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

‘It was, I believe, during this period of just under ten minutes, when Zennor’s coat was the only one hanging in the corridor outside the cathedral office, after Bebington had brought it back, but before Nugent returned and took it, that Glimper put the envelope, cheque and note in the pocket. He would, under the circumstances, have been in a highly nervous and hurried state, for someone might have come by at any moment and seen what he was doing, so no doubt when he saw a single coat hanging there he assumed it was his own. This is the only explanation that covers all the facts. No doubt Glimper intended to travel up to London later in the day and cash the cheque there, but, shortly afterwards, Nugent came back and, exchanging Glimper’s coat for Zennor’s, therefore went off to London with the stolen cheque in his pocket.’

‘But if Nugent inadvertently brought the cheque up to London,’ I asked, ‘how was it that Zennor ended up with it?’

‘That occurred at Lambeth Palace,’ replied Holmes. ‘You will recall that when Zennor arrived there, he saw a hat on the hat-stand, but no coat on the coat-hooks. But it was a wet day, and anyone arriving there would surely have been wearing a raincoat and would have hung it up with his hat. What must have happened, then, is this: that the earlier visitor – which must have been Nugent – hung his coat up hurriedly and carelessly and as he proceeded into the building it slipped from its peg and fell in a heap on the floor behind the settle. When Zennor arrived, he saw no coat there, hung his own hat and coat up and went into Lambeth Palace to keep his appointment. Some time later, while he was still engaged in there, Nugent came out, took the only coat that was hanging there, which he assumed to be the one he had arrived in and left. When Zennor emerged, he at first saw no coat, then found the one behind the settle and he, likewise, assumed that it was the one he had arrived in. Oddly enough, it was actually his own coat, but that was the first time all day that he had worn it. The remainder of the events you know. Is that all clear, old man? Do you understand now the point of that diagram you are studying?’

‘I believe so,’ I said, with some hesitation. ‘I am sure your analysis is correct, Holmes and, in any case, the arrival of Dr Glimper at St Mark’s confirmed it beyond doubt.’

Holmes nodded. ‘There was one other possibility I considered, which was that Stafford Nugent had stolen the cheque, when he returned to collect his library book. But if he had done so, I argued, he would surely have taken a little more care to ensure he took the correct coat when he left Lambeth Palace and that he still had the cheque with him.

‘Therefore, although it was always possible that no one would turn up today for the meeting at St Mark’s, especially as the stolen cheque had been recovered, it seemed to me that if anyone did so, it would undoubtedly be Dr Glimper.’

‘Amazing!’ I cried.

‘Elementary,’ said Sherlock Holmes.

It may be imagined that the long and intimate acquaintance I had with Mr Sherlock Holmes should have sharpened my interest in crimes and mysteries, and in those special methods which he used to solve them. I found myself sometimes, as a result, considering unsolved mysteries from earlier in the century and wondering whether, had my friend’s unique skills been at the disposal of those who had investigated them, they would have remained unsolved. Occasionally, I was able to persuade Holmes to discuss such matters and never failed to be impressed by his insights, but more often he would decline to enter into such speculations, remarking that the solution of any mystery, criminal or otherwise, invariably lay among the tiny details of the matter, and it was just those details that were most often lacking in the accounts of such cases as I read to him from time to time.

On one notable occasion, however, I did succeed in drawing my friend into a more detailed discussion of an unsolved case, when he was able to shed light on the matter in a remarkable and surprising fashion.

It was a dark winter’s evening and we had been reading in silence on either side of the fire for some time, I with a volume of unsolved mysteries, he with a recent treatise on the poisonous properties of vegetable alkaloids.

‘It is a singular thing to consider,’ said I, looking up from my book, ‘that of all the many millions of people in England, some of whom may be reading this book tonight as I am, there is not one who knows the solution to this mystery. One might have supposed that the application of so much collective brain-power to the problem would inevitably have produced a solution by now.’

My companion put down his own book and took up his old brier pipe and a handful of tobacco from the Persian slipper which was hanging on a hook beside the fireplace.

‘But as I have remarked before,’ said he, ‘the authors of such works generally set out to entertain rather than enlighten, and to that end present the facts in a sensational rather than an analytical fashion, which tends to obfuscate and cloud the issues involved, rather than clarifying them.’

‘Sometimes, perhaps, that may be true,’ I returned, ‘but not, I think, in every instance. Take the case I have just been reading, for example. The author describes the events with great clarity, yet the matter remains utterly mystifying. The events take place in a quiet country district, in which nothing of sensation has occurred in a century, the local inhabitants going about their business in the most regular, peaceful way imaginable, until one summer, twenty years ago. Then, like a bolt of lightning from a clear sky, there are a series of mysterious burglaries, and a well-known local man is found murdered one morning in a country lane. No one can suggest why these things have happened, nor who might be responsible. No strangers have been seen in the area, except for a highly respectable family with children who have rented a house there for the summer. Immediately following this brief period of dramatic incident, the entire district settles back once more into its customary state of somnolence, from which it has never emerged since.’

‘Where did these incidents take place?’ queried Holmes, a note of interest in his voice.

‘Somewhere called East Thrigby. It is a village in the Lincolnshire Wolds, a few miles from the sea.’

My friend nodded his head in a thoughtful fashion. ‘I thought your description of the case sounded familiar,’ said he. ‘As it happens, your example is an unfortunate one for your thesis: there is one person at least who knows the truth of what happened at East Thrigby.’

‘Of course, the criminal himself must know the truth.’

‘That was not my meaning.’

‘Who then?’

‘I was referring to myself, Watson.’

‘You?’ I cried in surprise.

Again Holmes nodded. ‘I was present, a young lad, when the events you describe took place.’

‘And you believe you know the truth?’

‘I am certain of it.’

This was a surprise indeed, for I had never heard Holmes refer to the matter before. I asked him why, if the truth were known, it had never been revealed. He did not reply directly, but sat in silent thought for several minutes.

‘The case supports my contention that it is in the details that the truth is to be found,’ said he at length, ‘for I can trace my own understanding of the matter to the moment I recalled how someone had polished his boots. I imagine you would be interested to hear an account of the case from my point of view.’

‘I should be fascinated,’ I returned; ‘for it interests me greatly.’

Abruptly, he stood up from his chair and disappeared into his bedroom, returning a few minutes later with a flat wooden box, about eight inches square and two inches deep, tied up with red tape, such as might have contained a small painting or a precious china dish.