‘I have mentioned that I was having difficulty in sleeping at night, often lying awake for hours at a time, and it was this that took me next day to the family physician, Dr Ruddock. He is a kindly, grey-haired old gentleman, who squinted at me through his old-fashioned gilt pince-nez as I entered his consulting-room. He recommended a herbal infusion for my insomnia and then began to speak to me of the family into which I had so recently married, and to which he had been physician for so many years.
‘“They are a highly strung, nervous family,” said he. “They find it difficult to approach life calmly, and cannot take rest when they ought. I am hoping,” he added with a smile, “that you will have a steadying, calming effect upon young Sir Edward. He is often so serious and intense, and does not feel he can spare the time for leisurely reflection. But he should and you must insist upon it. Matters are rarely so pressing that one cannot lean on a gate-post for five minutes and admire the sunset – yes, and be all the better for it! His father was just the same, you know: always dashing about, as if his life depended upon it. It is my opinion that he might be with us still had he been of a steadier disposition.”
‘“Of what did he die?” I asked.
‘For a moment Dr Ruddock looked surprised. “Did you not know?” said he. “But of course, I was forgetting – you were in France at the time. Sir John had a sudden apoplectic seizure late one night. I was called, but there was nothing that could be done.” He shook his head. “To be perfectly frank, it was not entirely unexpected, sad as it was. However, it is Edward’s health which has been weighing most heavily upon my mind of late.”
‘This was news indeed to me, for apart from a slight attack of megrim, to which he is prone, Edward had seemed to me to be in the very best of health when we were last together, in Paris.
‘“I suppose the death of his father unseated him a little,” replied Dr Ruddock in answer to my query. “The last time I saw him – it would be the day after his father’s funeral – he was in a very agitated state. ‘Can you give me something to provide me with a little extra energy, Doctor?’ said he, gripping my arm nervously as he spoke. ‘My dear boy,’ I returned at once. ‘What you need is a good rest. It is evident that you are overwrought by recent events and by the thought of your new responsibilities. That is understandable, but you must not let things get on top of you. I recommend a week in bed.’ ‘No, no; I cannot,’ said he, shaking his head vigorously. ‘I have much to do and no time for lying idly about.’ With that he was off, before I could remonstrate with him further.”
‘“And I suppose you have no idea,” I asked, “where it was he was off to with such urgency?”
‘“None whatever,” replied the kindly old man, with a shake of the head; “nor what it was that he had to do that was so important as to make him ignore his doctor’s advice! If it were anything to do with the estate, I imagine his solicitor might know, but I’m afraid that I cannot enlighten you upon the matter.”
‘I left Dr Ruddock’s consulting-room that morning feeling more forlorn than ever. I had the disconcerting sensation that things were afoot of which I knew nothing. Before returning home I visited the church-yard, to pay my last respects to my late father-in-law, and stood long in thought beside his tomb. He at least was now at peace and mundane cares would trouble him no longer; the stewardship of Shoreswood, I reflected with a heavy heart, now lay in Edward’s hands and in mine.
‘That afternoon I wrote two letters. I had recalled Edward’s telling me that, when in London, the family always stayed at the Royal Suffolk Hotel in the City, so I wrote to him there, asking him to get in touch with me and let me know when he would be returning, for I felt in sore need of his company. The second letter was to the family solicitor, Mr Arthur Blackstone of Framlingham, informing him that I should be calling upon him, if it were convenient, in two days’ time. I doubted very much that I should learn anything there, but it at least gave me an opportunity to get away for a while from the melancholy loneliness of Shoreswood Hall.
‘I took a draught of Dr Ruddock’s infusion that night and it seemed to be effective, for I fell asleep more easily than before. Some hours later, however, I was awakened quite abruptly by a noise somewhere in the house. I sat up in bed and listened, my ears straining to catch any sound of the night. For a minute, I heard nothing, then, softly, there came the sound of steps approaching my bedroom door. The flesh upon my face seemed to creep and my heart to stop beating, as those horrible, soft, padded steps came closer. Never in my life had I been so terrified as at that moment. All Edward had told me of the family legend came rushing back to my mind in a confused surge. My throat constricted and I could take no breath. Then, as softly as they had approached, I heard the steps pad away, down the corridor, until I heard them no more.’
‘Did the footsteps return the way they had come?’ interrupted Holmes, without opening his eyes. ‘Did they, that is to say, approach specifically to your door and then recede, or did they merely pass it by as they went from one end of the corridor to the other?’
‘I cannot be certain upon the point,’ replied our visitor. ‘I believe they began at one end of the corridor and ended at the other.’
‘Is the situation of your room such that anyone might naturally pass it to reach somewhere else?’
