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

Автор книги: Denis O. Smith

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“Yes?”

“. . . are what I intend to concentrate on. Tell me, Miss Calloway, have you heard, from Professor Palfreyman himself, or from Mrs Wheeler or her daughter, whether there were any mysterious occurrences in previous years, before you joined the household?”

Our visitor shook her head. “Not as far as I am aware,” said she. “Mrs Wheeler had often heard the professor muttering to himself when concentrating on his work, but that is all.”

“Well,” said Holmes in a thoughtful tone. “That is suggestive, is it not?”

Miss Calloway’s features expressed surprise. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “I have had nothing to do with what has occurred.”

Holmes leaned over and patted her gently on the arm. “No, no, of course not,” said he. “That was not my meaning.” He lapsed into silence and remained unmoving for several minutes, a look of intense concentration upon his face, then, abruptly, he sprang to his feet. “There are some features of this case that cause me particular anxiety,” said he, “and I don’t think we should waste any time in getting down to Beckenham. The quickest way from here will be by the direct line from Victoria, I imagine.”

“Undoubtedly,” concurred Miss Calloway.

“Then that is the way we shall go. Will you come, Watson?”

“If I can be of any help to you.”

“Most certainly! Your presence may be invaluable.”

Less than thirty minutes later, we were seated in a first-class carriage as our train rumbled out of the station, across the Thames and down through the southern suburbs. Although I tried to apply my mind to the mystery Miss Calloway had brought us, I could make little of it, and could not imagine what we would do when we reached Bluebell Cottage. It was clear that Professor Palfreyman was sorely troubled by something in his past, but whether the guilt or remorse he felt was justified or not, we could not say. It was also clear that he suffered a certain degree of mental instability, but this seemed to vary considerably from one day to another, and sometimes even within the same day, and what could Sherlock Holmes, or anyone else, hope to do about that?

As we were leaving Beckenham station, a stout gentleman was approaching, who greeted Miss Calloway warmly. She introduced him to us as Professor Ainscow, introducing us simply as friends of hers.

“I’m not having the best of luck today,” he said. “I’d arranged to meet Dr Webb at Ludgate Hill station to travel down here, but although I waited an hour, he never showed up, so I came on alone. Then I walked all the way down to Bluebell Cottage, only to find that there was no one at home!” He turned as a train approached the station. “My train, I think!” he called as he hurried off. “I’ve left a large envelope for Professor Palfreyman on the front doorstep. You can’t miss it!”

There were no cabs about in the station yard, so we set off on foot at a brisk pace.

“Why is your cook, Mrs Wheeler, not at home?” Holmes asked Miss Calloway, as we walked along. “Will she have gone into Beckenham, to the shops?”

“No. She goes to visit her sister in Norwood every Wednesday morning. After getting the kitchen fire going, she left early, before breakfast, as she always does.”

“So Professor Palfreyman has been left by himself all morning?”

“Yes,” said Miss Calloway, sounding slightly amused, “but I’m sure he can cope!”

After a few minutes we turned south off the main road, down a narrow and muddy country lane, which Miss Calloway informed us was Aylmer’s Lane. A little further on, we passed two farm-worker’s cottages on our right, and then the lane entered a wood, the trees a dense screen on either side. The day had seemed only moderately foggy in the centre of Beckenham, but now, as we made our way deeper into the damp countryside, the wisps of grey mist thickened among the trees, seeming to move like wraiths as we passed by.

“Are these the woods in which you believe someone was lurking last night?” asked Holmes.

“Yes,” replied Miss Calloway, “only a little further on.”

The lane twisted and turned as it passed through the woods, until, ahead of us, we saw another lane branching off to the left.

“That is Stagg’s lane,” said Miss Calloway. “Bluebell Cottage lies about thirty yards along there on the left. And here,” she added, as we approached the corner, “is the spot where someone threw something at me.”

We turned into Stagg’s Lane, and in a few moments had reached the garden gate of the cottage. A rustic-looking man in leather gaiters was in the garden, trimming the hedge with a pair of shears.

“Hello, Perkins,” said Miss Calloway. “Have you been here long?”

