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

‘“I’m sure we’d be delighted to,” said Mr Hemming.

‘By the time we had finished tea, the paint on the mirror-frame had dried, and Sylvie, Aunt Phyllis and I began to position the shells and pebbles to best effect, fixing each in position with a blob of glue. Percival took no part in this. He had developed a persistent cough since our return from the coast, which got worse during the course of the evening, and by bedtime he really seemed quite ill. I was moved out of the bedroom he and I had previously shared into the spare bed in Sylvie’s room, but all night I could hear him coughing and wheezing, and the sound of his mother’s footsteps going back and forth on the landing outside the room. In the morning it was clear that neither Percival nor his parents had slept much during the night, and after a heated discussion in which Mrs Hemming berated her husband for subjecting Percival to the cold winds at the seaside, she decided that she would take him up to London without delay, to consult the specialist who had treated him for some similar ailment the year before. Aunt Phyllis said she would go with her for company and, after a hurried breakfast, the pony and trap were brought round and we all set off for the station at Alford, with poor Percival wrapped up in a blanket.

‘When the London train had left, Uncle Moreton, Mr Hemming, Sylvie and I sat for a few moments in silence in the trap. Everything seemed to have happened in such a rush, including catching the train, which had been achieved with only a minute or two to spare, that I think we all needed a little while to catch our breath and order our thoughts. “I think,” said Uncle Moreton at length, “that we perhaps won’t go straight back to The Highlands, but will first make a little trip to Louth and take lunch there. I have been observing you playing in the garden, Sylvie, and it seems to me that – whatever anyone else may think – you would really like nothing better than to climb up that big tree with young Sherlock here. I thought as much,” he continued with a chuckle as she nodded her head. “In that case we must provide you with a proper tree-climbing outfit!” Once we reached Louth it did not take long to find a suitable outfitters and Sylvie was soon “fully equipped”, as Uncle Moreton described it, with corduroy breeches and a linen shirt.

‘Upon our return to The Highlands, she and I at once set about climbing up the big tree from which I had watched Mr Crompton and “the sinister stranger”. To begin with, I had to help her, but, to tell the truth, she soon proved herself every bit as accomplished at climbing as I considered myself to be. By leaning out in what seemed to me a very daring way, past a clump of little branches, she succeeded in climbing even higher than I had previously managed. I followed her example and we found ourselves a very comfortable perch from which we could survey the countryside for miles around. As we sat there, commenting on the different colours of the many fields we could see and the little cottages far in the distance, a horse and cart came into view, trundling at an easy pace along a nearby lane. On the seat was Mr Pigge and another man, whom I recognised after a moment as Michael Shaxby. To see a highly respected local farmer consorting with the young man I had been told was the local ne’er-do-well was certainly a surprise.

‘“Perhaps old Pigge has offered him a job, to keep him out of mischief,” suggested Sylvie. “Mama is always saying ‘the devil finds work for idle hands’.”

‘At that moment we heard Uncle Moreton calling to us from somewhere in the garden, to tell us that tea was ready, so we descended quickly from our lofty perch, which gave him something of a surprise. “I had no idea you were up there,” said he. “I hope you don’t end up in the clouds!”

‘After tea, Uncle Moreton applied a coat of varnish to the frame of the mirror, shells and all, to seal it and give it a glossy shine, as Aunt Phyllis had instructed him that morning. While he was doing that, Mr Hemming said he would stroll over to Crompton’s house, to look it over, as he had promised we would. When he returned, some fifty minutes later, Sylvie and I were in our den by the gate, bringing our note-books up to date, and Uncle Moreton was sitting nearby, smoking his pipe.

‘“You will never guess who I met, prying about in Crompton’s garden and peering through his windows,” said Mr Hemming to Uncle Moreton, as he came in at the gate: “just about the last person in the world I should have expected to see in such a rural backwater as this: John Clashbury Staunton. I’m sure I must have mentioned his name to you at some time. He and I were up at Cambridge together, and everyone knew him as one of the most brilliant undergraduates that the old university had ever seen. Unfortunately, his character was not quite as elevated as his intellect.”

