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

‘Look at this, Watson! It is as I thought!’ said he, pointing to a yellowing paragraph cut from the Standard and dated ten years previously. It was headed ‘EMINENT BENCHER MURDERED IN TEMPLE’ and ran as follows:

The murder of Sir John Hawkesworth Q.C., upon the evening before last, at the North Walk Chambers, Inner Temple, seems likely to prove as perplexing as it is shocking. Sir John, one of the most senior benchers of the Inner Temple, and a man as personally popular as he was professionally respected, was bludgeoned to death upon his own doorstep, by an unknown assailant. His door-key was still in his grasp and it is conjectured that he was on the point of entering his chambers when the assault took place, which perhaps indicates that the assailant had been waiting there for him to return. This would increase the likelihood of the criminal’s presence having been witnessed, were it not that the recent very foggy conditions have made it difficult for anyone to see even those who wish to be seen. Who the assailant is, and what the motive for such a terrible crime might be, no one can suggest; and we can only hope that some clue to the matter will quickly be discovered.

‘In fact, nothing ever was discovered,’ Holmes remarked as I finished reading, ‘and the case remains open to this day. It was before my own practice was established, but I recall it very well.’

Beneath the extract from the Standard was a second item, cut from the Pall Mall Gazette of the following evening:

A correspondent, Dr J. Gibbon of South Norwood, writes to inform us that the spot upon which the shocking murder of Sir John Hawkesworth took place has witnessed once before the spilling of blood. Almost six hundred years ago, on a similarly foggy night in 1285, when the property was still in the hands of the Knights Templar from whom the area takes its name, one Edmund of Essex was found fatally stabbed in the North Walk. Officially, the crime remained a mystery and the spot upon which it occurred was said to have been cursed since ancient times; although most modern authorities concur in regarding the Grand Commander of the Order himself as responsible for at least instigating, if not indeed perpetrating the terrible deed, it being common knowledge at the time that the two men had quarrelled. It was the increasing frequency of such scandals which led to a decline in the reputation of the Knights Templar and, eventually, to the suppression of the Order altogether, less than thirty years later.

‘The North Walk of the Inner Temple certainly has a sinister history,’ said Holmes; ‘and now Stoddard reports another ‘‘savage and puzzling crime’’ there! Come! Let us waste no more time!’

In a moment we were in the hansom and rattling through the fog.

‘You remember Inspector Stoddard?’ queried my friend, as we passed down Regent Street.

I nodded. Stoddard was one of the senior detectives of the City Police.

‘I have been able to help him once or twice recently,’ continued Holmes, ‘and he promised, in return, to keep me informed of any interesting case which came his way. This must be a serious matter indeed, for him to call us out at this hour and on such a night!’

In the Strand, Holmes called instructions to the driver and we drew to a halt opposite the entrance to a narrow lane. Some distance ahead of us, a police-constable stood on duty by a gateway and before him, motionless upon the pavement, was a large group of people, forming a strange tableau in the drifting fog.

‘It is murder, by the size of the crowd,’ remarked Holmes as we stepped from the cab. ‘Come, let us slip in this way.’

I followed him down the dark, dripping lane, where the muffled ring of our feet upon the wet cobbles was the only sound to be heard. Our route took us by narrow alleys, round abrupt and unlit corners, and through small, hidden courtyards. The fog was even denser here than elsewhere and quite a degree colder, as it rolled across the Temple Gardens from the river and brought the chill reek of the Thames to our nostrils. We could see scarcely five paces ahead of us, but Holmes pressed forward without pause through the murk and I hurried after him. Though I knew we were passing among the jumble of old brick buildings which make up this ancient lawyers’ quarter, so dense was the fog, that save for the occasional fitful glimmer of a lamp in an upstairs window, I could make out nothing at all of our surroundings.

Abruptly Holmes turned to the left, into a narrow alley-way between two tall buildings. On the right, a door stood open wide, casting a bright rectangle of light across the dark alley.

‘The North Walk,’ remarked my companion.

Just inside the brightly lit doorway stood a tall, thin man with black hair and moustache, whom I recognised as Inspector Stoddard. He was in conversation with a rough-looking man of medium build, with close-cropped ginger hair and beard. The policeman stepped forward as we approached and greeted us warmly.

‘I am very glad you were able to come,’ said he, in an agitated voice. ‘Sir Gilbert Cheshire has been murdered. This is Mr Thomas Mason, the gate-keeper of the Fleet Street Gate,’ he continued, indicating the man by his side, ‘who first brought news of the tragedy to the police station. He was also one of the last people to see Sir Gilbert alive in his chambers, when he brought in some coal at about twenty to seven; although Sir Gilbert was seen later by several of his colleagues in the dining-hall, where he dined as usual between seven and eight.’

‘The attack occurred on his return from dinner, then?’ queried Holmes.

‘Exactly. I can give you the essential details in a few sentences, Mr Holmes. That will be all for the present, Mason. I’ll call you if we have any further questions. Poor fellow!’ Stoddard remarked, when Mason had vanished into the fog. ‘He is terribly affected by what has happened.’

‘He appears an unlikely character to find in this quarter,’ observed Holmes.

‘There is a story there,’ Stoddard responded as he led us into the building. ‘He was once on trial himself, about fifteen years ago, accused of murdering his wife. He might have found himself on the gallows, but Gilbert Cheshire was the defence counsel and got him acquitted. Since then he’s been as devoted as a dog to him. It was Sir Gilbert who found him the fairly undemanding post of gate-keeper and general factotum, about eight years ago, when he was down on his luck.’

We followed the policeman into a room on the left of the hallway. All the lamps were lit and revealed a shocking scene. In the centre of the square, book-lined room was a large desk, and behind this, in a chair, was the lifeless body of a large, broad-chested man. His head was tilted back, so that his thick, wiry black beard thrust upwards and his eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. On the left side of his neck was a savage wound, which appeared to have bled profusely, and the front of his garments were thick with blood, which was still wet and glistened in the glare of the lamps. The surface of the desk was strewn with bundles of papers, tied up with red tape. Lying amongst them was a large, brass-bound cash-box, its lid hanging open. Beyond the desk, two uniformed policemen were examining the floor by the fireplace.

Stoddard consulted his note-book. ‘As you’re probably aware,’ he began, ‘King’s Bench Walk, where many of the barristers of the Inner Temple have their chambers, is just round the corner. This is the only set of chambers with its entrance on this side. Sir Gilbert Cheshire has been head of chambers for ten years, since the death of the previous head. He has two junior colleagues here and two clerks – I have already sent messages to them all. The other two barristers share the office directly across the corridor from this one, the clerks’ office is along the corridor to the rear. Upstairs, there are two rooms, Sir Gilbert’s private study and his bedroom, for these chambers were also his residence.