“No, miss, about five minutes. There didn’t seem to be anybody at home, so I thought I’d just do what we agreed last week.”

“Very good,” said she. “I’ll speak to you again in a few minutes.”

“Did you see anyone on the road as you came down here?” Holmes asked the gardener.

“No, sir, not a soul.”

Leaning against the front door was a large manila envelope, which Miss Calloway picked up, then she unlocked the door and we followed her into the house. We waited in the hall while she went looking for the professor, but she was back in a few moments, declaring that he was nowhere about.

“Perhaps he has gone for a walk,” said she. “I have a little desk at the side of the dining room, where I deal with some of the professor’s papers,” she added, “and sometimes, when we have missed each other, he leaves a little note there for me, to tell me where he has gone. I’ll see if there’s any message today.” We followed her into the dining room, which was at the rear of the house. It was a neat little room, with a view over a long back garden. “Yes,” said Miss Calloway after a moment. “Here we are!” She picked up a folded slip of paper from the top of the desk, opened it out and read it.

“Does it say where the professor has gone?” asked Holmes.

Miss Calloway shook her head. “No,” she replied and passed the note to us.

It contained a brief message, which ran as follows:

My dear Georgina,

I have mentioned to you recently that I was writing an account of a passage in my earlier life, which I would leave for you to read when I am gone. Having finally completed it, however, I now feel that there is little point in postponing the matter, and you may as well read it now. I think you deserve an explanation for all the upsets and disturbances you have had to endure in the last year, and I hope you find the explanation satisfactory. For myself, I must say that having set it all down on paper, I feel as if a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Should I not be here when you wish to read it, you will find the papers in the Chinese box.

Ever yours,

James Palfreyman

“What is this Chinese box he refers to?” asked Holmes.

“It is a small chest in the professor’s study, in which he keeps his private papers. When Beryl was here, she would sometimes muddle up his papers when supposedly ‘tidying’, and he found it useful to have somewhere to keep his most important papers where Beryl could not interfere with them. The chest cannot be opened unless one knows the secret.”

“Can you open it?”

“Yes. The professor showed me how. Save only what happened to him many years ago, I don’t believe there are any secrets between us.”

We followed Miss Calloway into the professor’s study, which was very untidy, with little piles of paper on every surface, some of which had slipped to the floor. Upon a side table by the wall stood a black lacquered chest, about eighteen inches wide and twelve inches deep, its surface adorned with yellow and pink flowers, painted in a characteristically Chinese style. “As you see,” said our guide, “some of these flowers are slightly embossed. The secret is to press this yellow one firmly, and then slide this pink one sideways.” She did as she described, and we saw a narrow gap appear between the chest and the lid, into which she inserted the tip of her finger, and thus lifted up the lid. Within the chest was a disordered litter of envelopes and loose papers, but upon the very top of the pile was a long cream envelope, addressed in a neat hand to “Miss Georgina Calloway”. She picked it up, opened it and took from within it several sheets of folded foolscap.

“I certainly think you ought to read it now,” said Holmes, “but the question is whether you or Professor Palfreyman would object to our hearing it, too.”

“This account is addressed to me,” replied Miss Calloway after a moment’s thought, “and is therefore mine to do with as I think fit. My opinion is that you should hear it, too, gentlemen; for the more information you have, the more chance you have of successfully helping both the professor and me. If you would read it aloud, then we can all hear it at the same time.”

Holmes took the papers and passed them to me. “I think Dr Watson’s sonorous tones will be best-suited to the task of narrator,” said he with a chuckle. We therefore returned to the dining room and seated ourselves round the table, where I began the following account:

You should know first, Georgina, that in those relatively far-off days – over thirty years ago – the head of our archaeological faculty was Professor Ormiston, an elderly man who was approaching retirement, with no obvious successor. Of the younger men who hoped to succeed Ormiston, there were three with a realistic chance of doing so: David Webb, John Strange and myself. Although we were therefore in this respect rivals, we were friendly rivals, and there was no acrimony between us – at least, so far as I was aware. Of the three of us, the strongest candidate – especially in his own opinion – was Strange. He was undoubtedly brilliant, but his brilliance was somewhat flashy and superficial, and was, moreover, marred by an arrogance and conceit that prevented his ever forming any real friendships among his fellow researchers. I mention these facts not because they had any direct bearing on what I am about to relate, but simply so you will understand the general background.

