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

In the middle of the night, I was roughly awakened by a party of soldiers from the nearby military garrison and informed that I was being arrested for the murder of Captain Jex, who had been found beside the road with his head crushed in. I protested my innocence, but it did me no good and I was sent to trial in Jamaica. I will not detail the court proceedings, a full account of which can be found in the Caribbean Law Reports, but note merely that the entire case against me was built on a series of lies by Furnival and his sister. In particular, they both stated that Captain Jex and I had quarrelled on the evening of his death, which was completely untrue, and that they had heard Jex cry out, a short time after he had left their house and, upon going to investigate, had seen me running away, which was also completely untrue.

Of course, what had happened was clear to me, as was the meaning of the words I had overheard Mrs Eardley speak to her brother. Furnival and his sister had learnt of the pearls Jex was carrying, had plotted together to murder him to get their hands on them, and had planned to divert suspicion by putting the blame on to me. Had it been only the two of them testifying against me, I might yet have avoided a guilty verdict; but they had evidently bribed or threatened others, for a number of people I had never even seen before came forward to testify enthusiastically against me. The only thing that saved me from the hangman’s noose was the question of the pearls. I, of course, did not have them and nor could they be found anywhere else, as a result of which the prosecution scarcely mentioned them at all, even though they were the obvious motive for the crime. Instead, it was alleged that Jex and I had quarrelled over some other matter and, inflamed by drink, had come to blows. This allowed the defence counsel to argue, from various incidental considerations, that, whatever had occurred, Jex had probably struck the first blow. This argument was accepted by the jury and, thus, although found guilty of causing Jex’s death, I was spared the gallows and sentenced instead to ten years’ hard labour in the penal colony on Halifax Island.

There I passed a decade of my life, suffering for a crime I did not commit, and sustained only by a burning hatred of those whose lies had condemned me. Thus, when I was at last released to the world once more, a sick, broken man, I resolved that I would devote my last breath to hunting down Furnival and his sister. Shortly after my release, a clerk’s error led to an incorrect report that I had died, but I did not trouble to correct the error. What did I care? I had no life, other than to seek justice for Jex and revenge for myself. I learnt that Furnival and his sister had returned to England several years earlier, and it was not long before I followed them there, assuming for my own satisfaction the name of Captain Jex, the man they had murdered. The meagre savings I had from before my imprisonment were just sufficient to pay for my passage and keep me for a little while, and that, for me, was enough.

Once in England, it took me little time to track Furnival down and I discovered that he was living as a respectable, highly regarded man of substance in south London. For some time I followed him about, until I knew his habits almost as well as my own. One day, at Norwood station, our eyes met for a moment, but then the train I was on pulled away and I do not think he recognised me. One thing I had remembered about Furnival was his deep loathing of spiders. I had therefore brought with me a large specimen of the black tarantula. At first, I was unsure how I might use it; but when I learnt of his interest in native curios, I at once thought of putting the spider in a carved box and sending it to him through the post.

The rest you know. I had not expected that the mere sight of the creature would bring about the death of my enemy, although I cannot say in all honesty that that outcome causes me any regret. When I learnt what had occurred, I tried to recover the spider, but without success. I was immensely relieved when I read that you had captured it, for my greatest fear was that Furnival’s niece, or some other innocent, would be harmed by it.

Now I am dying and by the time you read these lines my tongue will be stilled forever, but I rejoice that some degree of justice has at last been meted out to the true murderers of Captain Jex. For the peace of your soul, pray that you never fall foul of anyone so vicious and callous as Victor Furnival and his sister.

‘What a dreadful business,’ I remarked as we finished reading. ‘But it illustrates, I suppose, that even the most banal suburban existence may conceal the strangest of secrets.’

‘Indeed,’ said Holmes. ‘And it illustrates, also, Watson, the truth of the old adage, that the darkest deeds cast the longest shadows.’

My note-book records that it was in the third week of February, 1883, that the singular business of Mr Dryson’s strange oil painting was brought to the attention of my friend, Sherlock Holmes. It was a cold, wet period and I was reading in the morning paper of the flooding that had afflicted many low-lying parts of the country, when there came a ring at the front-door bell. A moment later, a smartly dressed, middle-aged gentleman was shown into our sitting-room and introduced himself as Everard Dryson.

‘What can we do for you, Mr Dryson?’ said Holmes, taking his visitor’s hat and coat and ushering him into a chair by the fireside.

‘The fact is,’ returned Dryson, ‘I have had the strangest experience. I really can’t think what to make of it and I was hoping you might be able to look into it for me.’

‘Certainly,’ said Holmes, rubbing his hands together in delight at the prospect of an interesting commission. A new case of any sort was welcome to him, for he had had little to do for two or three days and had begun to chafe at this enforced idleness. ‘Pray, let us have the details.’

‘It is soon told,’ said the other. ‘I am a bachelor and have a house just round the corner from here, in Gloucester Place. One of my interests is in oil paintings, of which I now have a fair number. There is no particular theme to my collection – I simply buy what takes my fancy – although I do have a taste for landscapes and rural scenes. About three months ago, I bought a painting entitled The Tomb on the Hill from the Marchmont Gallery in Bond Street. It depicts a raised stone tomb in a rural setting, with trees about it, fields in the background and so on. I thought when I first saw it that it had perhaps been inspired by that well-known painting of Poussin’s, but in fact I understand that the scene depicted is not an imaginary one, but a real one, in the north of England. Apparently, some member of the Eldersly family who had soldiered abroad for many years willed that when he died his tomb should be placed on a hill overlooking his estates in Yorkshire. Anyhow, in the foreground a rustic figure is inspecting the tomb and wandering about are a number of small animals. Visible on the side of the tomb are several lines of carved lettering. You will understand in a moment why I am mentioning these details.

‘Yesterday, I was out for most of the afternoon. When I returned I was informed by my housekeeper, Mrs Larchfield, that two workmen had called in my absence to deliver a flat wooden crate, such as might have contained a large painting. She told them that we were not expecting such a delivery, but they showed her a handwritten note with my name and address on it, so she let them in and they carried their crate into the drawing-room. While one of them was unfastening the crate, the other had a sort of coughing fit and asked her if he could trouble her for a glass of water. She was a little dubious about leaving them alone in the drawing-room, but as the man was still coughing, she could hardly refuse his request. When she returned with the water, she was surprised to see that they had not proceeded to open their crate.