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

‘Let us first be clear as to the essential facts,’ said Holmes as his client hesitated a moment. He laid out his note-book upon his knee in a brisk and business-like manner. ‘Your husband has disappeared. Were you in London at the time?’

Lady Davenoke shook her head. ‘No, no; Montpelier, in the south of France.’

‘Indeed! And did you report his disappearance to the authorities there?’

Again she shook her head. ‘What could they know of it?’ she queried in a surprised voice. ‘Edward was not in Montpelier, but at Shoreswood.’

Holmes put down his pencil with a sigh.

‘My questions seem to create only confusion,’ said he, a flicker of a smile upon his lips. ‘Perhaps if you tell your story in your own words, the matter will be clearer.’

‘Where should I begin?’

‘If your troubles began with your husband’s disappearance, then begin there; if not, begin at any point that strikes you as appropriate. How you order your account is of less importance than that it is complete.’

‘Then I feel I must begin a year ago, when Edward and I first met,’ said Lady Davenoke after she had considered the matter in silence for a little while. ‘For it seems to me now – but, still, you will understand how it seems to me when you have heard what I have to tell you.’

‘By all means,’ said Holmes, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes in an attitude of concentration.

‘My maiden name was Adams,’ his client continued after a moment. ‘My father is Claude Adams, the railroad proprietor. He was in at the beginning of the railroad boom in the States, and the Portland and Vermont made his fortune. He had had little education himself and, now that he was wealthy, was determined that his children should make up for what he himself had lacked. So it was that I came last year to Europe, with my aunt, Juliana Clemens. We were making a grand tour of all that was venerable and historic, and it was while we were in Florence, in July, that I made the acquaintance of Edward Davenoke.

‘He seemed to me the most pleasant and engaging young man I had ever met, and we soon struck up a fine friendship. His appearance was thoughtful and studious, especially when he wore his spectacles, but he had a most vivacious sense of fun which was never long repressed. He had with him a Belgian Sheepdog called Bruno, which he had acquired on his travels, and the two of them would sport about the noble streets and squares of Florence in the most incongruous and humorous way imaginable. All too soon after we had become friends, Edward was obliged to return home, to Shoreswood in Suffolk, but before he left he requested that my aunt and I call upon him when we visited England, later in the year. My aunt saw no objection to this suggestion and a date was fixed for our visit, in the fall of last year. For my own part I confess that the remainder of our European tour seemed dull and uninteresting compared to the time we had spent in Edward’s company, and were it not for the letters which we exchanged regularly, I do not know that I could have borne the months which were to pass before our boat sailed for England.

‘Eventually the day arrived. When I think now—’ She paused and gazed for a moment at her clasped hands. ‘When I think now of the happiness I felt on that day—’ Again she paused and shook her head slightly. ‘To have come three thousand miles, for this!’

Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes and, frowning slightly, made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

‘Do not distress yourself unnecessarily, Lady Davenoke,’ said he in a soft voice. ‘Describe each event in the order in which it occurred and, above all, resist the temptation to compare the present with the past; for in any such comparison the past has always the unfair advantage that one’s memory of it is both selective and partial.’

Our visitor smiled thinly, but appreciatively, and, after a moment, resumed her narrative.

‘Edward met us at Harwich and escorted us to Shoreswood Old Hall, which has been the seat of the family for centuries. It is a curious and not altogether attractive place; a dark and sombre house, built haphazardly of flint, plaster-work and brick, and lying half in ruins. The Davenokes have always been intensely proud of the richness of history which the house represents; but to me there is something chaotic and unpleasant about the place: if it represents history, then it is history as designed by a madman. The interior of the house presents an equally bizarre muddle, where, coming round some dark and dusty corner of a corridor, one will find an ornate Boulle cabinet standing beside a crude, axe-carved stool. There is much of value and interest in the house – the walls are lined with old paintings and tapestries and hung with weapons and curios of every shape and size – but all is dark and faded, and somehow oppressive. I guess I’m not very familiar with your old English houses, gentlemen, but I am sure they cannot all be like Shoreswood. The passages and stairs are shadowy and cramped, the rooms damp, and infested with mice and spiders. A short distance from the house lies what was once the Davenokes’ private chapel but is now a mouldering heap of ivy-covered stones. Even in broad daylight an unpleasant air of misery and ruin hangs over this place, but it is at night, when the moonlight falls upon it, that it assumes its most chill and minatory aspect. The locals, I understand, will not approach within a hundred yards of the place after sunset.’ Lady Davenoke’s voice faltered and an involuntary shudder shook her whole body.

‘But at first, although I can scarce believe it now,’ she continued after a moment, ‘the very oddness and antiquity of Shoreswood intrigued and charmed me. The estate lies in a green and fertile valley, a land of beautiful woodlands and streams, which reminds me very much of my home. My aunt and I took many a pleasant walk with Edward, along the narrow lanes and woodland paths there. His company was a constant and unvarying source of pleasure to me, which is more than I can say for that of his father, I am afraid.’ Her voice trembled with emotion and she bit her lip before continuing.

‘Sir John could be gay enough at times, when the mood was upon him, but his nature was a precariously balanced one, and a black, bitter side would often show itself for no apparent reason and endure for several days. During these periods it was best to keep out of his way, I found, for he could be harsh and cruel in his speech, and often drank to violent excess. I have since learnt – what is apparently common knowledge in the district – that it was entirely as a result of Sir John’s hard and sneering ways that his party lost the parliamentary seat of Shoreswood to their opponents, after it had been held without defeat for very nearly a century. Still, as I disliked and feared the father greatly, so did I love and trust the son to the same degree.

‘“You must forgive Father his rough ways,” said Edward to me one day, as we sat alone beside a slow, reed-girt stream. “He was not always as you see him now; but Mother’s death struck him a grave blow and, to tell the truth, he has never been quite the same man since.”

‘I was deeply impressed by Edward’s concern for my feelings and by his perception of what it was that troubled me; for I had, of course, never voiced my thoughts upon the subject and had striven to conceal my anxieties. In answer to my query, he told me that his mother had died three years previously. She had been on holiday with a cousin in Cornwall and had been stung fatally upon the foot by a weever fish whilst bathing in the sea off St Ives.

‘“I am so sorry,” said I.

‘He shook his head sadly. “She has been greatly missed by everyone,” said he. “She was always so generous and considerate. While she lived she had a gentle, uplifting influence upon the whole household; with her death passed away the Shoreswood I had known as a child.”