It was during a warm period in May that Strange and I were on an expedition in a mountainous and barren region of Western Macedonia. This is sometimes referred to as Pelagonia, although, more accurately, it was a border region between the old kingdoms of Orestis and Lynchestia. It was a wild and arid region, and, outside of a handful of small villages, was inhabited mainly – save for a few wandering shepherds and their flocks – by bears, wolves and lynx. You will understand, then, why I always travelled with a pistol in my pocket. Nor were the dangers confined only to the wild animals I mentioned. It was then only a few years after the conclusion of the Crimean War, during which time the region had seen several uprisings against the Turkish authorities. These uprisings had been suppressed, but the grievances of the people remained, and they were likely at the slightest provocation to vent their feelings not only on any figures of authority, but also upon outsiders of any sort who ventured into their territory.

What had brought us to this inhospitable corner of Europe were persistent reports we had found among ancient records that the tomb of the mysterious and largely forgotten King Pellas II was located there, somewhere in these barren, rocky hills. Pellas had ruled for a very short time during the fourth century BC – less than a year – and many histories of the period do not even mention him. It had therefore become something of a challenge to us to find out all we could about this shadowy and largely unknown figure. Where had he come from? Why was his reign so short? How did he die, and where was he buried? It was this last question to which we thought we might have a clue. In an old monastery in the Pindus Mountains, we had been shown a cache of ancient manuscripts, many of them much older than the monastery itself. My knowledge of ancient Greek was good, as was that of Strange, but many of these documents were in a variety of Greek that we could scarcely recognize, let alone understand, and translating them was very difficult. Eventually, however, we understood enough to be confident that some of the very oldest documents referred to Pellas II, the elusive figure we sought.

As far as I could make out, Pellas’s final resting place was in a cave high in the mountains, where it was said to be protected by the goddess Thesprotia. This name I recognized as one of the most ancient deities of the region, venerated in other places under a variety of different names, and whose name has been used for a small settlement by the coast, many miles away over the mountains. As we studied these ancient texts, endeavouring to work out the precise location of the cave that held the mortal remains of Pellas II, we came across a curious instruction or warning, concerning Thesprotia. “There is danger,” it said, “for he who regards the face of the goddess”; and in another place it repeated this warning: “Do not gaze upon the face of Thesprotia.” What this might mean, we had no idea. Strange dismissed it as what he described as the usual ancient superstitions, but I was not so sure: such repeated warnings were unusual, and I wondered if the meaning might become clearer should we ever find Pellas’s final resting place.

The Turkish authorities had not been particularly helpful to us, but they had provided us with a guide who was also an interpreter. Unfortunately, the man was not much use in either role, and it soon became clear to us that his chief function in our party was to act as a spy, watching everything we did and reporting it all back to the authorities. However, he did do us one very great service. We had been camped in a particularly inhospitable spot in the mountains for three days without making any significant discoveries when, on the afternoon of the fourteenth of May, our guide returned from a long ramble round the area. He was in a state of high excitement and insisted we come with him at once. What he showed us, about a mile from the camp, was a carefully executed carving on a low outcrop of rock, which had been almost hidden beneath a thick little thorn bush. This carving was of a sixteen-pointed sun, which we realized at once was of immense significance.

The sixteen-pointed sun is a symbol unique to that part of the world, although its use has varied greatly over the centuries. Sometimes it seems to have represented the royal line of Macedonia, sometimes the leader of some lesser mountain tribe, and sometimes its use is obscure and seems to refer back to yet more ancient times and the worship of the sun as a deity, in the mist-shrouded days of pre-history. Whatever its meaning might be in this case, I reasoned, the fact that someone had gone to the great trouble of carving it so carefully into this very hard rock must be of significance.