‘“What do you mean?” asked Uncle Moreton.

‘“He was always very off-hand and rude in his manner, and had a knack of falling out with almost everyone he met. On top of that, he had an obsessive belief that people were spying on him all the time, trying to steal both his belongings and his ideas. He and I had been great friends during our early days at college, but fell out badly later.”

‘“Why was that?”

‘“He accused me of stealing something from his room. Absurd, of course, but I wasn’t the only one he accused in that way. It was ironic, then, that the only person who was ever actually caught prying in other people’s rooms was Staunton himself, for which he came close to being sent down. However, he managed to talk his way out of that particular difficulty, did brilliantly in his examinations and went on to become a successful classical scholar, in demand not only at Cambridge but everywhere that scholarship was valued. You might imagine from this that his future life was set fair, but trouble seems to have followed him around wherever he went. From what I’ve heard, he has managed to quarrel with practically every other scholar in his field, accusing more than one of them of stealing his ideas. Then there was the business with his wife and the dark rumours that were circulating when she abruptly disappeared. But wait a moment,” said Mr Hemming, breaking off, stepping to the gate and leaning out into the lane. “Staunton said that he would call on us later. Yes, he’s coming now. Look,” he continued, turning once more to Uncle Moreton, “I haven’t got time to explain, but whatever you do, don’t mention his wife. Do you understand?”

‘“Why, certainly,” replied Uncle Moreton in a tone of surprise.

‘A few moments later, Mr Clashbury Staunton arrived at the gate, and to my great surprise I saw it was the man that Sylvie and I had called “the sinister stranger”. With him was the boy I had seen previously. Uncle Moreton called to us and as we emerged from under the laurustinus, he looked, I thought, a little uncomfortable, as if he had not realised that we were so close and would probably have overheard his conversation with Mr Hemming. We were introduced to the newcomers, and Uncle Moreton asked if the boy – whose name was Adrian – would like to be shown round the garden.

‘“I’m sure he would,” replied Staunton, answering for the boy in a deep, sepulchral voice. “Go and play with Sherlock and Sylvie, Adrian.” Sylvie and I conducted this boy to what we considered the most interesting corners of the grounds, including our den beneath the laurustinus, but nothing seemed to fire his enthusiasm and throughout the whole time he spoke scarcely a single audible word. Presently we were summoned back to where the men were sitting, and shortly afterwards Staunton and his son left. Now, Watson, I must confess to a shameful secret. I have not very often been an eavesdropper, but on that particular occasion I was consumed with curiosity to learn what it was about Staunton’s wife that had caused Mr Hemming to warn Uncle Moreton against mentioning her, and I therefore went out of my way to listen in upon some of their conversation later in the evening. Much of it was irrelevant, some of it I could not understand, but the gist, as far as I could make it out, was that it was general knowledge that Staunton had treated his wife very badly, and when she disappeared one day without any explanation, rumours had soon arisen that he had murdered her and hidden her body somewhere. These rumours grew – as rumours tend to – until the police began to take an interest and interviewed Staunton on the matter. Eventually, several weeks later, the truth came out: deciding that she could no longer live under the same roof as her husband, Mrs Staunton had simply packed a bag one day when he and the boy were out of the house, and, with the assistance of an old friend in London, had taken herself off somewhere. When this became generally known, it caused an enormous scandal in the society in which they moved, and Staunton himself suffered a complete nervous collapse over the matter and spent several weeks in a sanatorium. Upon his partial recovery, he had been granted a prolonged leave of absence from his duties in Cambridge, whereupon he had taken a remote house in the Lincolnshire Wolds and lived there in solitude with his son. They had been there about eighteen months at the time of our visit.