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

‘It was not what I had intended when I came up to London,’ Miss Montague continued after a moment of reflection, ‘and I cannot pretend that the situation has been entirely congenial to me; for, even without his sister’s provocation, my uncle was a severe and ill-tempered man. Our conversations were perfunctory and brief and concerned only with household matters, for he had little interest in anything which was not of immediate personal relevance to him. Nor did he read much, except for newspapers, parliamentary reports and the like, which he would pore over for hours, in the hope, it seemed to me, of finding something with which he could quarrel. Save for this consuming passion for politics – Mr Furnival was of some celebrity locally in this field and we often had his political colleagues for dinner, when they would squabble noisily all evening – my uncle had only one interest, and that an unusual one. He had developed a taste for exotic carvings and other curios from the most remote corners of the world and had amassed quite a collection. No doubt his interest had begun during his time in the West Indies, where he spent over twenty years, but his collection had since grown to include objects from many different lands. One evening he showed me some of them.

‘“To you, this may be simply a carved piece of wood,” he said to me, as he held up some kind of oriental idol, which I must say struck me as perfectly hideous; “but the man that carved it has not simply shaped the wood, he has striven to impress part of his own soul into this object, in the hope of living on in it after his death and gaining revenge on those that have done him down in life. In many parts of the world, you know, such an object is regarded as definitely holding a part of the man that made it – for good or evil.” He laughed as he said this, in a hard, callous manner, which I found very unpleasant. “And this is an interesting little pot,” he continued, holding up a small earthenware vessel, the size of a small coffee cup, on the lid of which was a hideous figure with its tongue out. “It is a death pot, from Central America. You put something in it belonging to your enemy – a lock of his hair, say – then bury it in the ground. Within one month, so they say, your enemy will die.”

‘“How horrible!” I cried; but Mr Furnival only laughed.

‘“You are young and high-minded,” said he, in a bitter, cynical tone. “When you are older, you will learn that a man has many enemies in the world, and must use what means he has to destroy them and crush them beneath his feet.”

‘This conversation made a deep and disagreeable impression upon me. After it, I could not look upon my uncle’s collection of curios without a shudder and I began to long for the day when I might move away from this household.

‘I come now to the events of Tuesday morning,’ Miss Montague continued after a moment. ‘It was in every respect an ordinary morning. The maid is away at the moment, so I took in my uncle’s breakfast myself, then returned to the kitchen, leaving him opening the post, which had just been delivered.’

‘Of what did the post consist that morning?’ asked Holmes.

‘Two letters, which I could see were simply tradesmen’s bills, and a brown-paper parcel. I had been in the kitchen scarcely a minute, when I heard my uncle cry out – such a cry as I hope I shall never hear again in my life. I dropped what I was doing and hurried back to the dining-room, to find him sitting rigid with fear at the breakfast table, his eyes very wide and his mouth hanging open, as if in terror.

‘“What is it, Uncle?” I cried out, and hurried to his side; but even as I did so, he pitched forward on to the table and breathed his last.’

The young lady bit her lip and shuddered at the memory.

‘What was in the parcel?’ asked Holmes after a moment.

‘A dark-brown wooden box,’ replied Miss Montague, ‘such as I have never seen before. In shape it is like a cube, about five inches on each side, and very ornately carved all over, in a pattern of twining leaves and vines. The lid, which is attached by brass hinges and fastened with a little brass clasp at the front, is pierced in several places, forming a sort of open lattice-work within the carving. Here and there, among the carved leaves, are little pieces of crystal, in pairs, like horrid and sinister eyes, watching you from among the foliage.’ Miss Montague shuddered again and shut her eyes tightly.

‘Was there anything in the box?’ asked Holmes after a moment.

‘No,’ returned his visitor; ‘nothing whatever. When I re-entered the dining-room and found my uncle on the point of death, I saw at once that the lid of the box was open and I could see that the interior was covered with some kind of thick black lacquer, so dense in its blackness, that as one looked into it, it was like looking into the very depths of evil; but it was perfectly empty. Mr Holmes, there is something sinister and unpleasant about that box and I believe it was sent to my uncle deliberately to bring about his death. You may consider the suggestion ridiculous; but I am convinced it is the literal truth!’

I was surprised at Miss Montague’s somewhat fanciful description of the old box her uncle had received and expected Sherlock Holmes to display a certain impatience at her account. But when he spoke, it was in his usual placid tones.

‘My dear Miss Montague,’ said he; ‘you need not fear ridicule for your convictions. I have frequently observed that the intuitions of those most closely involved in a case are generally nearer to the truth than the impersonal reports of the police or newspapers. However, a few more facts would be helpful. Do you have any reasons, other than your own intuition, to believe that there is something sinister about the box your uncle received?’

I was expecting our visitor to admit that she had not and was therefore surprised when she nodded her head vigorously. ‘Indeed I do,’ cried she. ‘My uncle’s death is not the only misfortune which that evil box has caused. Yesterday – just one day after his death – it came very close to claiming a second victim!’

‘Really?’ said Holmes in surprise. ‘How very interesting!’

‘Yes, Mr Holmes! It was this second dreadful incident which led me to write to you yesterday afternoon. You have a reputation for divining the truth where others see only mystery. Mr Holmes, I pray that you can do so now and destroy this evil!’

‘Pray, let us have the facts of the second incident, then,’ said Holmes.

‘It was yesterday morning. I was making sure the house was in good order, for Mr Furnival’s sister is coming today, when there came a knock at the door. I opened it to find a nautical-looking man standing there, a tall, middle-aged man with a grizzled beard and a lined, weather-beaten face, clad in a black pea jacket and cap. He introduced himself as Captain Jex and said he was an old friend of Mr Furnival’s from the West Indies. He had been back in England only a few weeks and had been hoping to see his old friend, but had not known his address, when he had chanced upon the notice of his death in that morning’s paper. I conducted him upstairs, to see Mr Furnival’s body and pay his last respects, and as we left my uncle’s room, he appeared very much affected by the experience, so I offered him a cup of tea. He said that, while I made the tea, he would sit in silent contemplation in the room where my uncle had died, so I left him in the dining-room and went to put the kettle on.

‘It was scarcely five minutes later that I carried in a tray of tea things. Imagine my horror when I entered the room, to find my visitor lying stretched out, face down on the floor, unconscious. Quickly, I put down the tray and bent down to him.