The topmost point of the carving was a little longer than the others and, as one faced the symbol, seemed to indicate some spot higher up the mountain. I suggested to Strange that we mount an expedition in that direction at first light the following morning, but he, headstrong and impulsive as always, wanted to set off at once. I was against this, for the afternoon was well advanced and I knew, from rambles in the Pennines as a boy, that, in hilly country, somewhere that appears relatively close at hand can take you three hours to reach. Strange, however, would not be dissuaded – I had never once known him take anyone else’s advice, though he was always quick enough to give his own – so, reluctantly, I agreed to go with him. Our guide returned to the camp and Strange and I set off together.

For several hours, and with some difficulty, we ascended the hill before us. The higher we went, the poorer the footing became and the sparser the vegetation among the loose, broken rocks. Eventually, almost exhausted, we sat down to rest for a few minutes on a broad flat ledge. Even as we did so, we both noticed, on a boulder at the back of the ledge, another sixteen-pointed sun carved into the face of the rock. This clearly indicated that we were on the right track, and after a brief rest, we continued our ascent of the mountain. By this time, we were so high that there were no signs that even the mountain sheep or goats ever ventured up there. At last, as the daylight was beginning to fade, we surmounted a narrow ridge and came upon another small plateau. At the back of this plateau, and perfectly invisible from lower down the mountain, was a cluster of stunted thorn bushes, and behind them, quite visible now, the dark, gaping mouth of a large cave. There could be little doubt that this was the place to which the sun symbols had directed us.

After another short rest to catch our breath, we lit the lanterns we had brought with us, and made our way into the cave.

“Be careful, Strange!’’ I cautioned.

“Don’t be so timid, Palfreyman! There’s no point in hanging back!’’ he returned in characteristic fashion. Strange was one of those people who seemed unable to converse without insulting the person he was speaking to. I was not especially timid, and nor was I ‘‘hanging back’’, as he put it. On the contrary, he had brusquely pushed in front of me as we made our way into the cave, as if to ensure that he was the first to enter. I don’t think that in all the years I had known him, I had ever once seen him enter a room behind someone else. He really was, in many ways, the most dislikeable person I had ever known.

Slowly, holding up our lanterns to light the way, we made our way deeper into that very dark cave. The floor beneath our feet was surprisingly damp and smooth in places, as if sculpted by a considerable flow of water at some time in the distant past, and by the occasional flow even now, perhaps after one of the violent storms that are a feature of some months in those parts. Then, all at once, I descried another carving of the sixteen-pointed sun, quite small, on a projecting rock at the side of the cave, and called my companion back to see it.

“We are definitely going the right way,’’ said he, and set off forwards once more.

The floor of the cave had been sloping down for some time, quite steeply in places, but presently it levelled off again, and was covered in sand and other small debris. We had progressed some way – perhaps twenty yards – along this easier terrain, when something caught our eyes on the right-hand wall of the cave. I was about three or four yards behind Strange, but I think we saw it at the same moment.

“What on earth is that?’’ said I.

“It’s a tile of some sort,’’ Strange murmured, as much to himself as to me, and as I approached a little closer I could see that he was right.

It was a large tile, some seven or eight inches square, which seemed to have been set into a carved recess in the wall of the cave and affixed with mortar, some of which was visible round the edges. The tile itself, although a little dusty, was clearly creamy white in colour and highly glazed, showing in relief the face of a woman. It was a beautiful face, smiling in an angelic manner. At a glance, I could see that in its general style and craftsmanship it was from a later era than the time of Pellas II – at least late Greek, and possibly even Roman. This suggested that the tomb of Pellas II – if it were indeed in this cave – had been venerated centuries after his death. But as these thoughts flitted through my mind, I also recollected the warnings we had read in those ancient manuscripts.

“Thesprotia!’’ I cried. ‘‘Strange, it’s Thesprotia! Be careful! Remember the warnings!’’

“Don’t be absurd, Palfreyman!’’ came Strange’s reply, although he did not turn to me, but kept his eyes fixed upon that smiling face, almost as if he were physically unable to remove his gaze from it. ‘‘Don’t be superstitious!’’ It was then that a bitter thought flashed through my brain. I did not put it into words, not even in my own head, but, had I done so, it would have been something like, All right, Strange, you conceited fool! Be it on your own head! Die, if that is what you wish! A moment later, I had suppressed this thought, and cried aloud again.