‘It is possible. My bedroom is on the ground floor of the west wing – the only part of the house which is inhabited, in fact – and I suppose that one of the servants might have passed my door.’
‘You sound doubtful.’
‘I cannot imagine what anyone would be doing at that time of night. As far as I knew, everyone had retired to bed long before.’
‘Was your door locked?’
‘It is impossible to lock it, for there is no key.’
‘Very well; pray proceed.’
‘On Wednesday I drove over to Framlingham to see Mr Blackstone, from whom I had received a letter that morning confirming the arrangement. He is a large, jovial man and welcomed me into his chambers with effusive cordiality. When I informed him of the purpose of my visit, however, he was quite taken aback.
‘“To my certain knowledge,” said he, leafing through a sheaf of papers upon his large desk, “there is no outstanding business connected either with the estate or with his late father’s affairs which should require Sir Edward’s attention at the present. There are a couple of trivial matters, but I am dealing with them myself. Furthermore,” he added, a perplexed look upon his features, “that he should need to be in London is a mystery all by itself. For after Sir John retired from Parliament he had nothing to do with London whatever. Indeed, so far as I know, he never went up there once in the eighteen months before his death.”
‘“Edward gave you no indication at any time, then, of what it was that necessitated his presence in London?”
‘“None whatever and I saw him only a short time ago in this very room, immediately after the death of his father. I am sure that had there been anything upon his mind, he would have informed me.”
‘“What business brought him here?”
‘“I had requested that he come in to see me. There was a minor matter to be dealt with, concerning the tenancy of one of the farms on the estate and also an instruction which his father had given me some time ago.”
‘“Could either of these matters have obliged Edward to leave for London?” I asked.
‘“Oh, dear me, no. The first was a very trivial piece of business. The second merely concerned a bundle of old documents pertaining to Shoreswood which Sir John had deposited with me some years ago: upon his death I was to give them to Edward, provided that he had attained his twenty-first birthday at that time.”
‘“He evidently left them with you a long time ago.”
‘“Indeed, yes,” returned the solicitor. He examined his records for a few minutes. “In ’68,” said he at length; “nineteen years ago. Edward would have been only a small boy of seven or so then. Indeed, it is almost back in the time of old Sir Geoffr
ey, Edward’s grandfather. He was a fine old gentleman. A bit of a madcap, but a grand old fellow nonetheless. What the old documents were to do with, I cannot say, I’m afraid, for the bundle was tied and sealed with Sir John’s own ring, bearing the Davenoke crest, and he did not vouchsafe to me the contents. They appeared, so far as I could see, to be a collection of ancient deeds, depositions and so on – papers of such obvious antiquity that they certainly cannot be of any current concern. I am sorry that I cannot assist you further, but do not hesitate to consult me again at any time. I am always here,” he added after a moment, with an avuncular smile. “Indeed, I have been here longer than I care to remember. I have handled the affairs of the Davenokes for nigh on thirty years, and seen three generations of them come and go in these chambers.”
‘I thanked him for his help and left him sighing at the passage of time, and murmuring “dear, dear” over and over to himself. I felt frustrated once more in my efforts to learn what business it was that had obliged my husband to leave for London so abruptly, and it was with great reluctance that I made my way back to Shoreswood. No letter from Edward had arrived in my absence to cheer me and my heart sank yet further.
‘That night I placed an upright chair against my bedroom door, with a pair of shoes balanced upon the back, as I had done the night before. Should my door be opened whilst I slept, the noise of the falling shoes would surely awaken me. Against whom or what I sought to protect myself, I could not say; I knew only that I feared the vulnerability of sleep.
‘Such precautions began to seem superfluous, however, as I watched the long hours of the night pass without sleep closing my eyes. It was about two o’clock, when a slight noise from the garden caught my attention. It was a hard, clinking noise, as of one stone falling upon another, but distant and faint. I left my bed and pulled aside the curtain. The night was dark and still, and at first I could see nothing, but all at once I descried what appeared to be a faint, yellowish light, moving in silence among the chapel ruins, like a will-o’-the-wisp. For several minutes I followed its movements, round and about the ruins, until it vanished abruptly, as if extinguished. I waited at the window a little while, but it did not reappear. I was turning away, when out of the darkness, from the direction of the ruins, came another faint noise, just the same as the one I had heard before. I pulled the casement shut as best I could, but the wood of the frame is warped and ill-fitting and it is not even possible to close it fully, let alone secure the catch. However, I found a length of ribbon and knotted this around the handles. It was a flimsy safeguard, I knew, but it was better than nothing. As I returned to my bed I realised that I was shaking and trembling in every limb, as if with cold, although the night was a mild one. I hoped with all my heart that the morning’s post would bring a letter from my husband.
