The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Denis O. Smith

  ‘Perhaps when you are recovered you can give us the details of the matter and then we shall see if we can’t set about allaying your anxieties.’

  Thus it was that ten minutes later, fortified by strong tea and composed once more, Amelia Davenoke began her strange tale. She was, as my friend had surmised, the wife of Sir Edward Davenoke, who had recently succeeded to the baronetcy upon the death of his father.

  ‘Let us first be clear as to the essential facts,’ said Holmes as his client hesitated a moment. He laid out his note-book upon his knee in a brisk and business-like manner. ‘Your husband has disappeared. Were you in London at the time?’

  Lady Davenoke shook her head. ‘No, no; Montpelier, in the south of France.’

  ‘Indeed! And did you report his disappearance to the authorities there?’

  Again she shook her head. ‘What could they know of it?’ she queried in a surprised voice. ‘Edward was not in Montpelier, but at Shoreswood.’

  Holmes put down his pencil with a sigh.

  ‘My questions seem to create only confusion,’ said he, a flicker of a smile upon his lips. ‘Perhaps if you tell your story in your own words, the matter will be clearer.’

  ‘Where should I begin?’

  ‘If your troubles began with your husband’s disappearance, then begin there; if not, begin at any point that strikes you as appropriate. How you order your account is of less importance than that it is complete.’

  ‘Then I feel I must begin a year ago, when Edward and I first met,’ said Lady Davenoke after she had considered the matter in silence for a little while. ‘For it seems to me now – but, still, you will understand how it seems to me when you have heard what I have to tell you.’

  ‘By all means,’ said Holmes, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes in an attitude of concentration.

  ‘My maiden name was Adams,’ his client continued after a moment. ‘My father is Claude Adams, the railroad proprietor. He was in at the beginning of the railroad boom in the States, and the Portland and Vermont made his fortune. He had had little education himself and, now that he was wealthy, was determined that his children should make up for what he himself had lacked. So it was that I came last year to Europe, with my aunt, Juliana Clemens. We were making a grand tour of all that was venerable and historic, and it was while we were in Florence, in July, that I made the acquaintance of Edward Davenoke.

  ‘He seemed to me the most pleasant and engaging young man I had ever met, and we soon struck up a fine friendship. His appearance was thoughtful and studious, especially when he wore his spectacles, but he had a most vivacious sense of fun which was never long repressed. He had with him a Belgian Sheepdog called Bruno, which he had acquired on his travels, and the two of them would sport about the noble streets and squares of Florence in the most incongruous and humorous way imaginable. All too soon after we had become friends, Edward was obliged to return home, to Shoreswood in Suffolk, but before he left he requested that my aunt and I call upon him when we visited England, later in the year. My aunt saw no objection to this suggestion and a date was fixed for our visit, in the fall of last year. For my own part I confess that the remainder of our European tour seemed dull and uninteresting compared to the time we had spent in Edward’s company, and were it not for the letters which we exchanged regularly, I do not know that I could have borne the months which were to pass before our boat sailed for England.

  ‘Eventually the day arrived. When I think now—’ She paused and gazed for a moment at her clasped hands. ‘When I think now of the happiness I felt on that day—’ Again she paused and shook her head slightly. ‘To have come three thousand miles, for this!’

  Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes and, frowning slightly, made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

  ‘Do not distress yourself unnecessarily, Lady Davenoke,’ said he in a soft voice. ‘Describe each event in the order in which it occurred and, above all, resist the temptation to compare the present with the past; for in any such comparison the past has always the unfair advantage that one’s memory of it is both selective and partial.’

  Our visitor smiled thinly, but appreciatively, and, after a moment, resumed her narrative.

