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

‘The discovery of the newspaper brought home to me afresh the horror of my position, all ignorant of the hidden deeds about me. We had sought to distract our thoughts from such things in the garden, but instead had made a discovery that we could not have imagined. What the significance of it was, I could not see; but I impressed upon Miss Strensall that she must not speak a word on the matter and vowed to communicate with you at the first opportunity.

‘I wrote the letter that night and the following day suggested to Miss Strensall that we walk down to the village post office together. As we were descending the steps of the house, Hardwick, who had evidently heard the door, hurried out after us and enquired if he could be of service.

‘“I do not think so,” said I, and informed him of our errand.

‘“If you wish, my lady,” said he, “you may give the letter to me and I will have Staples run down with it.”

‘“No, thank you,” I replied firmly. “It is a lovely day and I am sure we shall find the walk beneficial.”

‘As we crossed the bridge, I glanced back and saw that Hardwick was still standing in the open doorway of the house. I knew that he would dearly have loved to see the address upon my letter, and to read its contents, and I had, I confess, an odd sense of elation to know that for once I was the one with the secret, I was the one causing anxiety in others.’

‘Is there anything else?’ queried Holmes, raising his head, which had been sunk in contemplation upon his breast.

‘That day and the next were mercifully free of event,’ replied our companion with feeling. ‘But this morning’s discovery has quite remedied the deficiency.’ She spoke these words with slow emphasis and as she did so the colour passed visibly from her face. It was evident that in speaking to us, the consciousness of recent events had been for a short time banished from her mind, but now, as her narrative was brought up to date, the full horror of them returned to her.

‘What is it?’ said Holmes in a soft voice, evidently perceiving as well as I the abrupt change in Lady Davenoke’s features.

‘Oh, it is so horrible! So horrible and pointless!’

Holmes raised his eyebrows questioningly.

‘Someone,’ she said, with emotion throbbing in her voice; ‘someone has killed Bruno, Edward’s beloved sheepdog. We found him this morning, Edith and I. He lay just within the woods, near the ruined chapel. He had been struck a heavy blow and the side of his head was a mass of blood—’

Her words ended abruptly and with a terrible wail of grief she began to sob uncontrollably. I gave her my handkerchief and put my hand upon her arm, and she turned to me and wept upon my shoulder.

Somewhere in the distance a woman’s voice called. Holmes left us, but returned in a moment accompanied by a small blonde-haired young woman, whom I took to be Edith Strensall.

‘Oh, Amelia!’ she cried in distress, rushing forward to put her arm round her friend. ‘Do not weep so, my dear!’

‘What can we do, Mr Holmes?’ said the other, her sobs lessening a little. ‘Must I live forever in this nightmare?’

‘You have been very brave and sensible so far,’ returned my friend in an encouraging tone. ‘If you can be so for just a little longer, I promise you that I shall have some news for you by tomorrow.’

‘Do you mean it?’ said she, her reddened eyes opening wide with hope. ‘Do you really mean it, Mr Holmes?’

‘Most certainly, Lady Davenoke.’

‘My husband—?’

‘Twenty-four hours, Lady Davenoke, twenty-four hours. For the present you ladies may return to the needlework which our visit has interrupted – there is no mystery, madam; I observed the unmistakable mark of a thimble upon your finger when first you greeted us. Until tomorrow, then!’

The sun broke through the patchy clouds as we left the wood and cast long shadows across the lawn. A warm smell of wet vegetation filled the air and all nature seemed refreshed by the recent rain. Our way to the bridge across the stream took us close by the ruined chapel. Holmes paused there a moment, a thoughtful expression upon his face; then, indicating that I should wait at the edge of the ruins, he stepped over a few loose stones and proceeded to examine the whole area with minute care. Back and forth he went, now standing, now stooping, now down upon his hands and knees, his nose barely an inch above the flagstones. Then he took from his pocket a small, powerful lens, with which he inspected more closely certain marks upon the crumbling walls and floor. From time to time he frowned and muttered to himself, whether in puzzlement or satisfaction I could not tell, until at length, pocketing his lens once more, he rejoined me upon the lawn.

‘Come,’ said he. ‘There is an inn in the last village we passed, about a mile down the road. Perhaps we can get a little sustenance there.’

A pleasant walk of some twenty minutes brought us to the Black Lion, where Mr Jelks, the genial, soft-spoken landlord, produced an excellent meal for us of cold meat and pickles, and a pot of tea.

Afterwards, having booked rooms for the night, we repaired to the private sitting-room upstairs.

‘You are no doubt wondering what I intend to do,’ said Sherlock Holmes, when he had lit his pipe and we had smoked in silence for some time.

‘I confess that I am quite in the dark, both as to what has gone before and what is to come,’ I replied. ‘But what puzzles me most is why, if you are so certain that Davenoke is at Shoreswood, you did not apprise his wife of the fact.’

‘Our locus standi is a delicate one,’ replied my friend after a moment. ‘Words of explanation were better coming from Davenoke’s own lips than from mine.’

‘But if such words of explanation are not forthcoming?’

‘Then we must act as we see fit. Lady Davenoke certainly deserves an explanation from someone.’

‘I cannot imagine what that explanation could be,’ I remarked. ‘The whole affair is nothing but darkness and confusion!’

‘Not entirely,’ returned Holmes. ‘You must bear in mind that Edward Davenoke’s disappearance was abrupt; his wife had had no indication that anything of the sort might occur and such a desertion of his new bride seems out of character for the man. We must suppose, then, that it was as a result of something which took place after his return from abroad. Is there anything we know of which took place then and which might fit the part?’

‘All we know,’ I suggested, ‘is that Davenoke’s father died and was buried two or three days later.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Nothing of significance. He called in to see the solicitor over some trivial matter, just after his father’s death.’

‘Precisely, Watson! Precisely! There, if you will recall, the solicitor gave him a bundle of old documents, thereby fulfilling the instruction he had been given many years before, by Edward Davenoke’s father.’

‘The solicitor did not believe the papers to be of any importance.’

‘In his eyes, perhaps not. But he was only guessing, from their ancient appearance and from the fact that Sir John had deposited them with him nearly twenty years ago. He had not, as he admitted to Lady Davenoke, actually read the documents. Let us suppose that they pertain to the family legend.’

‘Why should they?’

‘Well, what else do you suggest? They are evidently historical and equally evidently of value to the family; otherwise, why deposit them with the solicitor in that way? Moreover, they are sealed personally by Sir John, so that even his trusted solicitor is not privy to their content – a suggestive point, do you not agree?’

I nodded, and he continued.

‘Now, we know from tradition that it is only when the heir takes possession of the estate that he learns the family secrets, which are known to no one else: Edward Davenoke said something of the sort himself. But we also know that, according to his father, who seemed to take the matter most seriously, “the Lord of the Manor of Shoreswood never speaks of the legend”, or something of the sort – and that prohibition seemed to include his own son. It is therefore apparent that the only way the heir can possibly learn anything of the matter is from documents passed on to him when he comes into his inheritance, documents which are at all other times locked away from human gaze. It seems certain beyond peradventure, then, that the documents which the solicitor passed to young Davenoke, whatever else they may have dealt with, contained details of the legend of the Beast of Shoreswood, the secret chamber and all the rest of it.’