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

At the house Holmes secured a map, which he studied intently for a few moments.

‘The river twists and turns here,’ said he at last. ‘If we take the main road we may yet be able to intercept the murderer before he can escape.’

On this occasion, however, my friend’s resourcefulness proved insufficient and no trace of the assassin could be found in the area. An abandoned skiff was later discovered upon the opposite bank of the river, and inquiries indicated that the fugitive had crossed over to the Surrey side and made his way down to Chertsey, where he had caught a train to London.

Acting upon certain information provided by Sherlock Holmes, the police later arrested a Serbian who was staying at Green’s Hotel in the West End. No effective case could be made out against him, however, and when diplomatic protests threatened to make an international incident of the affair, the police were obliged to let him go. ‘There goes a certain murderer!’ said Holmes with bitterness, when he read in the paper one morning that the man had been put upon the Calais packet, with the formal warning that he should never again set foot in England.

As for Mark Pringle and his wife, I heard later that he had overcome his illness, and that they had returned to Ceylon and taken with them Helen Wadham, in the hope that a new life amid fresh surroundings might help to erase from their hearts and minds the painful memory of the tragedy which had fallen so heavily upon them at Low Meadow.

Violent murder will always excite both horror and fascination in the public mind. When the victim of the crime is a well-known public figure, the case becomes a sensation and leaves little space in the newspapers of the day for any other subject. Such was the mysterious death of Sir Gilbert Cheshire Q.C., senior bencher of the Inner Temple and the most eminent criminal lawyer of his day. But the matter never came to trial and those involved were reluctant to discuss it, so that despite the many newspaper columns devoted to it at the time, and the countless number of articles written since, there are some facts in connection with the case which have never been fully reported and I have even seen it described as an ‘unsolved mystery’. Having been privileged to be present during the investigation of the crime, I can state categorically that this description is false and it is my hope that the following account will clear the matter up once and for all.

It was a dark evening, late in the year. The morning had provided a brief glimpse of watery sunshine, but the weather had taken a turn for the worse about lunch-time and a dense fog had rolled across the city, filling every street and alley-way with its thick, greasy coils. I was glad on such an evening to be in the warm seclusion of our sitting-room, where a fire blazed merrily in the grate.

Sherlock Holmes had been seated at the table for several hours, occupied in pasting newspaper extracts into his commonplace books and carefully cross-indexing each entry. Eventually, as the clock was striking nine, he put down his pasting-brush with a weary sigh, stood up from the table and stretched himself.

‘So,’ said he after a moment, turning to me, as he rubbed his hands together before the fire; ‘you have seen your friend, Anstruther, and he has told you that he is postponing his holiday until the spring.’

‘He hopes for better weather then,’ I replied. ‘But I do not recall mentioning the matter to you, Holmes.’

‘Indeed you did not, Watson, but it is clear, nonetheless.’

‘I cannot imagine how that can be, for he only informed me of his decision this afternoon – unless, of course, you heard it from someone else.’

Holmes chuckled. ‘I have not left these rooms all day,’ said he. ‘Fortunately, the materials for a simple little deduction lie conveniently upon the table by your elbow.’

I glanced at the table. An empty glass, a saucer, my pipe and a book I had been reading were all I could see there. My face must have betrayed the puzzlement I felt, for my friend chuckled anew.

‘In the saucer is the end of a cigar,’ said he, ‘and by the side of it lies your old copy of Clarendon’s History of the Great Rebellion. To anyone familiar with your habits, the inference is plain.’

‘I cannot see it.’

‘No? You went out at lunch-time and returned a while later, smoking a Havana cigar. You do not generally permit yourself such extravagance, save on your visits to the American Bar at the Criterion, and you do not frequent the Criterion these days, save to meet your friend, Anstruther. I therefore feel on reasonably safe ground in inferring that such was your occupation this lunch-time. You mentioned to me some time ago that he had received an invitation to stay with relations of his near Hastings, either later this month, or in the spring, and you had agreed that, in that event, you would attend to his medical duties for a week, as you did for a few days earlier this year. Today is the twenty-sixth: the last week-end of the month is almost upon us and thus the last likely opportunity for Anstruther to begin his holiday. When you returned today, however, you gave no sign of any impending change in your circumstances, nor of any preparations for imminent medical duties. Unlike the previous occasion when Anstruther called upon your professional assistance, you did not immerse yourself in your old medical text-books, but in your old friend, Clarendon, in whose company you proceeded to fall asleep. I could only conclude, then, that your assistance was not, for the present, required and that Anstruther had postponed his visit to the Sussex coast until the spring.’

‘How perfectly obvious!’ said I. ‘I believe I was still half asleep when you spoke to me, Holmes; otherwise I am sure I should not have found your remark so surprising.’

‘No doubt,’ said he, sounding a little irritated. ‘If so, you are not alone. One might suppose the whole of London to be half asleep, so few have been the calls upon my time in recent days! It is certainly a dull, stale and unprofitable life we lead at present!’ He stepped to the window and drew aside the curtain. Filthy brown drops glistened on the outside of the window-pane. ‘See, Watson, how the fog creeps about the houses and smothers the street lamps! What opportunity for criminal pursuits such conditions present! What a lack-lustre crew our modern criminals must be if they fail to take advantage of it!’

‘I doubt if your professional appreciation of the opportunities would be shared by many of your fellow-citizens!’ I had responded with a chuckle, when he held up his hand.

‘Here is someone, and in a tearing hurry, too,’ said he sharply, as the muffled clatter of hooves came to my ears. ‘Perhaps our services will be required at last. Yes, by George!’ he cried, as the cab rattled to a halt outside our door. ‘But, wait! The cab is empty! Ah, the jarvey himself springs down, with a letter in his hand! Your boots and your heaviest overcoat, Watson! Unless I am much mistaken, villainy has at last shaken off its torpor and walks abroad in the fog!’

There came a sharp ring at the door-bell as he spoke and moments later the landlady brought in a letter addressed to Sherlock Holmes. He tore open the buff envelope, glanced at the single sheet it had contained, then passed it to me and I read the following:

Come at once if at all possible. North Walk, Inner Temple. Most savage and puzzling crime.

‘No reply, Mrs Hudson,’ said Holmes in response to the landlady’s query. ‘We shall take the cab which brought the note.’

A moment later we were ready to leave, when my friend abruptly stopped in the open doorway of our room and stepped back quickly to the long shelf which held the reference volumes he had compiled over the years. He took a volume from the shelf, thumbed through it for a few moments, then tossed it aside and took down another. He turned the pages over rapidly, until with a cry of satisfaction he brought the book across to show me.