  ‘Edward met us at Harwich and escorted us to Shoreswood Old Hall, which has been the seat of the family for centuries. It is a curious and not altogether attractive place; a dark and sombre house, built haphazardly of flint, plaster-work and brick, and lying half in ruins. The Davenokes have always been intensely proud of the richness of history which the house represents; but to me there is something chaotic and unpleasant about the place: if it represents history, then it is history as designed by a madman. The interior of the house presents an equally bizarre muddle, where, coming round some dark and dusty corner of a corridor, one will find an ornate Boulle cabinet standing beside a crude, axe-carved stool. There is much of value and interest in the house – the walls are lined with old paintings and tapestries and hung with weapons and curios of every shape and size – but all is dark and faded, and somehow oppressive. I guess I’m not very familiar with your old English houses, gentlemen, but I am sure they cannot all be like Shoreswood. The passages and stairs are shadowy and cramped, the rooms damp, and infested with mice and spiders. A short distance from the house lies what was once the Davenokes’ private chapel but is now a mouldering heap of ivy-covered stones. Even in broad daylight an unpleasant air of misery and ruin hangs over this place, but it is at night, when the moonlight falls upon it, that it assumes its most chill and minatory aspect. The locals, I understand, will not approach within a hundred yards of the place after sunset.’ Lady Davenoke’s voice faltered and an involuntary shudder shook her whole body.

  ‘But at first, although I can scarce believe it now,’ she continued after a moment, ‘the very oddness and antiquity of Shoreswood intrigued and charmed me. The estate lies in a green and fertile valley, a land of beautiful woodlands and streams, which reminds me very much of my home. My aunt and I took many a pleasant walk with Edward, along the narrow lanes and woodland paths there. His company was a constant and unvarying source of pleasure to me, which is more than I can say for that of his father, I am afraid.’ Her voice trembled with emotion and she bit her lip before continuing.

  ‘Sir John could be gay enough at times, when the mood was upon him, but his nature was a precariously balanced one, and a black, bitter side would often show itself for no apparent reason and endure for several days. During these periods it was best to keep out of his way, I found, for he could be harsh and cruel in his speech, and often drank to violent excess. I have since learnt – what is apparently common knowledge in the district – that it was entirely as a result of Sir John’s hard and sneering ways that his party lost the parliamentary seat of Shoreswood to their opponents, after it had been held without defeat for very nearly a century. Still, as I disliked and feared the father greatly, so did I love and trust the son to the same degree.

  ‘“You must forgive Father his rough ways,” said Edward to me one day, as we sat alone beside a slow, reed-girt stream. “He was not always as you see him now; but Mother’s death struck him a grave blow and, to tell the truth, he has never been quite the same man since.”

  ‘I was deeply impressed by Edward’s concern for my feelings and by his perception of what it was that troubled me; for I had, of course, never voiced my thoughts upon the subject and had striven to conceal my anxieties. In answer to my query, he told me that his mother had died three years previously. She had been on holiday with a cousin in Cornwall and had been stung fatally upon the foot by a weever fish whilst bathing in the sea off St Ives.

  ‘“I am so sorry,” said I.

  ‘He shook his head sadly. “She has been greatly missed by everyone,” said he. “She was always so generous and considerate. While she lived she had a gentle, uplifting influence upon the whole household; with her death passed away the Shoreswood I had known as a child.”

  ‘It was evident that Edward was s
addened by the remembrance of these events and I sought to cheer him. I asked him to tell me more of his family. His brow cleared and, with the ready smile which so often illumined his handsome features, he consented.

  ‘“Some say that there has been a streak of insanity in the family all along,” he began. My face must have betrayed the surprise I felt at so bald a statement on such a dreadful subject, for Edward took one look at me and let out a roar of laughter. I knew then that he was teasing me, as he had done upon numerous other occasions. I chided him, but could not, I confess, resist a smile myself. There was something so noble and refined about him that the lightest of remarks could sound sublime when it was he who spoke them.

  ‘“I will tell you of the family legend,” he continued after a moment, the same smile still playing about his features.

  ‘“Please do,” I returned eagerly, for I had heard him allude before to some old legend which concerned his family and their ancestral home at Shoreswood.

  ‘“It is said that the Hall holds a dark secret,” he began, “a secret whose origins lie in the distant past. There is, so it is said, a mysterious chamber hidden deep within the bowels of the Hall and it is in this chamber that the secret lies. Of its nature, none can tell. Some say that a terrible monster is kept there, some hideous, unspeakable beast for which the family is in some way responsible; but there are numerous other opinions upon the matter, none of them very pleasant.”

