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

A walk of ten minutes brought us to the Star and Garter. A garden at the rear was set out with tables and chairs, and dotted about with pots of geraniums and petunias. It was indeed a pleasant spot. The mellow evening sun cast its warm light upon us and I was glad to be out of doors on such a lovely evening. As for my misgivings, they proved quite unfounded, for my companion soon showed himself an engaging narrator and his story was indeed one of the very oddest to come my way.

‘Before I tell you of my recent experience,’ he began, ‘I must first tell you something of my early life, for it has a decided bearing on the matter.’ He opened his eyes wide and raised his eyebrows quizzically, I murmured some encouragement and he continued.

‘I am not a Londoner by birth, although I dare say you would not guess it to hear me speak now. I was born and raised in Preston, in Lancashire, the county of the red rose. However, this is not especially important. What is important is that I received my preparatory education at Whalley Abbey School, not far from my birthplace. Have you ever heard of the Bowland Forest, Dr Watson, or of Pendle Hill? They are high, wild and exposed regions, such as one can hardly imagine when seated here in the soft lowlands of the Thames.’

‘That is where your school was situated, then?’

‘Indeed it was, and a more remote and inhospitable situation you could not conceive! I was never very happy at the school – I cannot think that anyone was – and was not sorry when I left, at the age of thirteen. That was twenty-two years ago. I went on to a school at Clitheroe, the only one of my form to do so. My classmates proceeded to various other schools, in different parts of the country, and I did not keep up with any of them, although one or two had been my friends.

‘The intervening years of my life, up until the recent events, are not especially relevant: I grew up, received an education which consisted largely of learning how to conjugate Latin verbs and decline Latin nouns, and came to work in London. I had always had something of a talent for figures and this enabled me to find myself a suitable berth in the City, with the stockbroking firm of Persquith and Moran, where a talent for adding and subtracting is of somewhat greater value than an ability to entertain those around you with hilarious remarks in Latin. The few friends I have in London are fellow members of my club, where I generally dine in the evenings, the Lancashire and Yorkshire in St James’s Square. It has nothing to do with the railway of the same name,’ added my companion quickly with a broad smile, as if he were used to correcting the misapprehension, or were glad, at least, of the opportunity to unburden himself of a long-cherished witticism for which he had not previously been able to find an audience. ‘It is, rather, a haven for those from the north of England, where we can meet and discuss the things which are of interest to us. London can be a very lonely place for those who are strangers here, Doctor.’

‘I am well aware of it, from personal experience,’ I responded. ‘I am no more from these parts than you are.’

‘Indeed? Then that is something else we have in common. Now, to come to the crux of the matter: about a week ago I was obliged to travel down to Kent to see old Mr Persquith, the head of our firm. He has practically retired, and no longer takes an active part in the business, but wishes still to be advised of any important developments which might affect our standing. With this trouble over the Argentine Southern Railway about to reach a crisis – as I’m sure you’ve read – I was sent down to inform him of the firm’s present position in the matter. As is his wont, he kept me talking for hours, and then, just as his servant sounded the dinner-gong, declared that he was satisfied with my information and that I could go. I thus found myself, after a fair walk down a dark road, tired and hungry, in an ill-lit waiting-room upon the platform of Little Wickling Halt, which is on the line between Maidstone and Ashford.

‘It is a lonely spot, for the station is remote from any houses and is little frequented. It lies down in a cutting, so that there is nothing to be seen from the waiting-room window but the railway track, the empty platforms and the bare embankments which rise up on either side of the line. There was no one else about and I had fallen into a brown study, the essential subject of which was my own sad plight and empty stomach, when out of the corner of my eye I saw a pale blur appear at the window. I looked up sharply and there behind the dirt-smeared pane was a man’s face, staring in at me, with a look as rigid as a basilisk. My scalp prickled, and for several seconds this apparition and I stared at each other without moving. So still was it that I began to think I was suffering an hallucination. I therefore shut my eyes for a moment, to see if this would drive away the vision. When I opened them again, the face had indeed gone and the window framed nothing but blackness.

‘“Well, I never did!” I cried aloud. “Whoever would have thought it!” I began to speculate as to what could have caused the hallucination and had just concluded that the responsibility lay with the toasted cheese I had had for lunch, when the door abruptly opened and a man walked briskly into the room.

‘“Hallo!” said I in surprise, rising quickly to my feet.

‘“Good evening,” returned the newcomer, sitting himself down without further ceremony. He was a gentleman of about my own age, tall, slim and well-groomed, with dark hair and moustache

‘We sat in silence for some time. To speak frankly, I felt rather foolish at having spoken aloud to myself and deemed it best to preserve silent dignity. Abruptly, however, my companion broke the silence in the most startling manner.

‘“Whalley boys forever!” cried he suddenly in a loud voice, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. “I thought as much,” he continued, eyeing me with a smile. “Unless I am very much mistaken, you are Herbert, the boy with the broken desk. You were in Dr Jessop’s class when I was in old Newsome’s. Do you remember Dr Jessop? –‘Stop squirming in your seat, boy! Or I’ll give you something to squirm about!’ ” ’

‘“My goodness!” I cried in surprise, laughing at his imitation of the old schoolmaster. “You have an excellent memory! My own, I am afraid, is not so good. Your face, now I look at it, is vaguely familiar, but I fear I cannot recall a name to go with it.”

‘He regarded me with an inscrutable expression for a moment, and then smiled.

‘“I very much regret,” said he, “that I made less of an impression upon your memory than you did upon mine. You do not recall Stephen Hollingworth?”

‘“Why, bless my soul!” said I. “Stephen Hollingworth! I recall the name, of course, now that you mention it. Well, well, well! Who would have thought it!”

‘We shook hands warmly, and entered at once into a deep conversation. As might be expected, this largely consisted of reminiscences of our days at Whalley Abbey School, which would be of no interest whatever to anyone else, but at that moment constituted the most interesting subject on earth to us. He asked me how I came to be in the middle of Kent at such an hour and I described the business which had taken me down there.

‘“What rotten luck!” cried he, when I told him of the lack of sustenance from which I was suffering. “There I have the advantage of you, Herbert! My family live at Wickling Place, which you probably passed if you walked down the road, and I dined before I left.” He rummaged in his pocket for a moment. “I am afraid I can offer you nothing better than a mint humbug,” said he at last.

‘“I usually dine at the Lancashire and Yorkshire Club,” I remarked, taking the proffered sweetmeat. “You are not a member, by any chance?”