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

‘They must have turned into George Street,’ said he grimly. A few yards ahead of us a cab dropped off a fare and Holmes sprang in. I followed with relief, for the pain in my leg was now severe.

‘First right ahead!’ called my friend to the driver; ‘as fast as you can!’

Along George Street we rattled at a great rate, until we reached the Edgware Road, passing several other vehicles as we did so, but without seeing anything of Lady Davenoke or the man who was following her.

‘We have lost them,’ said Holmes bitterly, as we faced the crowded, bustling prospect of the Edgware Road. ‘They have evidently taken another route. We may still be able to gain an advantage, however!’ he cried, his eyes flashing. ‘Phillimore Gardens, Cabbie! By the fastest route you know!’

The driver whipped up the horse and we were off at a gallop once more, down to the Park, past houses, shops and gardens, along busy roads and quiet, until we at last turned into Phillimore Gardens, our horse steaming with the effort. The street was almost deserted, save for a workman wheeling a barrow along and a couple of loafers leaning upon a wall talking, one of them clutching a copy of the Pink ’Un in his hand. Of one thing we could be certain; at such a pace had we travelled that it was inconceivable that the other cabs could have arrived before us. Now we had only to wait.

For twenty-five minutes we sat there, Holmes with his pocket-watch open upon his knee, but neither Lady Davenoke nor anyone else whom we could recognise arrived.

‘It is my fault,’ said Holmes at length, in a tone of resignation. ‘I had assumed that she would be returning directly to Lady Congrave’s house, but she has evidently gone elsewhere. Come! There is little point our waiting here any longer. Let us return to Baker Street!’ Though his tone was a philosophical one, there was no disguising the expression of disappointment upon his face.

Holmes went out after lunch, without saying where he was going. I passed the afternoon in an armchair, my aching leg upon a stool, endeavouring to read Colonel Forbes Macallan’s History of the Afghan Campaign . Certainly the sweltering weather suited the subject of the book, but try as I might to concentrate, I found my mind constantly wandering to our morning’s visitor and her recent strange experiences. Lady Davenoke’s singular tale, and our hectic dash through the streets, had left a most sinister impression upon my mind.

Why had her new husband, apparently so attentive to her before, now deserted her so abruptly and without a word of explanation? Why, in coming up to London, had he broken with the family tradition of staying at the Royal Suffolk Hotel? What was the explanation for the lights which Amelia Davenoke had seen in the ruined chapel at night-time and for the figure she had seen upon the lawn in the moonlight? Who was the man with the red muffler and why was he following her about London? The more I pondered these matters, the less sense could I make of them. My heart went out to that slight, elfin-like young woman, who walked amidst such mystery, so far from home and family, when she should have been enjoying to the full the first happy months of married life. With all my heart I wished to help her, but felt at an utter loss to know what to do. Fervently I hoped that Sherlock Holmes would conceive some line of inquiry, some course of action which we could follow.

My friend returned at a quarter to six, an expression of fatigue upon his face. He dropped into his old blue armchair and stretched out his legs.

‘If Edward Davenoke were staying at one of the many hotels in the West End,’ said he after a moment, ‘the chances of our finding him would be slight, to say the least. However, we are given to understand that he has come up to town upon business of some kind and it therefore seems likely that he would take a hotel in the City.’

I nodded and he continued:

‘This consideration reduces the field of inquiry significantly, for there are far fewer hotels at that end of town than this. Now, I have this afternoon visited every hotel in the City at which our missing baronet might conceivably stay, without finding the slightest trace of him.’

‘You must be very disappointed!’

‘On the contrary,’ said he, ‘it is a most pleasing result – for the spirit, at least, if not for the body.’

‘I do not understand, Holmes.’

‘I mean, Watson, that the result of my inquiries is precisely as I had expected. It is always pleasing to have one’s views confirmed. As the chemist tests substance after substance for a certain reaction, hoping all the time in his heart that the reaction will not occur, for it is his theory that it should not do so, so I – the chemist of human complexities – test hotel after hotel for the presence of Edward Davenoke, hoping all the time, in this sense at least, that I do not find him there.’

‘Then you do not believe that he is staying in a hotel at all?’

‘Precisely, Watson. Pass me a whisky and soda, there’s a good fellow – and a cigar, too, if you would be so good; my body could tolerate a little relaxation!’

‘But if you are so sure that he is not there, then why look?’

‘The spirit of scientific inquiry, my dear fellow. One must test one’s theories. What is a theory that is never put to the test? – Nothing but a puff of empty vapour.’

I endeavoured to press my colleague further as to his views upon the matter, but he was unforthcoming. For twenty minutes he lay back in silence in his chair, the blue smoke of the cigar curling lazily up to the ceiling.

‘I wrote to Lady Davenoke whilst I was out,’ he remarked abruptly, without opening his eyes.

‘You sent her a telegram?’

‘No, a letter; for I wished to be sure that she was back at Shoreswood when my communication arrived, just in case anyone else there felt an inclination to open it in her absence.’

‘You suspect that someone might do such a thing?’ I queried, surprised at his remark.

‘It is possible and it is not a risk I was prepared to take. I have asked her to confirm that all is in order at Shoreswood and that everyone who should be there was indeed there when she returned. Now,’ he continued, rising from his seat, ‘I am retiring.’ He selected an old brier from a rack of pipes upon the mantelpiece and took up the Persian slipper in which he kept his tobacco. ‘Kindly inform Mrs Hudson that I shall not require supper this evening.’

My features must have betrayed the surprise I felt at his retiring at so early an hour, for at the doorway he paused.

‘I need to think,’ said he, ‘and my bedroom, being quieter, suits the purpose better. As for eating, you must be aware that the digestion of food takes oxygen from the brain and is thus inimical to profound thought.’ With that explanation he was gone and I saw him no more that night. It was evident, however, that his mind was sorely exercised by Amelia Davenoke’s problem, for late into the night I could hear the sound of his footsteps pacing backwards and forwards across the floor of his room.

In the morning, my friend did not show himself until late. His eyes were dark, his face haggard and drawn, and I had no need of my medical training to perceive that he had had little sleep that night. A few letters had arrived for him by the morning’s post. These he glanced over mechanically and without interest, his mind clearly elsewhere. Upon opening the last one, however, his expression changed utterly and he sat bolt upright in his chair as if he had been galvanised. It was, I could see, a letter-card, of the type which costs a penny-farthing from post offices, and which can be folded and sealed when the message has been written upon it.

‘The matter deepens,’ said Holmes in a tone of excitement. ‘Take a look!’