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

‘“Broadly speaking, yes,” returned Crompton, “although they vary slightly from place to place, depending on the nature of the local clay deposits. As a matter of fact, this was a question that interested me, as there was some difference of opinion about it: whether the tiles and bricks had been produced locally, or had been carted in from further afield, from Lincoln, say, or from somewhere in the Trent valley. I therefore dug up some reasonable-looking clay from that field over the hedge – the farmer, Mr Thoresby, is a somewhat more obliging gentleman than old Pigge – and made a series of experiments, using the oven in my kitchen to fire the clay. The results were fairly conclusive, as far as I was concerned: my efforts, amateurish though they were, ended up precisely the same shade as these skilfully crafted Roman bricks and tiles, thus suggesting that they, too, had been made locally. Incidentally, the Romans sometimes used a method of heating their houses in cold weather by constructing channels under such tiles as these for hot air from a furnace to pass along, but there is no such arrangement in this case, which lends support to my theory that this was purely a summer residence for a wealthy individual who spent most of the year somewhere else, probably in Lincoln – or Lindum as the Romans called it.”

‘For some time we ambled round the excavations, while Crompton pointed out features of interest to us. Then he fetched from the house the two Roman coins, and we were able to see that the emperor’s face on both was the same, although the one he had found in his excavations was quite badly damaged, with some of the edge broken off. Finally, as the sun was declining in the west, casting a golden glow over the countryside, we thanked our host for showing us round and made our way home. It was clear that everyone had enjoyed the visit immensely, and the adults chatted enthusiastically about the surprising wealth of history to be found in this obscure corner of the country. “I had thought it was thrilling enough to sit on the bench that Dr Johnson had occupied a hundred years ago,” said Uncle Moreton, “but to walk on the floor where Tacitus may have trod nearly two thousand years ago is even more amazing.”

‘The following day was dull and overcast, and we spent most of it in Louth, the nearest town of any size, where Aunt Phyllis found a small mirror in a battered frame in what she described as an “old curiosity shop”. This is the mirror you see before you, Watson. She made us promise that the next time we went to the sea we would take a basket with us and collect as many pretty little shells and pebbles as we could find. “And then,” said she, “I will show you how we can decorate this mirror to make a keepsake of our holiday.”

‘On the way home I gave fresh consideration to the big spreading tree at the bottom of the garden and thought of a way of overcoming the difficulty of the first few feet. As soon as we got back, therefore, I found an old cask and, with Sylvie’s help, manoeuvred it into position at the foot of the tree. Standing on that, I was able to stretch my hand up to a small clump of twigs and thus pull myself up into the main branches of the tree. After that, progress was not too difficult, although I did not manage to get anywhere near the top. At the place I had stopped, about two-thirds of the way up the tree, there was a comfortable place to sit, and from that vantage point I was able to survey the rolling countryside which surrounded The Highlands. In a narrow lane in the distance I saw a man I recognised as Mr Crompton, clad in a linen jacket and straw hat. Further away, round a bend in the same lane and thus out of sight of Mr Crompton, another man was approaching. He was clad in a dark suit and hat, and I recognised him as “the sinister stranger” that Sylvie and I had seen in the field next to The Highlands. On this occasion he had a child with him, a boy of about my own age, as far as I could make out.

‘As I watched, the two men came in sight of each other and, as they did so, Crompton stopped abruptly. A moment later he had resumed his leisurely walk and the two men gradually approached each other. When they met, they paused for a moment and engaged in conversation, but it was not for long, and they soon went their separate ways. All the while, I was conscious that Sylvie was still standing at the foot of the tree, waiting to hear from me, and I felt sorry and a little guilty that I was enjoying being up the tree and she could not. I was therefore about to descend when something surprising occurred which arrested my attention. Mr Crompton had stopped and turned to look at the retreating back of the other man. For a long moment he just stood there staring, as if he had perhaps remembered something he had meant to say, but then, abruptly, he raised his hand and shook his fist at the other man. A moment later he had turned away once more and resumed his course down the lane. Startled by what I had seen, I quickly climbed down and described it in detail to Sylvie, but neither of us could think what to make of it. Again we debated whether we should mention what we had seen to the adults, but again we decided against it.

‘The next day dawned bright and clear, and over breakfast Uncle Moreton and Mr Hemming decided that we should make another trip to the coast. “We don’t know how long this fine weather will last,” remarked Uncle Moreton, “and we might not feel much like bathing if the air turns colder.”

‘As we left, the wind seemed to be getting stronger and by the time we reached the coast it was blowing very sharply off the sea, piling up the waves and sending them crashing on to the shore in a cascade of foam. We had our bathe, but it was a very boisterous one, and I think we all had to grit our teeth a little to enter into that wild maelstrom of chilly water. Afterwards, with chattering teeth, we collected as many attractive shells and pebbles as we could fit in the basket we had brought with us and set off for home, cold and exhausted but feeling pleased with ourselves for our hardiness.

‘When we reached The Highlands, we found that Sylvie and the two women had already cleaned and smoothed the frame of the mirror, and had just finished applying a second coat of blue paint to it, making it look very smart. Sylvie and I then set about washing all the shells and pebbles in a bowl of water in the garden and laying them out in rows on an old towel so that we could choose our favourites. We were busily employed in this way when Mr Crompton came in through the garden gate. He came over to see what we were doing, and when I explained about the mirror, he clapped his hands together in delight. “How very artistic,” said he. “I’m sure it will look splendid!” At that moment, the adults emerged from the house to take tea in the garden and invited him to join them.

‘“This is not purely a social call,” said Crompton as he sat down at the table. “The fact is, I wondered if I could ask a small favour of you. I am going to see my sister, Ethel, in Nottingham tomorrow and shall be away for a couple of nights. My housekeeper will also be away, as I have given her a few days off to visit some relatives of hers in Boston. It’s annoying these two things coming together, but they were both arranged some weeks ago. At the time, it seemed the most sensible and convenient way of proceeding, but now all I can think of is that the house will be left completely unoccupied, and after the recent burglary at the rectory I am worried that someone will take the opportunity to break into High Grove. Of course, I’ve notified Constable Pilley that I shall be away and he will no doubt keep an eye on the house during the evening, but I thought that if you could perhaps walk over there once or twice and just sit in the garden for five minutes, that might be enough to put potential burglars off.”