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

‘We walked on in silence for some time, until we came again to the grassy bank and sat down once more.

‘“There are two thoughts uppermost in my mind,” said Uncle Moreton. “First, with regard to Mr Crompton’s sad progress from local celebrity to violent death, I am reminded of an observation of Dr Johnson’s, in his commentary on one of Shakespeare’s plays, to the effect that ‘villainy has no natural stop; crimes generally lead on to other crimes, until, at last, they terminate in ruin’. Second, I am very sorry that we had to practise such a deceit upon Miss Crompton in that way. We had to know the truth, but I still feel ashamed of myself. It is clear she thought the world of her brother and I am sure she was right to do so. He was, in his own way, a fine and worthy man, for all that we have discovered about his dishonesty in this instance. Can you understand that, Sherlock?”

‘“I think so,” I replied; but young people are harsher judges of ethical questions than their elders, and I did not at that moment fully share my relative’s estimate of Crompton’s worthiness.

‘“I therefore think that we – and Sylvie – should keep what we know to ourselves. The man is dead now and no purpose can be served by sullying his memory.”

‘“But it may be,” I argued, “that Michael Shaxby or someone else will be charged with his murder.”

‘“If that were to happen, we would of course tell all that we have discovered. I will keep a close eye on the matter, but if no one else is accused of the crimes, I will say nothing and you must do the same.” Uncle Moreton glanced at me, as if to read my thoughts from my features. “We would not wish to inflict further pain upon his sister unnecessarily, Sherlock. The pursuit of truth may be the highest intellectual aim that man can aspire to, but sometimes knowledge of the truth must be sufficient reward in and of itself, and nothing further is to be gained by publishing one’s knowledge.”

‘The weather began to deteriorate as our holiday drew to a close, and for two days the rain was so heavy that we were scarcely able to leave the house. Then, at the end of the week, with all our trunks and bags packed, we caught the London train at Alford. We were met at King’s Cross station, where the crowds, the bustle and the noise seemed a world away from the emptiness and quiet of the Wolds. We had said our goodbyes – for we were all going off in different directions – when I saw Sylvie say something to Aunt Phyllis and a moment later she ran over to me with a small brown-paper parcel in her hand. She partly unwrapped it and I saw that it was this mirror.

‘“This is for you,” said she in an abrupt, embarrassed tone, pushing the mirror into my hands. I protested that I could not possibly accept it – she, after all, had been much more responsible both for its design and for its execution – but she insisted. Then she leaned very close to me and whispered something in my ear, but at that moment a nearby locomotive let out a piercing blast on its whistle and I did not catch what she said. Whether it was something about herself or about me, about the mirror or even about Mr Crompton, I could not tell, and before I could ask her to repeat it, she had dashed back to her parents and they had left the station. Later, I discovered she had written her name on the back of the mirror.’

My friend turned the mirror over and I saw the name ‘Sylvie’ written in large letters, in pencil, across the back.

‘Unlike the inscription on Crompton’s tile, this one at least is authentic,’ said Holmes in a dry tone, ‘and this mirror is all that remains of that holiday long ago. And now, Watson,’ he continued, ‘as we sit here discussing these ancient events, we must presume that East Thrigby continues much the same as ever it did. No doubt the winds still whip the grass upon the sand dunes by the sea and bring heavy downpours to the villages of the Wolds. No doubt, too, the country folk go about their business in their old, unhurried way, the rabbits still play in the meadows, the brooks still babble on and the drama of what happened all those years ago is all but forgotten. And you and I, my dear fellow, are now the only people alive who know the true facts of the East Thrigby Mystery.’

‘Democritus or Heraclitus?’ said Sherlock Holmes in a thoughtful tone. ‘For which of them should we cast our vote?’

It was a fine day in the early spring. My companion having no urgent call upon his time, I had managed to prevail upon him to rise from the couch upon which he had spent most of the previous day, and take a walk with me about the bustling streets. For several hours we had ambled, from the West End, by way of the Strand to the City, with many a detour into curious old alleyways and odd, hidden courtyards, all of which yielded points of interest to my friend’s keen powers of observation and inference. At length we found ourselves upon the steps of the Royal Exchange, at the very hub of the City, and stood there for some time, watching in fascination the ceaseless and ever-changing flow of humanity passing back and forth along the streets that radiate like the spokes of a wheel from the Bank of England.

‘It was a point of dispute among the ancient Greeks, as you no doubt recall,’ continued my friend, a note of humour in his voice, ‘whether the world we see about us is composed of many quite separate atoms, as was argued by Democritus, or is in reality, despite appearances to the contrary, all one, as Heraclitus urged. Now, you and I may have a strong predisposition to regard these people who are passing before us now as perfectly distinct individuals, but, you must admit that, in the mass, they bear more than a passing resemblance to mere waves, like the waves of the sea, which come and go upon the shore!’

‘That can scarcely be denied; although I doubt if they themselves would thank you for the observation.’

My friend laughed, in that odd, noiseless way which was peculiar to him.

‘Perhaps not,’ he conceded. ‘We stand now,’ he continued after a moment, ‘at the very centre of the greatest city since Byzantium was in its pomp, perhaps the greatest city there has ever been upon the face of the earth. Millions jostle past us, each pursuing his own ends, and yet each, too, playing his part in the whole. Every one of them is connected in a thousand hidden ways with the others, making unseen and unimaginable patterns of action and influence all about us. And yet, were we to rise up from where we now stand, float above this scene of tremendous activity, and observe it from on high, it would resemble nothing so much as a bee’s nest. The thousands of comings and goings, which appear so random to us now, would be seen from afar to form the sort of intricate, rational patterns which one may observe in a hive of bees.’

‘It is certainly a busy scene,’ I remarked, smiling.

‘Indeed; save for two gentlemen standing idly upon the steps of the Royal Exchange!’ said he, consulting his watch. ‘This walk has been splendid exercise for the body,’ he continued in a brisk tone; ‘but my brain cries out for stimulation, Watson! Let us return now to Baker Street, and see if any of these busy bees has called to seek our services. It is possible, for we have been out for three hours. As I have frequently observed, there is nothing more likely to stimulate a client to call than to leave the house for a while!’

I laughed. ‘I am surprised at your embracing such an irrational and illogical precept, Holmes! In another, I should term it superstition!’

‘I cannot wonder at your regarding it in that light, Watson,’ said he with a chuckle. ‘But before you convict me of a woeful lapse from that strictly scientific mode of thought which I hold so dear, I would point out: a) that there is no logically valid method by which I can prompt a client to call, and thus any method, however illogical, is as good as any other; and b) that, in any case, as the old adage has it, life is greater than logic!’