Denis Smith - The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

‘This talk of curses is pernicious and evil,’ said Holmes sharply. ‘You must not allow your mind to be prey to such ancient superstitions. The Dark Ages are passed and gone, Sir Edward!’

‘Are they?’ returned the other. ‘Are they indeed? You might speak otherwise had you been confined in this cell as long as I have, Mr Holmes.’ He rose to his feet once more, his mouth set in bitter determination, a strange light in his eye. ‘Had you lived alone in this hell-hole and spent your every hour in the company of these—’ He brought his fist down violently upon the pile of documents which covered the table, sending them flying to the floor. ‘Oh, no, Mr Holmes!’ cried he, with a horrible, sneering laugh: ‘There is more in Heaven and Earth than is dreamt of in your philosophy!’

Holmes snorted. ‘Let us keep to particulars,’ said he sharply. ‘What happened to the dog?’

‘Bruno? I killed him! Yes, I do not wonder that your features express shock! He had evidently managed to free himself somehow, for as I was climbing out of my rat-hole in the chapel last night he sprang at me without warning, out of the darkness. No doubt he merely wanted to greet his master, but I was unnerved already by what I had been reading and he took me utterly by surprise. Before I knew what I was doing, I had lashed out with the stick I was carrying and caught him heavily upon the side of the head. He fell without a sound and breathed his last at my feet. Already, the curse begins to take effect, you see, Mr Holmes!’ A perverse glint of triumph replaced the look of horror in Davenoke’s eye as he spoke these last words. ‘Deny it if you can!’ cried he.

‘Tell me then,’ said Holmes, answering the vehemence of the other with firmness of his own: ‘Who has placed this curse upon you?’

‘It is written,’ responded the other. ‘It is written in the family documents. The Davenokes have been true to their obligations for countless generations.’

‘It is written by Richard Davenoke,’ retorted Holmes; ‘a man as you are a man. What right or power has he to place a curse upon generations unborn? Indeed,’ Holmes continued, as Davenoke did not reply, ‘if any man has ever forfeited the right to impose obligations upon another it is he.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Richard Davenoke was a murderer most foul and bestial.’

Sir Edward sprang back, a look of great fear in his eye. ‘You cannot say this!’ he cried. ‘You cannot know!’

‘It is only too obvious. Richard Davenoke himself committed all those ghastly crimes which were ascribed to “the Beast of Shoreswood”. He himself was the beast, the only monster who ever dwelt here. To anyone familiar with the ways of evil, the pattern is all too clear. There never had been a Beast of Shoreswood before he invented it. It is the most common feature of all myths: the projection back into the distant and unrecorded past of what belongs rightly only to the present. The invention of history is a great device for those who would hide their own present evil. Richard’s younger brother – the one who had drowned in the moat – was rumoured to have had a hideous deformity of the features; but the hideous deformity was in no one’s face, but in the mind of Richard.’

‘He was totally insane,’ said the other simply, clutching his head in his hand. ‘The truth was that the brother had indeed drowned in the moat when young, but he had drowned by the hand of Richard.’

‘I suspected it,’ said Holmes. ‘And these papers, I imagine, consist of Richard’s personal history of his whole vile, bloody life: a sort of diabolical “Confessions of St Augustine”.’

Sir Edward nodded his head slowly, his face haggard and grave. ‘How you can know these things, I do not know. The family has kept the secret for three hundred years. The family name has not been stained.’

‘It serves no purpose now.’

‘I have given my oath to my own father, as every Davenoke has done before me.’

‘Indeed, right back to Richard himself, who sought to protect only his own name. It is there the chain begins, in a pool of blood. What one man has begun, another may end. You must break the chain, Sir Edward!’

‘I have my duty as a Davenoke.’

‘Your first duty is to the living.’

‘A solemn oath is a solemn oath.’

‘A solemn oath upon an evil issue is no oath at all.’

‘Do not fence words with me, Mr Holmes!’ cried the other, his voice rising with anger.

‘Your wife – Lady Davenoke – has been half out of her mind with worry these last weeks. Does that mean nothing to you?’

Sir Edward did not reply, and it was evident from the tortured twitching of his face that his mind was in a state of terrible turmoil and indecision. Sherlock Holmes’s firm manner and clear argument had had some effect, and a battle was now raging in his soul between the forces of light and of dark; between independent reason and the power of tradition. For several minutes a deathly hush fell upon that dank chamber as Sir Edward rocked upon his feet, his head clutched in his hands. At length he opened his mouth as if about to speak, but what he was to say then, we were never to learn. For there came all at once a most startling interruption.

The sound of clattering feet broke suddenly upon the silence and seconds later the heavy door opposite burst open with a crash. In rushed Hardwick, clad only in a dressing-gown and bearing a lantern. His hair was awry, his eyes wild with panic.

‘Sir Edward!’ cried he in anguish, taking no heed of our presence. ‘Come quickly! Lady Amelia has had an accident. Oh, come at once!’

‘What!’ cried the other.

‘She walked in her sleep, Sir Edward. She did not know the stairs. She has fallen and hurt herself. Come quickly!’

We hurried at once from the room, Davenoke leading the way up a steep stone staircase which seemed to be set within the very wall of the building. Under a low arch we passed and emerged through the back of a colossal old fireplace, into a dark and empty room. Through an open doorway we hastened and along an echoing corridor, the madly swinging lanterns casting their wild light upon dark and sombre old portraits, grim suits of armour and heavy medieval weapons which hung upon the walls. Then we were through a doorway and into a wide hall, lit with many lamps and candles.

Three or four people stood in their night-clothes at the foot of the stair, their faces full of fear and apprehension. Before them lay the prostrate figure of Amelia Davenoke.

‘I am a doctor,’ I cried. ‘Stand aside. Do not move her!’

I bent to the still figure at their feet. The luxuriant copper-coloured hair lay loosely upon her shoulders and I moved it gently to one side. There was something horribly unnatural about the angle of her head and neck. Desperately and repeatedly I sought for signs of life, but all in vain. It was clear that she had broken her neck in the fall and would breathe no more. I cannot describe the feelings which coursed then through my soul; I recall only that I rose to my feet and breathed deeply before I could make the terrible pronouncement which had fallen to my lot.

The women present burst forth at once into terrible weeping. I believe, in truth, that they had known the sad fact already, but had hoped against all reason that I could prove their senses to be mistaken. Hardwick began to usher them gently up the stairs and I had turned to say something to Holmes, when we were all struck rigid by a terrible piercing cry.

‘The curse is come upon me!’ cried the young baronet, in a voice which struck a chill to my soul. ‘It has came to pass as it is written!’

‘Sir Edward—’ began Sherlock Holmes.

‘You!’ interrupted the other, turning upon my friend with a murderous venom in his eye. ‘You dare to speak to me!’ he cried. ‘Get out! Leave my house this instant! Get out, do you hear !’