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

‘The next day was fine, if a little breezy, and after Uncle Moreton had applied a second coat of varnish to the frame of the mirror, the four of us went for a long walk to a picturesque little babbling brook where we had a picnic and Sylvie and I did a little paddling and fishing with our nets. On our way back to The Highlands, Mr Hemming made a detour to Crompton’s house to see that everything was still all right there. When he rejoined us later, he reported that there had been no one about and everything had seemed to be in good order. It therefore came as a great surprise when, the following day, Mr Crompton himself arrived at our house early in the afternoon in a state of great agitation. Breathlessly, he told us what had happened. He had arrived back that morning with his sister, who was to stay with him for a few days, and had found that his house had been broken into while he had been away.

‘“But when I looked it over yesterday,” said Mr Hemming, “everything seemed all right. There was no sign of any of the windows having been forced, or anything of the sort.”

‘“They appear to have gained entry through a small pantry window,” said Crompton, “then wedged it shut again with a sliver of wood, no doubt to hide the fact that it had been forced open. My Roman coins have been stolen and, worse than that, they have dug up and stolen several of the tiles in the garden that were covered by the tarpaulin, including the one inscribed with the name of Tacitus.”

‘“Oh, no!” cried Uncle Moreton in dismay. “That is terrible! Have you informed Constable Pilley?”

‘“Of course. But I doubt it will do much good. I told him it is his job to prevent such things happening, but the useless, idle lie-abed just says he can’t be everywhere at once, as if that entirely exonerates him from any responsibility. He has sent for some kind of detective officer from Lincoln to look into the matter, but who knows when he will get here? In the old days, all the respectable people in a parish would band together to make sure that this sort of thing did not happen. Nowadays, we are so modern that we have our very own constable, so of course people just leave everything to him and don’t take any responsibility themselves. Well, I for one have had enough of this modern, irresponsible world. I’m going to do something about it!”

‘Crompton was not entirely specific about what he intended to do, but the general impression was that he hoped to persuade his neighbours to join him in patrolling the country lanes after dark. This seemed to me at first a wonderful idea, but that is because eleven-year-old boys rarely appreciate the practical difficulties inherent in such plans. In any case, it would only have been of any use if the lanes had been full of marauding bands of robbers every night, which even I could see was unlikely to be the case. Not long after Crompton had left, Constable Pilley called by to ask if we had observed anything the previous night which might cast light on what had happened, but we were unable to help him.

‘“Was anything else stolen, apart from the coins and the tiles?” Uncle Moreton asked.

‘The constable shook his head. “It’s clear the thieves knew what they were after. The two coins are more or less identical, I understand,’ he continued, consulting his note-book, “except that one is in better condition than the other. I am informed that each of them is a denarius from the reign of Hadrian, if that means anything to you gentlemen. Mr Crompton tells me that they are not especially valuable, as such things go, but even so, I reckon they would fetch a few bob somewhere, which would be enough to make it worth someone’s while to steal them. It’s the tiles that puzzle me more. I can’t see where they could be sold without it being obvious where they had come from.”

‘“I suppose some unscrupulous collector of such things might buy them and ask no questions as to their provenance,” Mr Hemming suggested.

‘“Or perhaps someone simply took them out of spite,” added Uncle Moreton; “someone who envied Mr Crompton’s good fortune in having them on his property.”

‘“Perhaps,” said Constable Pilley, closing up his note-book. “We shall have to wait and see what Inspector Tubby makes of it when he gets here. He should be here tomorrow morning.”

‘That evening was a very windy one, and I went to sleep to the sound of the trees in the garden creaking and groaning, as the gusting wind blew them this way and that. Some time in the night I awoke abruptly and lay there listening, as a variety of different nocturnal noises came to my ears. They might have been anything – a small animal scurrying about, perhaps, or a branch being blown down – but to one whose head was full of thoughts of burglars they sounded like nothing so much as the latch of the garden gate being lifted, followed by footsteps on the path. I leaned from my bed, pulled back the curtain and looked out, but the night was very dark and I could not see anything. For some time I lay awake, my senses straining to catch the slightest sound, but heard nothing more.

‘In the morning, as we were taking breakfast, the road outside seemed uncommonly busy and Uncle Moreton left the table to see what was happening. There had been the sound of vehicles passing and numerous voices. He did not return for nearly twenty minutes and when he did his face was grave.

‘“It’s a bad business,” he said in answer to Mr Hemming’s enquiring look. He glanced in our direction, then beckoned to Mr Hemming to join him in the hallway, which he did, closing the door behind him. Of course, Sylvie and I at once got down from the table and went to listen at the closed door. “It’s Mr Crompton,” we heard Uncle Moreton say in a low voice. “He’s been found dead in the road, not far from here. It seems he was clubbed to death, some time during the night.”

‘The next few days were strange ones. Crompton may have been only a slight acquaintance, but his death, and the dreadful circumstances surrounding it, cast a pall over our stay at The Highlands. Although Uncle Moreton and Mr Hemming did not discuss the matter openly in front of us, one way or another Sylvie and I learnt whatever there was to know about it, in the way children do. The facts of the matter, which were soon established, were as follows: after he had left our house, following his tirade against Constable Pilley and his declaration that he would take a personal stand against what he saw as the local lawlessness, Crompton had called upon those of his neighbours he considered might be agreeable to his ideas. Each had listened to his proposals, but had declined to participate, regarding Crompton’s scheme as, in the Reverend Beardsley’s words, “unlikely to achieve anything”. Undeterred by his neighbours’ lack of enthusiasm, however, Crompton had determined to press on alone with some kind of night-time patrol.

‘At half past ten that evening, just after his housekeeper had retired for the night, and as his sister was about to do so, Crompton had announced that he was going out on patrol. A brief altercation with his sister had ensued. She told him that it would not do any good, that he would only make himself appear ridiculous, but, undeterred, he left the house at about eleven o’clock, equipped with a small pocket lantern and with a life-preserver attached to his wrist by a loop of cord. That was the last time anyone saw him alive. His body was found the following morning by the boy who attended to Mr Stainforth’s pony, stretched out face down in the road near Stainforth’s house, his life-preserver still attached to his wrist. The back of his head had been crushed in by what appeared to have been a fearsome blow from a cudgel or some similar blunt and heavy weapon.