’

“That was last Thursday, and since then Professor Palfreyman has been scribbling away on his foolscap most of the time and has scarcely spoken to me except at mealtimes. He did go up to town on Friday morning on some errand or other, but I don’t know what for, as he didn’t tell me. It has been a strange few days. Dr Webb called in on Monday afternoon, and was very rude. When I happened to mention that Professor Palfreyman had been very busy lately, he retorted, ‘He’s not too busy to see me,’ which was not at all what I had meant, and when I took a cup of tea into the study for him, he completely ignored me. When he left, he did not say a word to me, despite the fact that I was standing in the garden when he walked down the path.

“Yesterday morning, Professor Palfreyman had another of those letters, containing a blank sheet of paper. This time I made no suggestion about invisible writing, or anything of the sort, and he simply tore it up and threw it on the fire. In the afternoon, I took some papers up to town for him, and as the train passed Herne Hill I happened to think of Mrs Walsh, an old acquaintance of my mother’s who used to live there. Then an occasion when she visited us came into my mind, when she had spoken in glowing terms of you, Mr Holmes. She said you had helped a neighbour of hers, Mrs Trubshaw, who had been receiving unpleasant anonymous letters.”

“Ah, yes!” said Holmes. “Edith Trubshaw! I remember the case well! As I recall, I was able to sort the matter out to her satisfaction.”

“So Mrs Walsh said. As soon as I remembered that, I at once wondered if you could perhaps sort my troubles out, too. There and then, I resolved to consult you as soon as possible. At the university archaeology department I met Mr Martin and mentioned my idea to him. To be honest, he was a bit dubious at first; he was unsure what you would be able to achieve, but as we discussed it, he became more enthusiastic. ‘If Mr Holmes could somehow discover what it is that lies behind all this,’ said he, ‘and what the secret is that Professor Palfreyman is keeping to himself, then perhaps it would be better for everyone. On the other hand,’ he added, ‘if the professor wants to keep his own secrets, that is his right, and we can hardly go prying into his private affairs. It cannot be denied that he sometimes seems rather delicately balanced, and we would not want our interference to make him worse.’

“‘No, of course not. But I shall put the matter in the hands of Mr Sherlock Holmes first thing tomorrow morning and see what he has to say about it. It will be a great relief to me to know that someone else is discreetly looking into the matter.’

“‘I agree,’ said Tim. ‘Do you know, Georgina, I think I shall call in at Bluebell Cottage later tomorrow, so you can tell me all about it!’

“I had several jobs to do in town before I could catch the train back to Beckenham. After my experience the previous week, I wanted to make sure this time that I didn’t leave it too late, so that it would still be light by the time I reached my destination. Unfortunately, however, I just missed the train I had intended to catch, and the one I did get was held up for nearly half an hour at Herne Hill, and then stuck in Penge tunnel for a further twenty minutes, so that by the time I reached Beckenham the light had gone completely. I considered taking a cab, but there were none there, so I set out to walk home as usual. This time, at least, I thought, I was mentally prepared and should not be so nervous on the quiet lanes to Bluebell Cottage. By the time I turned off the main road, however, there was absolutely no one about, and nothing to be heard but the drip, drip, drip among the trees on either side. The trees themselves, even those nearest to the lane, were but dark, shadowy shapes to me, and I began to wish I had waited for a cab after all. Forcing myself to look straight ahead and ignore the shifting fog among the trees, I pressed on. It was extremely cold and my cheeks felt as if they were touched by icy fingers.

“Then, when I knew I must be approaching Stagg’s Lane – although so thick was the fog that even the familiar little roadside landmarks were quite hidden from me – I heard, above the constant dripping of the trees, what sounded like someone moving through the wood to the left of the lane. I increased my speed slightly, but the movement at the side seemed to stay with me, then, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw a shadowy shape slip from one tree to the next. Without turning my head to the side, I picked up my skirts and broke into a run, breathing heavily. On down that lonely, muddy lane I ran, madly, frantically, as if running for my life. For an instant, I had the impression of something in the air to my left, then something struck me hard on the side of the head, and with a scream I tumbled forward into the mud.

“What happened next, I don’t know. As I tried to push myself up from the muddy ground, I heard muffled footsteps rapidly approaching. I think I may have screamed again, and then I passed out.

“When I came to, I was lying on the couch in the sitting room at Bluebell Cottage, with a fire blazing in the grate and a plaid blanket laid over me. Professor Palfreyman and Mrs Wheeler were standing there, speaking quietly, and they turned to me as I opened my eyes.