“Strange!’’ I cried as he leaned forward to brush the dust from the tile with his hand. ‘‘Don’t look at it! Don’t look at the face!’’ Then some slight noise or sixth sense made me look down at his feet. There was something wrong there, I felt sure, although I could see nothing. I lowered my lantern to get a better look. ‘‘Strange!’’ I began. ‘‘The floor!’’

“The flaw is in your reasoning, Palfreyman,’’ he returned in that lazily arrogant manner of his, but the words died abruptly on his lips and, as there came a sudden sound of cracking and crumbling, he let out the most dreadful, deafening scream of fear. There was a puff of dust, and in a fraction of a second, my companion had vanished utterly from my sight. Clouds of dust had been stirred up and swirled about me, and for the best part of a minute I could see nothing at all. Then, as the dust cleared, I saw that where my colleague had been standing, in front of the tile on the wall, was a large gaping hole. It was clearly a classic Macedonian death trap, of which I had heard vague stories – a pit for the unwary, covered with sticks, dust and other debris, designed to protect the tomb of Pellas, and precisely what those ancient manuscripts had warned against. I ran to the edge of the hole, lay on the floor and peered down, but it was pitch black and I could see nothing. Evidently, Strange’s lantern had been extinguished as he fell. I held my own lantern as far down in the hole as I could, but it did not help. The pit was evidently very deep.

“Strange!’’ I called, again and again, but received no answer. In other circumstances, I might have lit a bundle of dry brushwood and tossed it down the hole to illuminate the bottom of the pit, but of course I could not do that while Strange was lying down there. Nor could I lower my lantern down on a rope, for we had brought no rope with us. I cursed myself for this, although, in truth, it was not my fault but Strange’s. If he had not been so impatient and determined to set off at once to look for Pellas’s tomb, we might have equipped ourselves properly for such an expedition.

Eventually I gave up calling down that dark pit, from which the only response was the echo of my own voice. I could do nothing further by myself; I would have to go and get help. I made my way to the mouth of the cave, where I found to my dismay that night had fallen, and the world outside the cave was as pitch black as that within. There was no moon that night, and save only the faint, cold light of the stars above me, there was not a light to be seen anywhere, from one horizon to the other.

I set off, picking my way carefully down the hill, but if the climb up had been difficult, the descent in the dark was almost impossible. I slipped, I stumbled, I fell. I picked myself up and carried on, but almost at once slipped again on the loose stones with which this part of the mountain was littered. It was almost hopeless, but I could achieve nothing by staying where I was, so I pressed on, testing every foothold before I put my weight on it. Then, perhaps inevitably, one small ledge, which had seemed firm when I tested it, abruptly collapsed when I put my whole weight on it, and in an instant I was plunging down the hill, head over heels, bringing down an avalanche of small rocks and stones with me, and with no idea whatever of where I was falling to. At some point in the fall, I cracked my head on a rock and knocked myself senseless, and that was the last thing I knew.

When I came to my senses, it was broad daylight and two of our porters were bending over me. My clothes were torn, my head ached furiously and I was covered in cuts and bruises. They helped me to my feet, but I could not walk unaided. Mercifully, I had no broken bones, but both my ankles were badly sprained. I explained to the men what had happened the previous evening, and an expedition was mounted to find and rescue my lost companion. The porters had brought a coil of rope with them, and we lowered a lantern into that dreadful pit into which Strange had fallen. It was very deep – at least twenty-five feet down – and we could see by the light of the lantern that Strange lay unmoving at the bottom. One of the porters volunteered to be lowered down, and he reported that, as we feared, Strange was dead. With some difficulty, we eventually got his body out of the pit, and it was dreadful to see the broken remains of what had been a strong and forceful man.

