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

‘“Pardon me,” said I, “but I regret that you have been misinformed. I have no wish to sell this house. On the contrary, my wife and I have recently resolved to make it our permanent abode.”

‘“What!” cried he, springing up as if galvanised. “Can this be true? Do you mean to tell me that I have come all this way, in this foul weather, and have turned my ankle over in the lane, simply to have my offer thrown back in my face, and be dismissed without a minute’s consideration!”

‘“I regret the weather,” said I, feeling a little uncomfortable, “although it is scarcely my fault. Nor is it my fault that you have been misinformed. Might I enquire the name of the agent who told you that Juniper Cottage might be up for sale?”

‘He ran his fingers through his damp hair, and sat back down, a look of the most utter disappointment upon his features.

‘“It was not an agent,” said he at length. “It was a very knowledgeable man I met at the inn down the road, the Rose and Crown.”

‘Mr Pleasant explained that he was a commercial traveller for a stationery company, and having been a frequent visitor to the Woolwich area, considered that it would be an agreeable spot in which to live. He had mentioned this fact to a chance acquaintance at the Rose and Crown, who had informed him that Juniper Cottage was about to be put up for sale.

‘“He is a large, loud man, with a grey beard down to here,” said Pleasant, holding his hand halfway down his waistcoat front. “I dare say you know him well, Mr Potter.”

‘“I have never seen such a man,” I responded.

‘“That is odd, for he certainly knows all about you, or about your house, at any rate,” insisted our visitor, in a tone which seemed to imply that I was lying to him. “He informed me that you were desperate to sell, as you wished to move immediately.” He paused. “I could make you a very handsome offer,” he added after a moment.

‘“The house is not for sale, and that is final,” said I, in an emphatic tone.

‘“Very well,” said Pleasant, nodding his head. “I shall not mention it again, Mr Potter.”

‘It was still pouring with rain, and the wind sounded even more violent than ever, so I threw more wood on to the fire, my wife made a pot of tea, and we sat for a long time in conversation. Our visitor was amiable enough, once he had dropped the subject of the cottage, and our talk rambled hither and thither in an agreeable fashion. He had been to the theatre the previous evening, he informed us, to hear Jenny Beach sing her latest song, “A Teardrop on a Rose”, and he entertained us for some time with an account of this, and other similar anecdotes.

‘The evening wore on, but the storm did not abate. Eventually, it was time for bed, but the storm was as loud and violent as ever. It appeared, as our visitor observed, to have set in for the night. I could not possibly turn him out in such weather, stranger though he was, especially as he had mentioned that his sprained ankle was beginning to ache badly. I therefore offered him a shakedown on the couch, which he accepted gratefully, apologising profusely for putting us to trouble. My wife found a couple of blankets for him, and there, in the little sitting-room, we left him for the night.

‘Some time later, I was awakened from sleep by what I thought was distant thunder. But as I lay awake in the dark, I heard the same low, rumbling noise again, and I realised that it came from downstairs. For a moment I felt in a panic, and thought we must have burglars, then I recollected our visitor, and sighed with relief. Evidently he had moved a chair, or some other piece of furniture, to make himself more comfortable. I was just dropping off to sleep again, however, when I heard more quiet noises from below, the scraping of a table leg upon the floor, the opening and closing of a cupboard-door, and so on. I could not conceive what he was doing, but as the noises presently ceased, I did not think the matter worth getting out of bed for.

‘In the morning I tapped on the door of the sitting-room and pushed it open. There appeared to be no one there, and for a moment I thought that Mr Pleasant had already left us. Then I saw that he was crouching down on the floor, peering under a bureau. He sprang up when I addressed him, and explained that he had dropped a coin, which had rolled under the bureau. “It doesn’t matter,” said he: “it’s only a halfpenny.” He accompanied me to the dining-room for a little breakfast, but as we left the sitting-room I observed that some of the pictures on the walls were hanging crookedly, and I could not help but wonder again what our strange visitor had been doing during the night. Whatever it was, it had evidently not affected the recuperation of his sprained ankle, which appeared to have mended completely overnight.

‘I was a little late – as a result, no doubt, of my disturbed night – and had to hurry off to the railway station, leaving Mr Pleasant to linger over his boiled egg. On the way down the lane, however, I chanced to meet our neighbour, Major Loxley, who had been out early to buy a newspaper. I explained to him about our visitor, and asked him if he would look in at Juniper Cottage, in case my wife was concerned about the presence of a stranger there. This he agreed to do.

‘When I arrived home that evening, my wife informed me that Major Loxley had called, as I had requested, but that while she was speaking to him at the front door, Mr Pleasant had disappeared from the dining-room. They had found him in the study, looking through the volumes in the bookshelves. My wife says he appeared a little discomfited at being discovered there. Several of the books were out of the shelves and stacked upon the floor, and, as they entered, he was rapidly turning over the pages of an antique copy of the Old Testament.

‘“Pardon my boldness,” said he; “but having put my head into this room by mistake, I could not resist having a look through this fine collection of books.”

‘“You might have asked permission,” said Loxley, in a tone of censure; but as the other was profuse in his apologies he did not press the matter further. Shortly afterwards, Mr Pleasant left.’

‘Do you know if Major Loxley knows of the man with the beard that your visitor claimed to have met at the local inn?’ queried Holmes.

‘I put that very question to him when I called round to see him, on the evening of the following day. He said he knew of no one in the district who could be described as “large and loud” and with a long grey beard, and we could only conclude that Mr Pleasant had lied to me. Bearing that in mind, and also the forced entry which had occurred before we moved into Juniper Cottage, I began to speculate as to whether my late uncle might have had objects of value in the house of which I was unaware. Loxley, however, thought not.

‘“Major Ullathorne picked up many odd curios in the course of his travels,” said he, “but none, so far as I am aware, of any great value.” He did think, however, that some of the books might fetch a few pounds. “The Old Testament that was interesting your visitor, for instance,” he continued. “I happened to notice that it was once the property of J. Hardiman Smallbone, and was signed by him, which probably makes it of some value.”

‘My features must have betrayed my puzzlement, for he quickly explained that this man Smallbone had been a local parson in the latter half of the last century, whose fiery and impassioned sermons had brought him celebrity throughout north-west Kent. Any volume which had been part of his own private library would have great value for his admirers and possibly also for the County Archive. Major Loxley considered that it might be worth my while to have some of the older books valued, and recommended a book-dealer in Woolwich, by the name of Vidler. As I was keen to dispose of some of my uncle’s possessions, in order to make a little more space in the cottage for our own belongings, I took up his suggestion, and we arranged to take a box of books down to Vidler’s shop the following afternoon, which was Saturday.