Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures

"You say there were just the two of you?" said Holmes.

"Yes. We found the stone where it had fallen into a clump of wild thyme. It had struck the plants with sufficient force to bruise the leaves releasing the aroma of the herb into the warm evening air."

"I see."

"Briefly, to bring the story up to date," continued Professor Hardcastle, "I moved on to university and my studies. And Dr Columbine continued his work in astronomy. But that's when the tragedy occurred."

"Tragedy?"

"Yes. Some malady laid Dr Columbine down. I don't know its nature. But, with hindsight, it clearly resulted in some creeping destruction of the brain. It wasn't immediately apparent at the time but the public lectures became yet more fiery, and the man's ideas became even more astonishing. He embarked upon a plan to build the world's largest telescope, which would be constructed upon the peak of Mount Snowdon in Wales where the cleaner air at that altitude is far more conducive to astronomical observation. And with this telescope, of absolutely gargantuan proportions, he would be able to divine what lay at the innermost heart of our universe."

"Then the man may have been visionary, not ill in his mind?"

"At first we believed this was the case. That it was his vibrant genius alone that drove him to anger when his plans didn't quickly reach fruition. But then it became apparent to all that he was indeed ill. Ill psychologically. The years passed, yet not a month would go by without his former acquaintances receiving increasingly vicious letters demanding that we sponsor his scheme – with every penny we possessed if need be! Rumours circulated that Dr Columbine threatened eminent scientists with violence if they did not pledge to fund this impossibly large refracting telescope. Indeed, five years ago I received a letter from him, stating categorically that because I had not myself pledged financial support for this instrument he would see to it that he destroyed what I loved most in the world, because I and my fellow men of science had destroyed what he, Dr Columbine, loved most in his world, his dream to build the telescope."

"The man was clearly mad," I observed.

"Indeed."

Holmes said crisply, "You say you received this threatening letter five years ago. How did you respond?"

"Until that time I'd ignored all his earlier letters demanding sponsorship. On that occasion I reported the matter to the police."

"And?"

"They attempted to locate Dr Columbine, but by that time, yet unknown to me and my brethren, the man was penniless and all but resided in the gin shops of Whitechapel."

"The police failed to find him?"

"On the contrary, three months later a corpse was pulled from the Thames. It had been in the water so long its identity could only be discerned by the laundry label in the coat, giving

the owner's name; oh! and there was also an inscribed pocket watch."

"Which, I take it," said Holmes blowing out a cloud of cigar smoke above his head, "gave every indication that the poor wretch found drowned in the Thames was none other than Dr Columbine?"

"Quite. The police were satisfied as to the identity of the body, which was later buried in a pauper's grave in Greenwich."

"And the threatening letters ceased to arrive. And no one saw hide nor hair of Dr Columbine?"

"Naturally, the man was dead."

"So the police surmised."

"Yes. What doubt could there be?"

"Every doubt. There's a gardener trimming your hedge wearing a pair of your boots. If he turned up in the Thames wearing those boots, and unrecognizable by any other evidence might not the police surmise that man was you, Professor?"

"Yes… well of course, such a mistake might be made… but… good heavens how do you know the man is wearing a pair of my boots?"

Professor Hardcastle, eyes wide with astonishment behind the lenses of the pince-nez, turned to stare out of the window at the gardener, a man of around fifty years, who was scrupulously trimming privet just half a dozen yards beyond the window.

"Your gardener," continued Holmes, fingers lightly pressed together, "is recently married to a good woman of a character similar to his own, that is both are hard working and anxious to please. Both love each other dearly. Moreover, the man wears a pair of boots once owned by yourself."

Hardcastle squinted through his pince-nez at the boots. "Why?Yes.Yes. Those are – were my old boots. My wife, rather than throwing them out, would have seen that they were offered to Clarkson. And, yes, I found the man very eager to please, indeed anxious to give satisfaction for his wages, but how could you know that?"

Holmes smiled. "Gardeners don't wear such expensive boots while they work. If he could have afforded such a pair he would have saved them for 'Sunday best.' Also from the way the man hobbles quite painfully, they are far too small for him. Indeed they would, sir, fit someone with your size feet. A size seven."

"Ah, size eight."

"I think you'll find a trifle smaller. Nevertheless, the boots you gave him are too small, but rather than appearing ungrateful he makes a point of wearing them when you will notice."

"That is why he's wearing the boots so near the window?"

"Indeed so, and vigorously trimming a hedge that visibly requires no trimming. But he's keen to create a good impression. I dare say you'll find his more comfortable workboots concealed behind some nearby bush which he will change into once he's demonstrated his gratitude to you."

"And recently married?"

"Have you seen many a gardener with clothes so clean and trousers so carefully pressed? The wife is eager to please, too. And, he, in love with his wife, is so closely shaven that he has nicked his face four, five times. Now!" Holmes briskly rose from the chair and paced the room. As he did so, he appraised, with those two keen eyes of his, certain areas of the carpet, and paid particular attention to the crystal wine decanters on the table. Holmes continued, "My example of the gardener and his wearing another man's boots disposes, I believe, with the apparently insoluble problem of Dr Columbine returning from the dead to plague you. Evidently, another man wore his coat and possessed his watch when he unfortunately fell in the Thames. Either stolen or purchased from the Doctor."

"Then Columbine is alive?"

"Yes." Holmes picked the aerolite from the table and held it between forefinger and thumb. "That is, if he were the only man to know that you found The Rye Stone in a patch of thyme?"

"Yes, he was… its place of landing is irrelevant to my experiments. I never once mentioned it to another living soul."

"But not irrelevant to this case. As you realized, most powerfully, when you saw the sprigs of thyme and the stone together. That little conjunction of herb and stone was nothing less than a message to you, sir, from Dr Columbine, which states plainly: Professor Hardcastle, I am alive. I have not forgotten my threat. I have the ability to come and go into your home at will. Now I am merely biding my time before I strike."

"My son?"

"Specifically, your son. He will murder your son in his bed within forty-eight hours."

The man's face turned white as paper. "Oh, heavens, what a horrible prediction. How can you know that?"

"I will return tomorrow morning whereupon. I will explain everything?"

"But my son is under a sentence of death. What you've told me is unspeakably cruel."

"But necessary. When I return to tomorrow I will do my utmost to save your son – but we are dealing not just with a madman, but a man who is uncommonly intelligent."

"Please don't go."

"I must make some very necessary preparations. But first please pass me the sprig of thyme from the table. Thank you, Professor."

For a moment we sat there, I upon the sofa, the professor perched unhappily on the edge of the armchair, his wide eyes watching Holmes's every move.