  ‘“Surely you do not believe these old legends?”

  ‘“Of course not, dear,” Edward replied, smiling warmly and taking my hand in his. “But, really, I can speak with no more authority upon the matter than the local guide-book; for it is only when the heir takes possession of the estate that the secret is vouchsafed to him. It is said, however, that knowledge of the secret turns each happy heir into a sorrowful man.”

  ‘“Has your father ever spoken of the legend, or of the secret room?” I asked.

  ‘Edward shook his head. “I used to ask him about it when I was young, but he always brushed aside my questions without answer. Once, however, when I was eighteen, I chanced to raise the subject again, one dark evening after dinner. ‘Listen very carefully, Edward,’ said my father then, in a grave voice, ‘and remember my words. I am going to speak one sentence to you and it will be the only sentence I shall ever speak upon the subject this side of the grave. It is this: The lord of the manor of Shoreswood does not refer to the legend – never, you understand – neither of his own volition nor in answer to the question of another.’ With that he stood up from the dinner-table and walked from the room in silence. Of course, it all seemed a little exaggerated to me at the time, but I could not help but be deeply impressed by the serious tones in which my father had spoken. Moreover, from that day to this he has been as true as his word.”

  ‘“What does it mean, Edward?” I asked, anxious to hear again that laughter which could dispel all my fears and doubts.

  ‘He shook his head, however, and there was a look of perplexity upon his face. “My father is the only one who can answer that question at present,” he replied at length, “and he is not disposed to speak upon the matter.”

  ‘I did not take any of this very seriously, at the time, Mr Holmes,’ said Lady Davenoke in an unsteady voice, ‘but now—’

  ‘The old manor-houses of England are full of such legends, Lady Davenoke,’ said Holmes briskly. ‘They are relicts of a bygone age, an age of darkness and superstition, fit material for a history of human folly and wickedness, but of no other value. I have myself often considered writing such a history, but have been deterred by the sheer volume of material available.’

  For a second, our client’s eyes flashed fire and a look of resolution came over her wan features.

  ‘You would not speak so glibly of old tales had you spent a night at Shoreswood Hall,’ said she angrily. ‘You would not make merry on human wickedness did you feel it all around you, every waking minute of your life – yes, and in every troubled moment of sleep, too.’ She paused for a moment, then continued in an altered tone: ‘Oh, but I see it now. I see by your face, Mr Holmes, that you were deliberately provoking me. You hoped to solve my problems for me by ridiculing that which I fear.’

  ‘Nevertheless, Lady Davenoke, what I say is true. There is nothing to be gained by dwelling upon vague and ancient fears.’

  ‘But if the fears become more tangible and immediate?’

  ‘Then they may be justified and I may be able to help you. Pray continue with your story. Despite the various misgivings to which you have alluded, you accepted Edward Davenoke when he asked for your hand, I take it.’

  Holmes leaned back in his chair once more, his eyelids drooping, his fingertips together, the very picture of motionless concentration.

  ‘Edward proposed to me on Saturday, November the twenty-seventh, last year,’ said our visitor, her eyes shining with evident pleasure at the memory. ‘I had never been so happy in my life and, in truth, I believe Aunt Juliana was as thrilled as I was. We at once cabled my parents, who came over as soon as they were able, and we all spent Christmas at Shoreswood, before returning to America in the new year. It had been decided that the wedding would take place here in July, and so it did, just over six weeks ago, on Saturday the eighth. It was then, incidentally, that I first met Lady Congrave, who has recently been so kind to me. She is a distant cousin of Edward’s, upon his mother’s side.

  ‘We were to have left for the continent immediately afterwards, but Edward’s father fell ill on the day of the wedding and our holiday was postponed. Three weeks later, Sir John appeared to be completely recovered and we at length began our foreign travels. Alas! we had been in Paris scarcely two days when news came that he had suffered a relapse and that the doctors feared for his life. Edward at once returned to England, but as arrangements had already been made for us to travel to Montpelier, where friends were expecting us that day, it was decided that I should travel on alone, to explain the circumstances. Edward promised that he would keep me informed by wire as to his father’s condition.

