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

‘I was a little taken aback at this. I had not expected him to ask for so large a sum.

‘“I do not carry such an amount on me,” I said, “and my bank will be closed now. I could get it for you tomorrow. Come to that, if you write me out a cheque, I could get money from your own bank for you tomorrow.”

‘His face clouded over and he gripped his chin with his hand. “I must have it tonight,” said he in a tone of desperation. “Tomorrow may be too late. I don’t know what I shall do.” He stood up and began to pace to and fro across the hallway, his chin sunk on his breast.

‘“I have it!” said I. “I can probably obtain that amount from the club secretary. I am well known here, and there should be no difficulty.”

‘“Are you sure?” said he, ceasing his pacing. “I should not want to cause you any inconvenience, Herbert. Lord knows! You’re doing enough for me as it is!”

‘“It will be no trouble,” I assured him. “If you will wait here a moment, I will see the secretary now.”

‘In a few minutes I was back with the money, in a mixture of gold and notes. He took it from me and clutched my hand as he did so. “You are a true friend,” said he with great feeling. “I will write you out an IOU at once.” I told him that that would not be necessary, that his word was a good enough bond for me, but he insisted on the correct form, as he put it. “Is there a back door to this building?” he enquired as he finished writing the note; “I may have been seen as I entered.”

‘I took him down to the basement and along the passage by the kitchens, to a door which gives on to a small courtyard at the rear of the building.

‘“I have been a member here for many years,” I remarked, “and know the place like the back of my hand.”

‘“A lucky thing for me that you do!” returned my friend with a smile. “I don’t know what I ever should have done without you, Herbert!”

‘We shook hands warmly in the yard, then he slipped out through the back gate and was gone, his footsteps hurrying away on the cobbles. That night I took his valise home with me when I left the club and hid it in a box beneath my bed. That was exactly a week ago. For the first few days I could scarcely sleep, such was my state of excitement. Every hour I have expected to hear something fresh on the matter. Each time I have left the house I have looked carefully this way and that, to see if any stranger were loitering about and I have taken particular care to see that I was not followed. So far, however, nothing untoward has happened.’

‘It is a curious tale,’ I remarked as my companion paused. ‘You asked for my opinion, Mr Herbert, but I am afraid I have no sensible observation to offer on the matter! I can certainly understand why you described it as an oddity!’

‘Ah! But the oddest part is still to be told!’

‘I understood you to say that nothing further had occurred since this day last week.’

‘That is true. Nothing has occurred, exactly; but, still, something has changed.’

‘I do not follow you.’

‘Two nights ago, I woke suddenly from a deep sleep. What I had been dreaming of, I do not know, but it may have been my early school-days, for that is what I found myself thinking of, as I lay there in the darkness. I let the train of thought lead me where it would, and scenes from my days at Whalley Abbey School sprang vividly to my mind. I seemed to see them re-enacted before me, as it were. There were the companions of my youth, acting and speaking as they had acted and spoken a quarter of a century ago, boys whose names and faces had scarcely crossed my mind in all the intervening years. There was that fat boy from Manchester, Albert Ormadone; there was that thin, feeble lad, Wellington Worsley, the class sneak, as I recall; then a dark-haired Scottish boy was speaking, with an accent as thick as your arm, and I recognised Hector Greig. He came from a village by the name of Tillytoghills, I recall, and was teased unmercifully in consequence, although it was scarcely his fault that it sounded such a silly name to our schoolboy ears. And then, into the classroom came Stephen Hollingworth. I recognised at once his wavy, light-brown hair. In a trice I was fully awake, as if a bolt of electricity had shot right through me. For it was at once obvious to me that the schoolboy I remembered and the man I had met at Little Wickling station were not one and the same person. The latter’s hair is of a darker brown and not so wavy.’

‘Perhaps he uses hair-oil, which might give his hair a darker appearance,’ I suggested, but Mr Herbert shook his head emphatically.

‘No, no; he is quite different, in all those thousand little ways which one can see easily enough, but cannot quite put one’s finger on. Whoever my recent acquaintance is, he is certainly not Stephen Hollingworth.’

‘Are you certain?’ I cried in amazement.

‘As certain as I am that I am sitting here with you in the Star and Garter.’

‘Then who is he and why on earth should he pretend to be someone else?’

‘That is what I should like to know. It is something of a puzzle, isn’t it!’

‘All that rigmarole about his family’s honour, and all the rest of it, must be just so much humbug, then,’ I remarked after a moment, ‘if it is not even really his family at all!’

‘So it would appear. Of course, as he recognised me, and recalled the boys I was at school with, he himself must have been at Whalley Abbey School; but who he is, I have no idea. I await with interest his message, for I have heard nothing from him since I saw him at the Lancashire and Yorkshire last week, and I cannot imagine what it all means. Yesterday I walked past his house, but I decided against ringing his bell. I thought I would not force the matter, but would give him a few more days’ grace, before I insist on knowing what is afoot. I am somewhat uneasy about my fifty pounds.’

‘That is very understandable. So should I be, in your position. I wonder what is in the leather bag?’

Herbert shook his head. ‘I have not the faintest notion,’ said he. ‘It is securely locked.’

Still discussing the matter, we left the Star and Garter then, and began to make our way back towards Paddington. The sun was lower now and cast long shadows across the street, but the air was still warm. In and out of the trees in front of the houses flew little sparrows and finches, chirruping their lively songs, while high above us swallows and martins swooped and soared. It was indeed a lovely evening to be abroad and strolling in the street. But the very commonplace and pleasant appearance of our surroundings made Mr Herbert’s puzzling experiences seem all the more incredible. In truth, I should probably have been inclined to dismiss the whole story as fantasy, had he not impressed me as completely honest and trustworthy.

‘I could, of course, force the lock on his bag,’ said he as we walked along. ‘But I have given my word of honour that I shall guard it securely; and this I shall do until it is proved to me beyond doubt that my trust has been misplaced.’

‘Your story has certainly intrigued me,’ I remarked as we parted. ‘Do let me know if there are any fresh developments in the matter. It is a fascinating little mystery, Mr Herbert, and I look forward to hearing the outcome!’

Over dinner that evening I retailed Mr Herbert’s story to my wife, and she was as fascinated by it as I was.

‘It is very curious,’ she observed, ‘that the man Mr Herbert met at Little Wickling should have taken the name – if it is, indeed, not his own – of Stephen Hollingworth, for the Hollingworths do, of course, live near there, according to that newspaper report, at Wickling Place.’