This, then, Georgina, is a true account of what occurred in the wilds of Western Macedonia all those years ago. I recovered soon enough from my injuries, and was feted as the discoverer of the lost tomb of Pellas II, although I always made sure I gave full credit to the part that Strange had played in its discovery. His death at our moment of triumph was sad, but perhaps the most melancholy aspect of it was that no one seemed to mourn him. He was unmarried and had no close family, and when I at last succeeded in discovering some distant relatives of his, and informed them of his death, it was clear from their response that the matter was of no consequence to them. The strangely ironic conclusion of it all, then, was that I, who had disliked the man so intensely in life, was the only one saddened and affected by his death.

Later, when Professor Ormiston retired, I became the new head of the archaeological department, and I suppose I should be happy that my subsequent career was a reasonably distinguished one. But I have always been haunted by what happened that evening in Macedonia. That brief fraction of a second, when Strange screamed and vanished from my sight in a cloud of dust, is the worst moment of my life, and I cannot shake my brain free of it. Could I have done more to save him? Could my warning about the ground beneath his feet have been given more quickly, or in a louder tone? Could I have been more insistent in my warnings about Thesprotia? Were my actions – or lack of them – influenced in any way by my personal dislike of the man? I do not know the answers to any of these questions, but they will not leave me alone. They plague my thoughts during the day, and haunt my dreams at night. For all my professional success, and respected position in society, I have never in my life known untroubled happiness. At risk of embarrassing you, Georgina, I will say that the closest I have ever come to true happiness is in the last year, since you have moved into Bluebell Cottage. I am sorry that in return for the happiness your presence has brought me, I have been the cause of such alarms and upsets for you. It really is not fair on you, and I am not so selfish as to think it is. Sometimes I think that this state of affairs cannot, or should not, continue.

That, I believe, is everything, Georgina, and I hope you will think none the worse of me for it. In conclusion, I should like to offer you three observations, which the above experience and other episodes in my life have taught me. First, that no man, however clever he may think himself, ever really knows what will happen next. Second, that you should always be on your guard, for although first, superficial impressions can sometimes be surprisingly accurate, occasionally they are not, but are, on the contrary, quite misleading. Third, that there is nothing more terrible in all the world than a smile on the face of evil. Remember these things.

Your good friend, James Palfreyman

We sat in silence for some time when I had finished reading the professor’s account.

“Well, well,” said Holmes at last. “It is a singular document indeed, which explains what has been weighing so heavily on the professor’s mind. As he mentioned to you last week, however, Miss Calloway, most of the facts connected with the matter are already widely known – if not to you – so the only really new information concerns his very honest depiction of the strong antipathy he felt for this man Strange. Moreover, he makes no mention of the tile or the anonymous letters he has recently received through the post. I should very much like to know what his private thoughts are on those things. In his absence, however, we must do the best we can, and it is certainly upon the tile that we must now concentrate all our energies.”

“What could the tile possibly tell us?” asked Miss Calloway.

“Someone deliberately sent that tile to the professor,” replied Holmes, “and no doubt the same person also sent the anonymous letters. The aim seems clear enough – to torment him, and upset his equilibrium – and if so, it has certainly been successful: the professor’s worst moments, as you have recounted them to us, have generally followed the receipt of these unwelcome items of post. That is where we must therefore focus our attention, and as the letters have been destroyed, we are left only with the tile.”

“But the professor has buried it somewhere!”

“Then we must dig it up.”

“But it is smashed!”

“Then we must get hold of some strong glue, and try to put it together again. We may then be able to tell where the tile came from, whether it was purchased somewhere, or made individually by the person that sent it.”

“But who would do such a thing?”

“That is what we must discover.”

“There is something that troubles me,” I interrupted. “We have intruded upon Professor Palfreyman’s privacy so far as to read this account, which he wrote specifically for Miss Calloway, but to dig up without his permission something which he himself has buried seems to me a yet deeper invasion of his privacy.”

“I can understand your misgivings, Watson,” returned Holmes, “but I do not share them. I am acting for Miss Calloway, and she has been in danger, as that bruise on the side of her head bears testimony. Her well-being is my first consideration. Compared with that, Professor Palfreyman’s privacy seems to me a secondary matter, and I feel sure that, if it were put to him in those terms, the professor himself could not but agree with me. Now, let us be off to the woods, and Miss Calloway can show us where the professor may have buried the broken tile!”