  ‘Four days later I received a telegram informing me that Sir John had died in the night. I returned to England as quickly as I could, leaving most of my luggage behind in Montpelier, but it took me a good three days, and by the time I arrived at Harwich I was almost beside myself with tiredness. To my surprise, there was no one there to meet me, nor any message of explanation, although I had sent a wire to Shoreswood, just before I boarded the boat. I wired again from the railroad depot, to say when I should arrive at Wickham Market station, but when the train pulled in there, the only face I recognised was that of Staples, the Shoreswood groom. He is a sour-faced man, certainly not whom I would have chosen to meet me, and I confess I was bitterly disappointed. He informed me, with little effort at civility, that the funeral of his late master had already taken place and that my husband, Sir Edward, as he now was, had left Shoreswood the previous day. This surprised me greatly and I enquired where my husband had gone; but Staples just shrugged his shoulders in a surly fashion and declared that no one had troubled to tell him anything of the matter. If I wished to know more I must enquire of Hardwick, the butler, for he had driven Sir Edward to the railway station.

  ‘When we reached Shoreswood I was further surprised to find that Edward had left no letter of explanation for me. Hardwick seemed most distressed about this and almost came to the point of apologising for it himself, as if he felt he were partly to blame. He is an old and trusted servant, who has been at Shoreswood for many years, and I have no doubt he still regards Edward as the small boy he used to know; but, even allowing for this, his manner struck me as odd and inappropriate, in a way I could not quite define. He informed me that Edward had been obliged to leave for London, to attend to certain urgent matters in connection with his father’s estate, but could supply no further details. He had no idea when Edward might return.

  ‘It was scarcely the homecoming I had expected, alone in that unfriendly house, save
for a handful of unprepossessing servants, to whom I was a virtual stranger. That night Shoreswood Hall seemed colder and more gloomy than I had ever known it before, but I consoled myself with the thought that Edward and I should no doubt be united once more in a few days’ time.’

  ‘One moment,’ interrupted Holmes. ‘Would you say that your husband’s apparently impetuous behaviour was in character, or not?’

  ‘He could he impulsive,’ Lady Davenoke replied hesitantly; ‘yes, I have known him impulsive in his actions. But he would always keep me informed. I have never known him inconsiderate in that respect before.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ suggested Holmes, ‘he did not expect to be away very long and thought that he would be back at Shoreswood before you returned from France.’

  ‘It is possible,’ returned Lady Davenoke, a note of enthusiasm in her voice. ‘Indeed, I think it very possible; I had not looked at the matter in that way before.’

  ‘Well, well, pray proceed with your account.’

  ‘The days passed without any word from Edward and I began to feel that something was very wrong. I felt so isolated and alone in that old dark house. Again I questioned Hardwick, but he could add nothing to what he had already told me.

  ‘“Sir Edward has gone to London,” said he. “That is all that I know.” And yet, this time I sensed that there was something evasive in his manner, as if perhaps he did know more, after all, but would not admit to it. I felt the same evasiveness when I questioned him as to what Edward had been doing on the days preceding my return. Needless to say, I learnt nothing.

  ‘At night-time my sleep was fitful and light, and I began to fancy that I could hear strange noises somewhere in the still darkness of the old house. Upon the fourth night I was awakened about one o’clock by the distant and muffled barking of a dog. It brought back to my mind Edward’s beloved Belgian Sheepdog and I realised that I had not seen the animal since my return. When I enquired of the groom next morning where Bruno might be, I was informed that he was locked up in the stables. I asked for him to be let out, but the man refused in the most surly of tones, saying that he was confined upon his master’s own express instructions. Sir Edward had been taking personal charge of the dog’s training, Staples informed me, and feared that if he were allowed to roam loose, without his master’s control, he would forget all that he had been taught, revert to his former undisciplined state and be forever unmanageable in the future. I argued the point with the groom; but he was adamant that he would not go against what he said my husband had told him and eventually I had to accept it, maddening though it was to yield to his insolent manner. Even the company of animals, I reflected, was denied me.