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

This, then, is the true history of the final days of the family of Davenoke, resident in East Suffolk since the days of the Plantagenets, and of how Mr Sherlock Holmes and I came to be involved. It is my hope that this narrative, with all its faults and inadequacies, will go some way towards satisfying the curiosity of those many correspondents who have raised the matter with me, in particular that worthy archivist, Mr Alexander Pargeter of the Suffolk County Records Office at Ipswich. In closing I could do no better than to quote from an article which appeared in the Daily Telegraph three days after our return to London, under the heading ‘THE LAST OF THE DAVENOKES’. The anonymous correspondent, in a fine essay, demonstrating round good sense and historical perception, comments upon the previous history of the family and laments the death of Sir Edward and that of his young American bride, upon whom so many hopes had rested, and concludes with the following remark:

‘With the tragic and untimely death of Sir Edward Davenoke, seventh baronet of that title, and last of his line, there passes away for all time not merely his own family and name, nor yet merely one significant part of the history of the County of Suffolk, but, indeed, a part of the very history of England.’

The month of June is a time of long evenings and sunny weather, and a popular choice for weddings and other festivities. Yet, in England at least, the pleasant, balmy days of June are not infrequently punctuated by days of cooler, showery weather. Such days are but a fleeting annoyance to most people, forgotten almost as soon as they have passed; but a rainy day in June never fails to stir up memories for me, for it was on just such a day that the curious case of Martin Zennor was first brought to the attention of my friend, Sherlock Holmes.

Holmes had been busy for several weeks with a singular succession of cases, including the puzzling theft of the Bolingbroke miniature, the strange mystery surrounding ‘The Deeping Question’, and the sensational murder at the Nonpareil Club, and the unremitting effort he had put into these cases had at last taken its toll upon his strong and resilient constitution. On the morning in question, having finished his breakfast, he stood up from the table, stared out of the window for a moment at the rain-soaked street below, then announced that he was returning to his bed for an hour or two, as was his habit when he was exhausted. Scarcely had these words left his lips, however, when there came a strident peal at the front-door bell.

‘Now, who is this,’ said he with a weary sigh, ‘come to plague us with his problems?’

A moment later, his question was answered. A young man in clerical garb was shown into the room and announced as Mr Martin Zennor. His thin, pale face showed signs of great anxiety and the dark shadows about his eyes suggested that he had slept little the previous night. I hung up his wet hat and coat, as Holmes waved him to a chair by the hearth and took his pipe from the mantelpiece. ‘How can we help you, Mr Zennor?’ said he. ‘You have, I see, recently arrived in London from the south-east.’

‘That is true,’ returned the other. ‘I caught a train about seven this morning, arrived about ten minutes ago and have come here directly from the station. But how do you know?’

‘They have taken up most of the paving stones outside the eastern front of Victoria station in the past few days, exposing the clay beneath. The rain has made this sticky, and it is difficult to avoid getting a little of it on one’s instep when passing from the station exit to the cab-stand.’ Holmes indicated his visitor’s shoes, as he put a match to his pipe and seated himself in the vacant armchair by the hearth. ‘Now,’ he continued after a moment, puffing gently at his pipe; ‘pray give us the details of what has brought you here.’

The young man did not reply at once, but fidgeted with his collar for a moment, then took out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. Holmes leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, his face a placid mask of patience and calmness. Above his head, the blue wraiths of tobacco-smoke twisted and spiralled.

‘My situation is a miserable one,’ began his visitor at last, passing his hand across his brow, ‘almost, one might say, a desperate one. I am accused – and practically condemned already, without a fair hearing – of attempting to steal a sum of money belonging to the cathedral at which I am one of the minor canons.’

‘Which is, of course, Canterbury Cathedral.’

‘What! You know already? May I ask who told you?’

‘You did, Mr Zennor. We know that you have come up from the south-east and you stated that it has taken you about two hours to do so, so clearly the cathedral in question can only be Canterbury. But come, these are mere trifles; let us get down to the matter! You are quite innocent, I take it, of the charge laid against you?’

‘Utterly so.’

‘Then why are you accused?’

‘The money – in the form of a cheque from a wealthy benefactor – was discovered to be in my possession, shortly after it was found to be missing.’

‘A circumstance for which you no doubt have a perfectly good explanation.’

‘Unfortunately not.’

‘Dear, dear!’

‘The cheque was in an envelope in my coat-pocket, but how it came to be there, I have no idea.’

‘How very interesting! If you did not put it there, then, presumably, someone else did. Hum! The cheque disappeared, I take it, from the cathedral offices?’

‘That is so.’

‘And the discovery of it in your possession: did that also take place at the cathedral, or in your lodgings?’

‘Neither. It occurred here in London, just yesterday. I had come up to town on a couple of errands, one of which was to convey some papers to Canon Seagrave, one of the Archbishop’s clerks at Lambeth Palace. I had also volunteered to bring with me an urgent letter from the Dean of the cathedral to the Archbishop. It was whilst I was there, at Lambeth Palace, that news of the cheque’s disappearance reached London and also that the discovery was made that I had it in my possession. The general belief, I imagine, is that I was intending to exchange the cheque for cash at Sir Anthony Ingoldsby’s bank, which is at Charing Cross.’

‘He being the benefactor you referred to?’

‘Precisely. He had made out the cheque for a hundred pounds, and had signed and dated it, but had been unsure to whom the cheque should be addressed, so had left that part of it blank.’

‘Tut tut! A most inadvisable procedure! What a temptation such an unfinished cheque left lying about must present to the unscrupulous!’

‘Well, the office in which it was left “lying about”, as you put it, was, after all, in the cathedral precincts. One might perhaps be forgiven for believing that in such a place, the temptation to which you refer would be negligible.’

‘Perhaps one might; but it is still unwise to leave such a temptation unguarded. It is generally a mistake to rely too heavily upon the innate virtue of those with whom you have dealings. It is always more agreeable to be pleasantly surprised by the appearance of virtue than to be disappointed by its absence. However, leaving such general considerations aside, the fact remains that the cheque vanished from the cathedral precincts in Canterbury and reappeared in your coat pocket in London. Could this not have been simply a mistake of some kind? Could the cheque not simply have been put in the wrong coat pocket?’

‘That would, I agree, be the obvious conclusion; but it does not seem possible in this instance. It is not simply that the cheque should not have been in my pocket, it should not have been in anyone’s pocket. It was in a tray on a shelf in the office, awaiting the arrival of the Dean’s secretary, who would deal with it.’