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

‘I am honoured by her recommendation.’

‘She said that if anyone could help me, Mr Holmes, it was you; that you had never been known to fail.’

‘If only that were true!’

‘Mr Holmes, you must not fail this time! You must apply your utmost powers to my case. I am beset by such terrible, terrible troubles. What have I entered into with my marriage? What secret deeds are afoot at Shoreswood Hall? And where, oh where, is Edward? Only my husband can banish my fears and reassure my doubting mind, and only you, Mr Holmes, can tell me what has become of my husband!’

Our visitor’s voice had risen with emotion as she spoke, until these last words came in a cry of pleading which was pitiful to hear.

‘I shall do all in my power,’ said Holmes, in a voice which was at once soft and soothing, and yet contained in it also a note of confidence and authority. ‘Your case interests me, madam, and I can understand fully your distress. You have had a number of odd and disconcerting experiences, and have had no one to turn to for comfort. For some of these experiences, singular as they appear, there may of course be a perfectly natural explanation; but there are one or two points in your narrative which do not seem to admit of any very obvious answer.’ He sat for a moment in silence. ‘I cannot promise complete success, Lady Davenoke, but I think we should be able to make some progress.’ He lapsed once more into silence, tapping the ends of his fingers upon his chin. ‘Of course,’ he continued after a moment, ‘your husband may return of his own accord at any time and thus solve your problems at a stroke. Let us hope that that is so.’

A faint smile passed across her features at this remark, but the look of anxiety did not entirely leave her eyes. ‘Do you have hopes, Mr Holmes?’ said she.

‘Certainly, certainly. But first I must ask you an unpleasant but necessary question. Have you reported your husband’s disappearance to the authorities here?’

‘I went straight to the police after leaving the Royal Suffolk Hotel,’ Lady Davenoke replied, nodding her head. ‘They could shed no light upon the matter. No body has been found which could possibly be that of my husband, if that is the unpleasant possibility to which you refer. They have also been in touch with the County Constabularies of Suffolk and Essex, in case Edward had met with an accident on his way to London, but both sent a negative reply.’

‘Do you know of any relative or friend with whom he might stay?’

‘None at all. Edward has not a single close relative and the only friend he retains from his schooldays, Marmaduke Morton of Canterbury, is at present in the West Indies.’

‘Very well. When do you intend to return to Shoreswood?’

‘Today.’

Holmes’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

‘My husband may, as you say, return – indeed, he may have returned already – and, if so, I would wish to be there. I would not go back to that place alone, you understand, but with a good friend beside me, someone with whom I can discuss matters, I believe that I shall be equal to whatever may occur. Besides, telling my troubles to you has fortified my heart and given me new hope. You look doubtful – do you think I do wrong in returning to Shoreswood?’

‘It might perhaps be better if you stayed away a few more days.’

‘Shall I be in danger there, Mr Holmes?’ queried our visitor, with a sharp glance at my friend’s impassive features. ‘Please answer me frankly!’

‘That I cannot say, Lady Davenoke. The matter is not entirely clear to me.’

‘Well, I would wish to return if it were possible. Would you wish to forbid me?’

Holmes shook his head with a smile.

‘Then I shall go,’ said she, returning his smile. ‘With Miss Strensall’s support I know I shall not be fearful. She is a very sensible woman. I shall await Edward’s return at Shoreswood, secure in the knowledge that you are doing all in your power to find him.’

‘Very well,’ said Holmes. ‘I shall be in touch the moment I have any news. And should you require our presence at Shoreswood,’ he added after a moment, ‘you have only to send a telegram.’

‘I shall not forget,’ said she.

‘What a very singular problem!’ said Holmes thoughtfully, as his client’s footsteps descended the stair.

‘And a singular young woman!’ I added. ‘One moment she trembles with fear, the next she is so bold as to spurn your advice!’

‘Women are a curious mixture of timidity and courage,’ remarked my friend, who had risen from his chair and was now gazing from the open window. ‘And the advent of either state seems generally to bear no reference to external circumstances.’

Together we watched the slight figure of our visitor, as she made her way slowly along the crowded pavement. Perhaps it was my fancy, but an air of tragedy seemed to hang over her even there, in bustling Baker Street. All at once I had an overpowering sensation of impending doom, an awful conviction that, do what we might, we could not protect Amelia Davenoke from the fate that awaited her. Involuntarily, I shook my head, as if to drive such thoughts from my mind.

‘She seems such a vulnerable young lady,’ said I.

‘It is her youth and inexperience,’ replied Holmes. ‘What do you make of that fellow over there?’

‘The man suffering from toothache?’ I queried, glancing across the street to where a man dressed all in black stood by a lamp-post. His dark frock-coat and top hat were both the worse for wear, and about his neck and jaw, making an incongruous contrast with the sobriety of the remainder of his attire, was a red muffler.

Holmes turned his head and stared at me for a moment, his brows drawn into an expression of surprise and puzzlement.

‘I was applying your own methods of observation and deduction,’ said I in reply to his unspoken question. ‘The temperature must be up in the eighties already, so unless he is a madman he must have some very good reason for wearing his muffler. A bad case of toothache seems the most probable answer.’

‘Ha! I fancy that on this occasion your explanation is a little over-ingenious,’ remarked my friend. There was a trace of a smile about his lips, but his voice was cold and serious. ‘Unless I am much mistaken, the purpose of his muffler is not a subtle one, but the simplest imaginable.’

‘Which is?’

‘To conceal his face. He has shown considerable interest in Lady Davenoke since she left our front doorstep. I should not be surprised if—Yes, by George! There he goes! Your boots and your hat, quickly, Watson !’

In less than thirty seconds we were upon the pavement, but neither our recent visitor nor the man in black was anywhere to be seen.

‘She took a cab from the corner,’ cried Holmes, hurrying in that direction.

Down King Street as we turned the corner, two hansom cabs were rattling away towards Gloucester Place and were already some distance ahead of us. It was evident that the man in the red muffler had also managed to secure a cab. Holmes groaned aloud and looked about him in desperation. No other cab was on the street. ‘Come on, Watson!’ said he, and we set off on foot as fast as we could. Ahead of us the two cabs, the one following the other at a short distance, turned left into Gloucester Place and vanished from our sight.

I was quite out of breath by the time we reached the corner and a sudden sharp pain in my left leg served as a savage reminder to me of the wound I bore from the Afghan war. Eagerly, Holmes scanned the busy street ahead of us, his brows drawn down over his piercing grey eyes. The rigidity of his pose, the keen, hawk-like expression upon his face, made him appear for all the world like a bird of prey surveying the field. But on this occasion the hunter’s search was fruitless: no cabs were visible which could possibly be the ones we sought.