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

‘There is little more of interest,’ said Holmes, his eye running down the page. ‘Ah! Amelia Davenoke is not alone in her dislike of the place. Apparently, David Hume, the philosopher, spent a night there in 1766 and described it afterwards, in a letter to Adam Smith, as “the most repugnant household in which a man was ever required to endure twenty-four hours”. Hum! The chapel seems to have had a history almost as chequered as that of the Davenokes themselves. Parts of it are Norman, including one wall which still stands. Listen to this, Watson! – “It was partly destroyed at the Reformation, partly restored under Mary Tudor, forcibly closed during Elizabeth’s long reign, and brought to its present state of ruin by Cromwell’s myrmidons, since when it has been left to moulder in picturesque decay.” What a wealth of history that sentence comprises! But I see that you are ready now to take over!’

My friend passed me the book, settled himself in his chair and put a match to his pipe, as I began the following singular account:

The legend associated with the Manor of Shoreswood, and hence with the family of Davenoke, is among the most remarkable of English folk-tales, containing as it does certain unique features which set it apart from other, similar legends. Yet it has, also, something in common with all such tales, in that it purports to record events which we feel reluctant to credit, but which were apparently well-attested by those present at the time.

Belief in a hidden chamber in Shoreswood Hall, and in a mysterious local creature, unlike any known animal, were both part of the common coin of rural folklore throughout the recorded history of the area. But the two beliefs appear to have been quite distinct and unconnected until the early years of the seventeenth century, during the reign of James I, when there occurred, so it is said, those events which were to forge an inseparable link between them in the popular imagination, and give to the creature the name of the Beast of Shoreswood. It was a dark and superstitious age, between the brash and confident gaiety of the Tudors and the harsh and bitter divisions of the Civil War; a fitting time, one might suppose, for a monster to stalk the shadowed lanes of the Deben valley, striking terror into the hearts of the simple country-folk who dwelt there.

As to the accuracy of the following we can make no claim. It is largely taken from what is probably the best account, that of one Thomas Swefling, a minor tax-official in the area at the time. As he did not set himself to record the events until twenty years after their occurrence, however, his account may contain many errors, which must, of necessity, be repeated here.

In the year 1607, Richard Davenoke was Lord of the Manor of Shoreswood, a man who was, by all accounts, neither better nor worse than his forebears, from which one may conclude that he was known for hard riding, hard fighting and hard drinking, for a general amiability on sunny days and a ferocious, unappeasable temper on dark days. His mother, a woman of Burgundian extraction, had for many years been a powerful force in the area, but since her death, two years previously, the responsibilities of the district had rested solely, and some said too heavily, upon Richard’s shoulders. For he was not by temperament a natural leader of men, and his life had already been touched by sorrow once before. His only brother, Arthur, had been drowned in the moat of Shoreswood Hall twenty years previously when still a small child, and it was often said of Richard Davenoke that this tragedy had so affected his young, impressionable soul that he had ever after borne its mark, and been subject to fits of black melancholy. But greater tragedy was yet to befall him, ensuring that the story of Richard Davenoke’s struggle against the Beast of Shoreswood would live forever in the annals of East Suffolk.

In the spring of that year, a series of inexplicable and ghastly attacks were made, under cover of darkness, upon domestic animals as they grazed peacefully in the fields. On each occasion, the ferocity of the attack was marked, but there was no common agreement among the local people as to the nature of the predator. Sentries were appointed and a watch kept, but the killer was never seen. Some argued that a wolf must be responsible, but others, observing with truth that no wolf had been seen in East Suffolk for over a hundred years, whispered darkly of some more unnatural agency.

After this initial onslaught, the attacks ceased for a while, but when they began afresh, as many had feared they would, it was with an even greater ferocity than before. Nothing that lived and breathed was safe from the blood-lust of the mysterious and unseen beast: sheep, cattle, horses and every other kind of harmless animal, all were butchered alike. By this time there was great fear among the local folk as to what the evil creature could be which passed amongst them at dead of night, for in not one instance of this hideous slaughter had an animal been killed for food. Clearly the beast was one which killed only to satisfy its thirst for blood. Then, at last, as all in their hearts had feared, a human victim was taken, a local farmer’s son who had been walking home alone, late at night. His body was found by the roadside next morning, almost torn to pieces by the ferocity of the attack.

Armed bands of men were at once formed, under the leadership of Richard Davenoke, to hunt down the beast; but though they scoured the countryside round, searched with hounds, and kept armed watch at night for many weeks, no trace of the mysterious creature could be found. A little later, another man was attacked and killed, then a third, then a fourth and fifth. People spoke now of the Beast of Shoreswood, and dark rumours began to circulate concerning Richard Davenoke’s supposedly dead brother. There were some who now recalled a strange deformity of the features which this unfortunate child was said to have possessed, a deformity so terrible that it was said to have given him the appearance of some low animal or rodent. Others remembered tales which had been current in the countryside twenty years previously despite the family’s attempts to suppress them, of wild childish tantrums verging almost upon madness.

Perhaps, the rumours now suggested, the story of Arthur’s death had been untrue, fabricated deliberately to conceal a truth far worse, that his bestial insanity had obliged his family to hide him away from the eyes of the world, confined for life in some secret and inaccessible chamber in Shoreswood Hall. Perhaps the source of the evil which had thrown such a pall of terror over the countryside was to be found in that dark and sombre building.

As is the way among fanciful and ill-educated people, these rumours soon acquired the status of fact. More and more openly were such thoughts spoken aloud, until they reached the ear of Richard Davenoke himself. Greatly angered, he did all in his power to suppress the rumours, but there were those who said that he did so with a weary reluctance, and without the light of truth in his eye. Certainly, the whole dreadful series of events seemed to have exacted an awful toll from the man. As chief landowner in the area, he had naturally assumed responsibility in the matter, and this responsibility and the worries and cares which came with it had almost destroyed him. Broken in health, his face lined with anxiety and his hair prematurely grey, he went about his daily business with the weariness of one who would welcome the release of the grave. In some, his appearance and manner evoked sympathy, but there were many others who saw in them a confirmation of the very worst of the rumours. A man so racked, they argued, was a man who was torn between two loyalties, who could not bring himself to do what in his heart he knew he must.