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

‘If I thought then that I had cause to resent the gardener, I was soon to find out that his wife’s behaviour could be equally uncongenial to me. Lettie began to refer to the woman continually, in a way which gradually began to irritate me intensely. It was always “But dear Mrs Dobson says this,” or “Helen thinks that we ought to do that”.

‘One afternoon, I returned home from town earlier than usual and, hearing the sound of female laughter from the garden, I strolled in that direction. As I approached a rose-covered pergola, on the other side of which was a small arbour, I recognised the voices of my wife and Mrs Dobson.

‘“I really don’t think I can agree with you, Helen,” I heard my wife say.

‘“But you must, Lettie, you foolish girl. You are simply being stubborn!” retorted the other. There followed a further remark which I did not catch, then peals of laughter. I was surprised to hear my wife indulging in such banter, but I endeavoured not to show it, as I turned into the arbour where they were sitting.

‘“Hello!” I cried. “You sound jolly!” But even as I spoke I saw the smiles vanish from their faces.

‘“Yes, dear. We were discussing the garden,” replied my wife, attempting unconvincingly to force a smile to her lips.

‘“Really? And what were you saying about it that was so amusing?”

‘My wife gave some response, but it was not very interesting and, in any case, I was not really listening. It was clear that my appearance had as good as thrown a funeral pall over their gaiety.

‘Later that evening, when we were alone, I spoke to my wife about the Dobsons.

‘“It does not strike me as an altogether good thing for you to encourage Mrs Dobson in such a degree of intimacy,” I remarked somewhat stiffly.

‘“But we were only talking together!” she retorted hotly. “I suppose you think she is not good enough for me, being only a gardener’s wife!”

‘“Not at all,” I returned. “You know that I do not possess a single ounce of snobbery and you may take what friends you please; but in this case you are the woman’s employer and such intimacy can lead to difficulties.”

‘“I think not,” said she simply, “so let us drop the matter.”

‘I had never heard my wife speak in this way before and I do not mind admitting that I was cut to the quick. I could raise no specific objection to this Dobson woman, other than that she had often struck me as somewhat over-bold in her manner for one in her position, but this, in any case, was not really the point. I felt that I was being excluded in my own house by my own beloved wife and it was this that hurt me so deeply. Lettie perhaps saw this, for after we had remained some time in silence she began to speak to me in a softer tone, but I treated her advances coldly and left the room.

‘I could not begin to tell you all the wild thoughts that coursed then through my seething brain, but outside in the night air my head seemed to clear and my resolve to harden. If I had nothing specific against the gardener’s wife, I had a veritable catalogue of complaints against the gardener himself. I returned to inform my wife of my decision.

‘“It is no good,” I began. “The Dobsons will have to go. You should not look so surprised, Laetitia: Dobson has done scarcely a day’s work since he came here. I am sure that no one else would have tolerated the fellow as long as I have. Apart from anything else, his gardening skills seem to be non-existent. Why, the man is a perfect imbecile! Only yesterday he pulled up all my sweet williams in the belief that they were weeds!”

‘“He has been ill,” she protested. “He has had a touch of the sun. He will improve, Mark; you will see.”

‘“He is certainly sickly-looking: he makes me feel ill every time I see him. But this house is not a charitable institution, Laetitia, and much as I dislike the thought of turning a man out when he has no other post to go to, he will have to go.”

‘I thought then that the matter was settled and I certainly intended that it should be; but my wife begged and pleaded and cajoled, until once more, much against my better judgement, I relented. I have little doubt that I am a fool, but I could not resist the imploring look in her eyes. There the matter rested and rests still. Do I weary you with my story, Mr Holmes?’

‘Not at all,’ replied my friend languidly, as he knocked his pipe out upon the hearth. ‘But I fail to see in what way I can help you in these matters, Mr Pringle. I make it an invariable rule not to interfere in domestic affairs, for there is generally profit in it for no one.’

‘At least hear the end of my story, Mr Holmes, before you make up your mind. On Sunday last I was so weighed down with these problems and, as I now realise, with the beginnings of another bout of the fever, that I found I was quite unable to sleep. About one in the morning I dressed quietly and slipped out into the darkened garden, thinking that a little fresh air would help to soothe my nerves. It had been a very hot, close day, as you no doubt recall, and the night was heavy and black and lowering. As I stepped down the path to the river, a single large drop of rain landed upon my cheek, and before I had gone another thirty yards the skies had opened and the rain was fairly crashing down. I ran for the shelter of an old yew tree which I knew to be just ahead of me, although I could scarcely make out its shape in the darkness. There I was standing, thankful for the dense cover that the tree provided, when there came a series of mighty flashes directly overhead, accompanied by the violent and deafening crack and rumble of the thunder. In an instant the veil of darkness was lifted from the garden and all was illuminated with that strange, ghastly light. With a thrill of horror that set my hair on end, I saw that there was someone upon the path, not thirty feet away and looking straight at me.’

‘A man or a woman?’ said Holmes sharply.

‘A man – so I believe; but I had only a moment in which to judge the matter. For as abruptly as the light had come, the darkness descended once more, just as if a black cloth had been cast across my eyes. I shifted my position and prepared to defend myself, though against whom, or what, I did not know. I must have stood there in that rigid pose for several minutes, but nothing fell upon me but a few drops of the icy rain. Then for a second time the sky was split asunder by the zigzag strokes of the lightning, for a second time the garden was bathed in its eerie white light and I saw that the path was deserted. Whoever I had seen was no longer there. The rain was still teeming down, but I left my shelter and dashed at the top of my speed back to the house. To my surprise I found the garden door wide open, the rain splashing in and forming a puddle upon the parquet floor of the corridor. I was certain that I had closed the door firmly as I went out, and although it was possible that the sudden force of the storm had blown the door open – for in truth the catch is not a very secure one – I was not prepared to take a risk upon the point. I loaded my revolver and made a thorough search of every room in the house, but found nothing amiss.

‘My walk had done little for my insomnia, as you will appreciate, and I spent a sleepless night with the loaded pistol at my bedside. In the morning I scoured the garden for any trace of the intruder, but discovered nothing. I had half expected to see another of those infernal hand-prints, but that at least I had been spared. At breakfast my wife announced that she would accompany me up to town, as there was a sale of oriental fabrics at Liberty’s which she wished to attend, but I felt too ill and tired to go to work, so she travelled up alone and I returned to my bed, where I slept half the day away. In sleep, at least, I could escape from the troubles which beset me; but it was a false escape, for when I awoke, these troubles seemed to weigh yet more heavily upon my mind and appear yet more insoluble and impenetrable. What power is possessed by this woman, Helen Dobson, that she can gain such an influence over my wife in so short a time? What manner of man is her brooding, taciturn husband? Why does he pretend to be a gardener – which he very evidently is not – and what does he hope to gain by such an imposture? Who is it that creeps about my garden in the night-time and prints his freakish hand upon my wall? Does someone wish me dead? All day long, and late into the night, I cudgelled my brains with these questions and a thousand others, until I began to think that it was all a fevered nightmare, in which no answers or explanations might ever be found, but from which dawn would release me. Alas, this morning I woke up and saw my pistol beside the bed, and knew that some answer must be sought in the world of reality.