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

‘It is possible,’ I conceded. ‘What a dark, confusing business it is! What is the purpose of it all? What is happening at Shoreswood? It seems to me that we have learnt nothing that can shed any light upon it at all.’

‘There is one thing,’ said he. ‘But, come! We approach our station! We can continue this interesting discussion later.’

Holmes had sent a wire from London and the Shoreswood trap was waiting for us at the station. We sprang in, the driver whipped up the horse and we rattled off at a great speed. The rain had quite stopped now and the sky was clearing, as the rags and tatters of the storm-rack were hurried on their way by a fresh breeze. We passed at a clatter through the outskirts of a village, then down a series of narrow, sodden lanes, where the arching trees met high overhead in a translucent green canopy and the golden rays of the afternoon sun sparkled upon the damp hedgerows.

After a drive of perhaps five miles, we turned in abruptly at the gates of the Shoreswood estate, where the close ranks of colossal beeches cast a dark and dismal shade. For some time, the drive wound between the trees and passed beside a quiet mere, thick with weeds; then the ground on either hand rose up steeply in banks of crumbling, bare earth, from which gnarled tree-roots protruded forlornly. All at once, we emerged from this gloom, rounded a small hillock and crossed an old stone bridge over a stream, and there before us lay Shoreswood Hall, grey and forbidding, its recesses in deep shadow. But for a curtain flapping from an upstairs window, I should have taken it for an ancient and long-uninhabited ruin.

At the centre of this grim pile, a low flight of crumbling and lichen-blotched steps led up to a dark oak door and, as we approached, this door was opened and a man in the garb of a butler stepped out. He had reached the foot of the steps and was about to speak to us when a second, slighter figure appeared in the doorway and ran with great haste down the steps. To my surprise, I saw that it was Lady Davenoke herself, clearly in a state of great distress.

‘That will be all right, Hardwick,’ said she, in a breathless voice. ‘These gentlemen are guests of mine. You may return to your duties.’

A look of acute surprise came over his features and he made as if to speak, but she paid him no heed and turned to us.

‘Please come with me, gentlemen,’ said she, her breast heaving violently with emotion. ‘I have much to tell you.’ She set off at once with short, quick steps, across the lawn, away from the house and towards a dense thicket of trees, one hand clutching her straw bonnet to her head, the other gathering the hem of her light-blue dress above the wet grass. We followed her along a narrow overgrown path which wound about the woods for some twenty or thirty yards, until we reached a small clearing, in which an old and weather-worn stone seat stood in picturesque isolation. All around, and upon the seat itself, the fallen leaves of the previous autumn lay in thick profusion.

‘We shall not be overheard here,’ said Lady Davenoke breathlessly, casting an anxious glance back the way we had come.

‘We are at your disposal,’ said Sherlock Holmes in a comforting tone. ‘When you have collected yourself, perhaps you could let us have the details of what has occurred.’

‘Edith and I returned here full of hope,’ responded the other after a moment, ‘but we were soon dispossessed of that foolishness. Upon the second night, I was roused from sleep by a tapping at my bedroom door and found Edith there in the darkness, weeping with fright at the strange noises she had heard.’

‘What sort of noises?’ interrupted Holmes sharply.

‘Just as I had heard previously: the soft opening and closing of doors and creeping footsteps upon the stairs. Poor girl! She had come to me for comfort, but that I could not give her, for my blood was as chilled as her own. For twenty minutes we sat together upon my bed, but we heard nothing further. The following day I had her bed moved into my room and since then we have at least had each other’s companionship in the night-time. But the evil, secret movements of the night have not abated and our sleep has scarcely been improved. One night we both saw a faint light by the river. I knew then that it was no mere product of my imagination. On another occasion, Edith swore that she saw a stooping figure in the chapel ruins, although I could not myself make it out.

‘Even in sleep I am tormented and have had the most terrible nightmares imaginable.’ She shook her head quickly as a shudder of revulsion passed through her body. ‘Upon the fourth night, Edith was wakened by a noise and saw to her surprise that my bed was empty. Fighting against her fears, she ventured out into the corridor. There, she says, she found me, at the head of the stairs in my nightgown, my eyes staring with horror. Yet believe me, Mr Holmes, when I say that I have no recollection of how I came to be there. It was as if I had been summoned in my sleep by some evil power. Oh, thank God that Edith was there to lead me back gently to the safety of my own room and bed!’

‘Has your letter to the Royal Suffolk Hotel been returned to you?’ queried Holmes as Lady Davenoke paused.

‘About two days after my return from London,’ she answered, nodding her head slightly. ‘The manager had been obliged to open my letter in order to see who had sent it, that he might return it to the correct address. He had then placed the letter, envelope and all, together with a note from himself, in one of the hotel’s own large envelopes, which had been sealed. However, as I came to open this envelope, it was immediately obvious to me that someone had steamed open the flap and attempted, not entirely successfully, to re-secure it. I said nothing, but at once recalled the look of guilt I had seen in Hardwick’s eyes as he brought in the mail that morning.

‘The following day, to take our minds from the dark conspiracy which seemed to encircle us, we decided to plant a few daffodil bulbs by the edge of the woods. The fresh air, and thoughts of spring flowers, would be a tonic to us both. We found trowels and a small sack of bulbs, and I brought out a couple of old newspapers for us to kneel on. Newspapers and journals which are no longer required are kept in a cupboard near the kitchen, and I had taken a small pile from there at random. As we were engaged in our bulb-planting, Edith chanced upon a humorous item in the newspaper upon which she was kneeling and began to read it aloud.

‘“What a preposterous story!” I cried, laughing. “And when did all that nonsense take place, Edith?”

‘“Why, just last Monday, believe it or not!” said she gaily, joining her own laughter to my own.

‘“One moment,” said I, as a sudden thought caused the laughter to die in my throat. “Let me have a look at that paper, Edith.” I took it from her and saw that it was the Globe , published on the very afternoon of the day I called to see you, Mr Holmes. “Does this newspaper belong to you, Edith?” said I to Miss Strensall. She shook her head. She had not, she said, had any newspaper with her the day we left London, but she remembered that I had purchased one at Liverpool Street railway terminal just before we caught our train.

‘“It was not this one,” said I, “but the St James’s Gazette – which is still where I left it, in my bedroom. So how, then, came a London evening newspaper to be in Shoreswood Hall, if we did not bring it?”

‘Her face fell grave as she saw my meaning. Instinctively, without thought, we both looked quickly over our shoulders, towards the Hall. Blank, dark windows stared back at us from its drab grey walls, but it seemed to me as I looked that a face had rapidly withdrawn from one of the upper windows even as we had turned.