“‘There, there,’ said Mrs Wheeler. ‘How are you, my dear?’

“‘I feel a bit sick,’ I said. ‘What happened?’

“‘You’ve had a fall, my dear. Professor Palfreyman found you lying in the lane, in the mud, and carried you in. Here,’ she continued, picking up a cup and saucer from a side table, ‘have a sip of this. It’ll make you feel better!’

“‘Would you like something stronger?’ the professor asked as I sipped the tea, but I shook my head.

“‘I shall be all right in a minute,’ I said. I sat up, swung my feet to the floor and tried to stand up, but I staggered slightly and nearly fell over.

“‘Don’t try to stand,’ said the professor, rearranging the rug over my knees. ‘We must keep you warm,’ he added, pushing the couch a little nearer to the fire.

“‘What has happened to me?’ I repeated, feeling a little dizzy.

“‘I don’t know,’ said the professor, shaking his head. ‘Luckily, I happened to be out in the garden, and heard you cry out. You had fallen just near the corner of the lane. Did you trip?’

“‘No,’ I said. ‘Something struck me on the side of the head.’

“The professor leaned over and examined the side of my head. ‘There is a muddy mark there,’ said he, ‘but the skin is not broken. I wonder what it could have been?’

“‘I believe there was someone out there,’ I said, ‘who flung something at me. If it hasn’t cut me, then perhaps it was not a stone but a bit of stick. It certainly hurt, anyway.’

“‘How dreadful!’ said Mrs Wheeler.

“The professor shook his head in puzzlement. ‘It will be too dark out there to see anything now, but I’ll have a look first thing in the morning and see if I can find anything.’

“Later, Mrs Wheeler recommended a hot bath as being the best cure for a fall, as she referred to it, so I followed her suggestion. Afterwards I came downstairs in my dressing gown and sat for some time in the kitchen, watching her prepare some buttered toast and cocoa for me.

“‘What was Professor Palfreyman doing out in the garden in the dark?’ I asked her.

“She hesitated for a moment. ‘It was because of you, miss,’ she replied at length. ‘He didn’t want me to tell you, but he’s been worried about you all week. He came in the kitchen earlier, saying, “Isn’t that girl back yet?” and when I said, “No,” he said, “I’m worried about her, Mrs Wheeler. I think I’ll go out, walk up the lane a bit and see if I meet her!” The next thing I knew, he was coming in at the front door, carrying you in his arms and telling me to put the kettle on.’

“I retired to bed early last night, as you will imagine. Perhaps because of that, I woke in the middle of the night. I lit my candle and saw that it was half past three. As I did so, I heard the professor’s voice from the room next door. ‘No!’ he cried, ‘I don’t know!’ Then something about ‘danger!’ Then, after a long silence, ‘Don’t look at it!’ This was followed by a dull thud, and I guessed that he had knocked something over, or even fallen out of bed again. But this time, I stayed where I was. I felt too worn out and shaken up myself to minister to him. After a time, all was silent, and eventually I fell asleep once more. This morning I felt for the first time that I could no longer go on in this way, so as soon as we had had breakfast, I put my coat on and came away. There you are, Mr Holmes. Now you know everything, and here I am!”

Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes, but did not respond at once. Instead, he stared into the fire for some time, as if he might see a solution to this strange mystery in the flickering flames.

“Do you know,” he asked Miss Calloway at length, “if Professor Palfreyman has made any enquiries into where these strange, anonymous letters might have come from?”

“I don’t believe so,” she replied. “If he has, he has said nothing about it to me and, as I mentioned, he threw them both in the fire almost as soon as he had received them.”

“And the tile with the smiling face on it?”

“He has never mentioned it again since the day it arrived, when, as I described, he smashed it into pieces.”

“Do you know what he did with the pieces?”

“I think he may have buried them in the wood at the bottom of the garden. There is a glade in the wood, which is a favourite spot of his, where he sometimes sits on a log and smokes his pipe when he has some knotty problem to resolve. Perhaps he buried the broken tile there.”

Holmes glanced at the clock. “It is certainly an interesting case you have brought us, Miss Calloway, but one that is beset with difficulties. There are, so far as I can see, seven possible explanations for all that has occurred in and around Bluebell Cottage in the last year, although some of them are fairly unlikely. The two likeliest explanations . . .”