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

The atrocious and bloody deeds of violence continued to occur at irregular intervals, turning the nights of the country-folk to sleepless terror; and as they did so, so did the rumours grow and strengthen themselves by feeding upon the ignorance of the people. There were those who said, although not to his face, that Richard Davenoke should, once and for all, deny upon holy oath, if he could, the stories which were being told against his brother. Some argued for the opening of his brother’s tomb, whilst others wished to see a company of local yeomen allowed to enter and search Shoreswood Hall. Where this growing discontent might have ended, no one can say, for all at once, upon a shocking and horrific night in August, the matter reached a final and terrible climax.

In the darkest hours of the night, so it is said, when all had been long asleep, every soul in Shoreswood Hall was on a sudden instant rendered wide awake and struck with terror by the most dreadful and blood-curdling scream. For a long moment, the echo of the scream seemed to hang in the silent air after the sound itself had died, then doors were flung back and the noise of running footsteps filled the stairways and corridors of the Hall. One man cried out that he had seen a crouching figure slip away along a dark corridor, and several hurried that way to give pursuit, but nothing was found. The largest crowd had by now gathered outside the bed-chamber of Elizabeth Davenoke, wife of Richard, for it was from there that the unearthly sound had issued, but none dared enter. Then Richard Davenoke himself stepped to the front of the crowd, and, taking a long-bladed knife from his chief steward, he placed his hand upon the latch. With a resolute and grim expression, he bade all there remain without the door on peril of their lives, then, with a gesture of impulse, wrenched the door open and passed within, bolting it fast behind him.

What took place in that room then, none can tell. Certainly there were cries and groans, and the sounds of a struggle filled the air. Outside the room, the servants of Shoreswood stood listening in impotent and silent horror for what seemed an eternity. Abruptly, the door opened once more, and Richard Davenoke emerged, his clothes torn and his body a mass of cuts and scratches. ‘Your mistress is dead,’ said he with a face of stone, at which the servants all fell to weeping. ‘She is the very last victim that will ever be taken by the monster that has terrorised us for so long. Return to your beds now, and you, Joseph, my good and faithful servant, do you come with me and assist me, in the grim work that must now be done.’

Thus ended the six-month reign of terror of the Beast of Shoreswood, for there were no more killings. The funeral of Elizabeth Davenoke took place a few days later amid scenes of much sorrow, for she had been greatly loved in the district. There were those who said that another ceremony took place also, at dead of night, but if this were so, nothing is known of it, for a veil of secrecy had fallen upon Shoreswood Hall. There was great sympathy for Richard Davenoke in his time of sorrow, and he was never pressed to reveal what he knew of the terrible events of that year. Speculation naturally abounded, but no story was ever either confirmed or denied by the Lord of Shoreswood, who had sworn himself to total silence upon the matter. From that time onward, so it is said, he never once left his estate until the day he died, and scarcely ever ventured outside the Hall itself, spending his days in solitary study and prayer.

Fifteen years later, upon Richard’s death, his oldest son, Thomas, promised to make public all he might discover among his father’s papers concerning ‘The Beast of Shoreswood’, but either he found nothing, or chose not to disclose it, for the promise was never fulfilled. The alteration in the young man’s character which took place at that time led many to suspect that he had indeed discovered the truth, but thought it better to conceal it. For it is said that from the day upon which he assumed the title of Shoreswood, he was never again seen to smile. Thus arose the tradition that upon learning the secret of the Davenokes, each happy heir becomes a sorrowful man. Fanciful as this must strike the modern reader, it is a curious fact that no Lord of Shoreswood has ever openly disputed the tradition. Indeed, the family’s reluctance to speak at all upon the subject of the Beast or the secret chamber is striking, and, moreover, makes it unlikely that any fresh information will be forthcoming in the near future. As to the further manifestations of ‘the Beast’, an outbreak of sheep-maiming in 1699 was ascribed to it, as were a similar outrage in 1784 and the mysterious disappearance of twenty head of cattle in 1837; but in every case the evidence was scant, and the Shoreswood monster seems to have received the blame only for want of any better theory.

This then is the history of the Beast of Shoreswood, and of what is known as ‘The Curse of the Davenokes’. Is there any substance in these old tales? Is there any dark secret concealed in Shoreswood Hall? Or is the whole story a mere accretion of legends around a mundane and long-forgotten incident? I leave the reader to draw his own conclusions, which will be every bit as valid as the writer’s. Those who are interested may read with profit Dr Wilhelm Hertz’s monograph Der Werwolf (1862) which gives the best general account of such legends.

‘What a grim old tale!’ said I, as I put down the book.

‘Yes, it is charmingly Gothic, is it not?’ agreed my friend. ‘The author’s remark – that later outrages were ascribed to the Beast’s activities only in want of a more constructive theory – is a perceptive one. It was ever the case with such legends: once they are established they provide the basis of an explanation – of sorts – for all that would otherwise remain unexplained. This fact is no doubt a great encouragement to would-be malefactors.’

‘In the past, perhaps,’ said I, smiling; ‘but the influence of such tales must now be quite dead and buried – thank goodness!’

‘Not necessarily, Watson. Dark deeds have long shadows!’

There was a thoughtful note in his voice, which arrested my attention.

‘Surely you cannot think that this old legend has anything to do with Lady Davenoke’s case!’ I cried in surprise.

‘I am very much afraid that it may have,’ said Holmes, shaking his head.

‘But it is mere fantasy!’ I protested. ‘We surely cannot give credence to such a farrago of nonsense! Why, you yourself said to Lady Davenoke, only the other day—’

‘In this instance,’ interjected my friend, ‘it scarcely matters at all what you or I believe, Watson. What is important is what may or may not be believed by others. There is something unpleasant about this case; something which smells, like the rot of evil. We shall not cleanse the air and clear the troubled brow of Lady Amelia until we have found the source of the rot and destroyed it – whatever it may be.’

Three days passed and we heard nothing further. Several times I observed Holmes take up the Suffolk County Guide and read again the history of Shoreswood and the Davenokes with a frown upon his face. Then he would cast the book aside and close his eyes, and sit an hour in silent thought, his brow furrowed with concentration. At other times he would sit with one of his beloved black-letter editions upon his knee, his fingers picking absent-mindedly at imperfections in the pages, his eyes far away, and the page remaining unturned for hours at a time. Once I heard him speaking aloud to himself in German, and I assumed that he was reading from the book upon his knee until the words ‘Davenoke’ and ‘Hardwick’ caught my ear.

‘I begin to think that I have erred,’ said he upon the evening of the third day, ‘in not going down to Shoreswood last week, with Lady Davenoke. I admit to you, Watson, that I believed then that the matter would very likely resolve itself without my intervention. The longer it fails to do so, the greater is the danger to my client’s state of mind. It is this that worries me more than any other consideration.’