Anthony Horowitz: The House of Silk

‘Your partner, Mr Finch?’

‘Tobias Finch is rather older than myself, although we are equal partners. If there is one disagreement between us it is that he is more cautious and conservative than I. For example, I have a strong interest in some of the new work coming in from the continent. I refer to the painters who have become known as the impressionistes , such artists as Monet and Degas. Only a week ago I was offered a seaside scene by Pissaro which I thought to be quite delightful and full of colour. My partner, alas, took the opposite view. He insists that such works are little more than a blur, and although it is indeed the case that some of the shapes are indistinguishable at short range, I cannot persuade him that he is missing the point. However, I will not tire you gentlemen with a lecture on art. We are a traditional gallery and that, for now, is what we shall remain.’

Holmes nodded. ‘Pray continue.’

‘Mr Holmes, two weeks ago I realised that I was being watched. Ridgeway Hall, which is the name of my home, stands on one side of a narrow lane, with a cluster of almshouses some distance away at the end. These are our closest neighbours. We are surrounded by common land, and from my dressing room I have a view of the village green. It was here, on a Tuesday morning, that I became aware of a man standing with his legs apart and his arms folded — and I was struck at once by his extraordinary stillness. He was too far away for me to be able to see him clearly, but I would have said that he was a foreigner. He was wearing a long frock coat with padded shoulders of a cut that was most certainly not English. Indeed, I was in America last year and if I were to guess I would say it was from this country that he had originated. What struck me most forcefully, however, for reasons that I will shortly explain, was that he was also wearing a hat, a flat cap of the sort that is sometimes called a cheesecutter.

‘It was this and the way that he stood there that first attracted my attention and so unnerved me. If he had been a scarecrow, I swear he could not have been more static. There was a light raining falling, swept by the breeze across the common, but he didn’t seem to notice it. His eyes were fixed on my window. I can tell you that they were very dark and that they seemed to be boring into me. I gazed at him for at least a minute, perhaps longer, then went down to breakfast. However, before I ate, I sent the scullery boy out to see if the man was still there. He was not. The boy reported back that the green was empty.’

‘A singular occurrence,’ Holmes remarked. ‘But Ridgeway Hall is, I am sure, a fine building. And a visitor to this country might well have found it merited his examination.’

‘And so I told myself. But a few days later, I saw him a second time. On this occasion, I was in London. My wife and I had just come out of the theatre — we’d been to the Savoy — and there he was, on the other side of the road, wearing the same coat, again with the flat cap. I might not have noticed him, Mr Holmes, but, as before, he was unmoving and with the crowds passing round on either side of him; he could have been a solid rock in a fast-flowing river. I’m afraid I was unable to see him clearly, however, for although he had chosen a position in the full glow of a street lamp, it had thrown a shadow across his face and acted like a veil. Though perhaps that was his intent.’

‘But you were sure it was the same man?’

‘There could be no doubt of it.’

‘Did your wife see him?’

‘No. And I did not wish to alarm her by making any mention of it. We had a hansom waiting and we left at once.’

‘This is most interesting,’ Holmes remarked. ‘The behaviour of this man makes no sense at all. He stands in the middle of a village green and beneath a street lamp. On the one hand, it’s as if he is making every effort to be seen. And yet he makes no attempt to approach you.’

‘He did approach me,’ Carstairs replied. ‘The very next day, in fact, when I returned early to the house. My friend, Finch, was in the gallery, cataloguing a collection of drawings and etchings by Samuel Scott. He had no need of me and I was still uneasy after the two sightings. I arrived back at Ridgeway Hall shortly before three o’clock — and it was just as well that I did, for there was the rogue, approaching my front door. I called out to him and he turned and saw me. At once, he began to run towards me and I was sure that he was about to strike me and even lifted my walking stick to protect myself. But his mission was not one of violence. He came straight up to me and for the first time I saw his face: thin lips, dark brown eyes and a livid scar on his right cheek, the result of a recent bullet wound. He had been drinking spirits — I could smell them on his breath. He didn’t utter a word to me but instead lifted a note into the air and pressed it into my hand. Then, before I could stop him, he ran off.’

‘And the note?’ Holmes asked.

‘I have it here.’

The art dealer produced a square of paper, folded into four, and handed it to Holmes. Holmes opened it carefully. ‘My glass, if you please, Watson.’ As I handed him the magnifying glass, he turned to Carstairs. ‘There was no envelope?’

‘No.’

‘I find that of the greatest significance. But let us see…’

There were just six words written in block capitals on the page.

ST MARY’S CHURCH. TOMORROW. MID-DAY.

‘The paper is English,’ Holmes remarked. ‘Even if the visitor was not. You notice that he writes in capitals, Watson. What do you suggest his purpose might be?’

‘To disguise his handwriting,’ I said.

‘It is possible. Although since the man had never written to Mr Carstairs, and is perhaps unlikely to write to him again, you would have thought his handwriting would have been of no consequence. Was the message folded when it was handed to you, Mr Carstairs?’

‘No. I think not. I folded it myself later.’

‘The picture becomes clearer by the minute. This church that he refers to, St Mary’s. I assume it is in Wimbledon?’

‘It is on Hothouse Lane,’ Carstairs replied. ‘Just a few minutes’ walk from my home.’

‘This behaviour is also lacking in logic, do you not think? The man wishes to speak with you. He places a message to that effect in your hand. But he does not speak. He does not utter a word.’

‘My guess was that he wished to talk to me alone. And as it happened, my wife, Catherine, emerged from the house a few moments later. She had been standing in the dining room which looks out onto the drive and she had seen what had just occurred. “Who was that?” she asked.

‘“I have no idea,” I replied.

‘“What did he want?”

‘I showed her the note. “It’s someone wanting money,” she said. “I saw him out of the window just now — a rough-looking fellow. There were gypsies on the common last week. He must have been one of them. Edmund, you mustn’t go.”

‘“You need not concern yourself, my dear,” I replied. “I have no intention of meeting with him.”’

‘You reassured your wife,’ Holmes murmured. ‘But you went to the church at the appointed time.’

‘I did exactly that — and carried a revolver with me. He wasn’t there. The church is not well attended and it was unpleasantly cold. I paced the flagstones for an hour and then I came home. I have heard no more from him since, and I have not seen him again, but I have been unable to get him out of my mind.’

‘The man is known to you,’ Holmes said.

‘Yes, Mr Holmes. You go right to the heart of it. I do believe I know the identity of this individual, although I confess I do not quite see the reasoning that has brought you to that conclusion.’