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

‘“Loxton!” I called. “Loxton! Wake up, you idiot!” Again I banged on the door without eliciting any response.

‘“Break the door down,” called Warnock from his bedroom. “You’ll never wake him otherwise!”

‘I threw all my weight against the door, but it did no good. I then kicked violently at the lock and, on the third attempt, with a splintering of wood, the door burst open. I dashed into the room, shouting as I did so. I could feel heat rising from the bare wooden floor.

‘“Loxton!” I cried. “Loxton! Wake up!”

‘I had bent to the figure on the bed and started to shake him by the shoulder when there came a loud voice from behind me.

‘“What the devil is all this racket, Ashby? And why are you bellowing my name over and over?”

‘I turned in astonishment. Loxton was standing in the doorway. “What is all this?” he asked. “What’s going on?”

‘“But if you’re there,” I said, “who on earth is this?” I pulled back the bed-cover and stepped back in horror at what was revealed: an older man, his mouth agape, his sightless eyes staring at the wall. “This man is dead,” I cried.

‘“Who is it?” cried the others, crowding into the room.

‘“I’ve no idea. I’ve never seen him before. We’ve got to get him out of here. This floor is hot. The fire must be directly beneath it.”

‘I flung on my clothes in a trice, as did the others, and between us we carried the dead man out on to the lawn behind the house. Warnock took a look into a couple of the downstairs rooms and told us it was hopeless; the fire was blazing like a furnace. I told them that Churchfield had gone to rouse the fire-brigade, and as we were standing there on the lawn, wondering what on earth we should do, the local constable arrived in a great hurry and took charge of the situation. The rest I imagine you know.’

‘Has anyone identified the dead man yet?’ Holmes asked Inspector Welch, who shook his head. ‘Any sign of Churchfield – dead or alive?’

Again the policeman shook his head. ‘No one knows what it was that Churchfield wanted to get out of the house, but I think, as Mr Ashby says, that the poor devil may have been overcome by the smoke and heat. Once fires like that catch hold they can spread like lightning, and the constable says that it was already a raging inferno when he got here.’

Welch then suggested that Lestrade view the body of the dead man, which was at the police station, just a short walk away. Holmes went with them while I stayed with the young men in the Black Bull. They returned about five minutes later and I asked Holmes if he had learnt anything.

‘Death was undoubtedly caused by a severe blow to the back of the head, some time in the past twenty-four hours,’ said he, ‘but of course it’s impossible to say if the blow was the result of an accident or a deliberate attack. There’s nothing in his pockets which might serve to identify him, but I found a small name-tag just below the collar inside his shirt, which bears the name “T. Wilkinson”. There is also the return half of a ticket from Paddington to Bourne End in a pocket of his waistcoat. Inspector Lestrade has therefore sent a message to all London divisions, enquiring if anyone by the name of Wilkinson has been reported as missing there. And now,’ he continued, addressing the policemen, ‘I should like to examine the scene of this drama, at Challington House.’

‘You’ll not learn anything there,’ said Inspector Welch in a dismissive tone, ‘except how quickly a large house can be utterly destroyed by fire.’

‘Well, well. Let us not prejudge the matter,’ returned Holmes, as we left the inn, accompanied by young Ashby.

A walk of seven or eight minutes brought us to the gateway of Challington House. A broad drive swept up to the front door of what must have been a very large house, but was now just a blackened shell. Smoke still drifted up from somewhere within this ruin, but it appeared that the fire had all but burnt itself out.

‘You see?’ said Welch. ‘The house is completely destroyed. There is nothing to be seen here.’

‘It was not the house I wished to inspect,’ returned Holmes, leading the way along the side of the smouldering ruin and into the large rear gardens, which sloped down gently towards the river. There, after a swift glance round, he made his way down to the boathouse at the end of the garden, pushed open the door and we followed him inside. It was a gloomy, shaded building. Most of it was taken up with space for mooring boats, but there was a broad flagged area at the back, upon which ropes, spars and general clutter were heaped. Against the rear wall was a work-bench on which a painting of a young lady stood, as Ashby had described. Along the side-wall was a footway made of wooden boards which extended to the front of the building.

‘This, I take it, is your cousin’s boat,’ said Holmes to Ashby, indicating a small sailing-dinghy, moored to a ring on the footway. ‘When you arrived on Friday evening, there was, you said, another small boat here, but now there is not.’

‘Yes, that is strange,’ remarked Ashby. ‘Where can it have gone?’

Holmes did not reply, but walked to the very end of the footway and looked out on to the river. ‘You also mentioned that there was a very large houseboat anchored in midstream with which you collided in the dark. That, too, is no longer present. Do you know if it was here on Saturday morning?’

‘Yes, it was. I put my head in here briefly before setting off to catch the train to London, to make sure that my boat was tied up properly, and I remember noticing then that the houseboat was still there.’

‘That is as I suspected. You know something of boats?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you believe that such a vessel as the houseboat might be able to venture out on to the high seas?’

‘I cannot be certain, but I think it might well be possible. It would depend on what sort of keel the boat has, and how rough the sea was, of course.’

‘When you clambered from your boat on Friday evening, you must have been standing about here,’ Holmes continued, ‘but there is nothing hanging up here on which you might have struck your head. What I believe happened is this: they probably heard you collide with the houseboat and the sound of your oars in the water. One of them walked to the end of this footway, to see what was happening. You would have passed him in the dark and had no idea he was there, so that when you tied up your boat and climbed out, he would have been standing behind you. When you struck the match and saw the young woman over there, near the back wall, the person behind you struck you on the head with something. It was probably this!’ Holmes added, as he bent down and picked up a short length of wood which was lying on the footway, by the wall.

‘But who were these people?’ asked Ashby in puzzlement.

‘The Churchfields. Surely that is apparent.’

‘The Churchfields? But they are travelling on the Continent.’

‘I very much doubt that they were doing so before, but I believe that that is their aim now. Do you know if they have any property abroad?’

‘Yes. I believe they have a house in the south of France.’

‘Then that is where they are probably making for. Their intention is no doubt to cross the channel in the houseboat and enter the French canal system, getting as far south as they can that way and completing their journey by train if necessary.’

‘This is absurd!’ cried Inspector Welch. ‘You make it sound as if they are running away!’

‘That, I believe, is precisely what they are doing.’

‘But the Churchfield family is one of the most respected in the district, one of the pillars of South Buckinghamshire society. Sir Lionel Churchfield is a local Justice of the Peace, and has been spoken of as a future Lord Mayor of London!’