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

‘“You have been busy!” I cried. “And I agree entirely! It would do the old cottage good to have someone living in it again. I was thinking only last week what a pity it was, to have had it standing empty all this time.”

‘The cottage is an old, low building, which stands just beyond the belt of trees which separates the garden from the river, and has stood upon that spot since long before ever our own house was built. It had become dilapidated over the years, but within a few days, the men my wife had hired had brightened it up considerably: the broken slates upon the roof had been replaced, the guttering mended and the whole of the outside given a fresh, bright coat of white paint. All was finished by the end of the week, when the gardener and his wife arrived to take up residence.

‘They struck me as a pleasant enough couple, although oddly matched, I thought, in both appearance and manner. The husband, John Dobson, a thin, angular sort of fellow, with hair as black as his face was white, was taciturn almost to the point of rudeness and had the air about him of one who has suffered much. His wife, Helen, on the other hand, was a small, pink-cheeked and dainty woman, with hair the colour of sand, and quite the most chirrupy and voluble person I had ever met. Still, it was not for their conversation or appearance that they were employed and, in truth, I took little notice of them, leaving it to my wife to issue instructions as to the work they were to do.

‘A few days later, rising early, as is my habit, I discovered that I had misplaced my cigar-case. Recalling that I had had it with me the previous evening, when I had sat for a while on the bench by the river, I set out to see if I had left it there. The garden seemed bright and fresh in the morning air, and I smiled as I approached the gardener’s little white-washed cottage, nestled so prettily beneath the towering horse-chestnuts, all adorned as they were with their great pink and white candles.

‘“What a splendid little house it is!” I said aloud to the morning air. But no sooner were the words past my lips than I saw something which quite stopped me in my tracks and struck the smile from my face. For there, in the very centre of the clean white wall of the cottage, was the print of a human hand. It was in every respect the same as the one I had seen four weeks earlier upon the outhouse wall. It was the print of a right hand, a livid purple in colour, and again with that grotesque and horrible extra finger.’

‘It had not been there the previous evening?’ interrupted Holmes.

‘No. If it had been, I should have seen it.’

‘You are certain upon the point?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Very well. Pray continue.’

‘Anger rose within me that someone had again crept uninvited upon my property in the night and had besmirched this freshly painted wall. A pail stood nearby with a little water in it and next to it was a piece of rag with which someone had evidently been cleaning the cottage windows. In my fury I plunged the rag into the water, with the intention of expunging the odious mark from the wall. To my surprise and disgust, the rag emerged from the water as purple as the mark it was intended to erase. I tipped the water from the pail and looked with horror at the violet stream which ran out and splashed about my boots. I felt quite unable to comprehend the meaning of this sinister transformation, but I did not loiter to ponder the matter. I quickly located my cigar-case at the nearby bench and hurried in a daze of bewilderment to the house. Just once I glanced back at the cottage to reassure myself that that evil-looking mark was really there upon its wall, and that I had not imagined the whole episode, and as I did so it seemed to me that a curtain quivered at one of the windows, as if someone had hurriedly closed it as I turned.’

‘The date of this incident?’ enquired Holmes.

Pringle took a small diary from his pocket and leafed through it for a moment in silence. ‘I believe it must have been the third of June,’ he said at last; ‘about three weeks ago.’

Holmes scribbled a note upon a scrap of paper, as his client continued his account.

‘The days passed, the wall was cleaned and the incident forgotten; but I began to have serious misgivings about the new gardener. I had soon learnt to tolerate his dark, silent manner – indeed, on the one occasion he had overcome his reserve so far as to actually hold a conversation with me, I had found him both amusing and intelligent, if a little cynical – but what I could not tolerate was the fact that he appeared to do nothing whatsoever to justify the wages he was being paid. Each day I arrived home from town expecting to see some improvement in the appearance of the garden and each day I was disappointed, until eventually I raised the matter with my wife.

‘“Dobson does not seem much of a gardener to me,” I remarked one evening. “Where are the testimonials he gave you?”

‘“I am afraid I have lost them, Mark,” she replied in an apologetic tone. “But I do not think you are being entirely fair to the man. He has, after all, only recently begun and there is such a lot to be done in the garden at this time of the year.”

‘I could see from the expression upon my wife’s face that she felt my remarks were impugning her judgement, so I shrugged my shoulders and let the matter drop. When I chanced later to recall the conversation, however, it seemed to me then that she had been just a little too ready with the information that the testimonials were lost. It was almost as if she had been waiting for me to ask; as if, indeed, she had been expecting it.

‘A day or two after this, I arrived home in the afternoon and went straight into the garden, intending to sit for five minutes in the sunshine and finish the newspaper I had been reading in the train. After a few moments, however, I became aware of voices in the distance. From where I was sitting, a double row of elms and rhododendron bushes formed a natural corridor, along which I had a perfect view. Even as I looked, two people appeared round the corner at the far end of this corridor, my wife and the gardener. They were walking close together, very slowly, apparently in deep conversation. I was about to call out to them – for they had evidently not seen me – when I realised with a shock that they were entwined in embrace, he with his arm across her shoulder and she with her arm around his waist. My greeting froze upon my lips, and at that very moment my wife looked up and met my gaze. Her mouth fell open and her arms dropped to her side, and for several seconds we stared at each other in silence.

‘“What is wrong?” I called, without really knowing why I did so. My wife’s face was such a mask of guilt that I could scarcely bring myself to look at it and, to be frank, it was evident to me that the only thing that was wrong was that I had surprised their little tête-à-tête . But I called out, nevertheless, and thus presented my wife with an exit from her embarrassment. Why one should wish to assist another to lie to one, I do not know, but my wife took the cue and responded with alacrity.

‘“Dobson has sprained his ankle,” she called back. “I am helping him back to his house.”

‘I threw down my newspaper and hurried over to where they stood. There seemed little wrong with his ankle so far as I could see, but, without comment, I helped him to the cottage and left him in the care of his wife. Lettie had returned to the house, and when I saw her later she made no reference to the incident. As I had decided that I would certainly not be the first to bring the matter up, it remained therefore unaired, although I twice caught her looking at me in an odd fashion that evening, as though wondering what was passing in my mind. Since that time I have never seen the two of them together so intimately, but I cannot of course speak for the times I am away from home.