‘Alas! my hopes were in vain; my husband had sent no reply. I passed the day in melancholy solitude, scarcely leaving my room except to take my meals in the gloomy, shadowed dining-room. From the walls above me as I ate, rows of dark and faded portraits of Edward’s ancestors gazed down upon me in silence, and seemed to watch me closely with their malicious, staring eyes. The timbers of the floor and the panelling upon the walls creaked and groaned as I sat there. Hardwick informed me that it was the effect of the hot, dry weather upon the old wood, but it seemed to me as if the house itself resented my presence and grumbled with malevolence against me. On a sudden thought, I asked the butler if anyone at Shoreswood had ever seen lights of any kind at night. He shook his head.
‘“Do you mean what is termed the ‘will-o’-the-wisp’, or in some parts ‘jack-o’-lantern’?” said he in a thoughtful voice.
‘“Yes, that’s it, Hardwick. You have seen it then?”
‘Again he shook his head.
‘“I have heard of the phenomenon, madam, but I regret that I have never been privileged to witness it. I believe it occurs in more marshy areas. I have never heard of its being seen in these parts. Might I enquire the reason for your interest in the subject, madam?”
‘“Because I saw a moving light last night, in the ruined chapel.”
‘As I spoke these words, it seemed to me that a spark of fear sprang up in the man’s eyes, but he said nothing. Later in the day I put the same questions to Mrs Pybus, the cook.
‘“I don’t know nothing of any lights, madam,” said she in answer to my questions, “and I am forbidden to gossip about such things.”
‘“Forbidden?’ I queried. “Forbidden by whom?”
‘“Why, Mr Hardwick, madam.”
‘I could get nothing further from her and when I told her she could go, she bustled quickly away, with very evident relief. In truth, I think it very likely that she does, indeed, know nothing; but the butler is a different case altogether and I am convinced that there is much that he could tell me if he would. Unlike the other servants, he is a man of some intelligence and learning, and might, under other circumstances, have made Shoreswood almost bearable for me. But as matters stand, I have come to feel that I cannot trust him.
‘When I retired that night, I vowed to myself that if there were no letter from Edward the following morning, I should leave for London in the afternoon. This decision cheered me somewhat, but I still secured the door and window of my bedroom as I had done before. Perhaps these precautions strike you as absurd, gentlemen, as you sit here in the bustling heart of London; but had you spent nights alone in Shoreswood Hall I believe you would understand – yes, and feel as I felt that night. As I was by the window, a sudden slight noise from the garden set my hair on end. What the noise was, I do not know – perhaps an owl disturbing the leaves upon a tree – but my nerves were frayed and the slightest noise was enough to bring my heart to my mouth.
‘The moon was shining brightly that night, bathing the lawn outside in its grey light, and I could see quite clearly across to the woods. As I peered out, I saw something which sent my blood cold in my veins. A dark, hunched figure in a long hooded cloak was making its way slowly and deliberately across the lawn towards the house. With a thrill of loathing rising in my breast, I watched, unable to move, as the figure approached slowly in the moonlight. All at once, as on a sudden thought, it turned aside and struck out in another direction, until at length it vanished from my sight round an angle of the building. For twenty minutes I remained by the window, but saw nothing further, and heard nothing but the distant chiming of a church clock.
‘I was still awake when the church clock struck the next hour. So disturbed and agitated was I, that I could not think what to do. My dearest wish was to fly from this dreadful house that very minute and yet I feared to leave my little bedroom, not knowing what I might encounter beyond. Even as I debated the matter in my head, a slight noise at the window set me rigid with fear. It was, I suppose, but a very slight noise, as the flutter of a moth’s wing against the window-pane, but to me it was like the roar of Niagara. Then it came again, a faint creaking sound this time, and I realised with a feeling of sickness that someone – or something – was endeavouring to open my bedroom window from without.’
Lady Davenoke shuddered convulsively and stared for a long moment at her hands, which she had been clasping and unclasping violently all the while she spoke. Then she raised her head once more.
‘Other than a sensation of the blood rushing in my ears, I can remember nothing more,’ said she with a deep sigh. ‘I evidently passed out. When I awoke it was broad daylight and the birds were singing outside my window. There was no letter from my husband that morning, so I packed my bags and had Staples drive me to the railroad station.’
‘This disturbance at your bedroom window,’ interjected Holmes: ‘were you able to see the cause of it?’
‘No. The curtains were drawn.’
‘Then it could have been anything – or nothing; the wind, perhaps.’
‘But I had seen the hooded figure upon the lawn.’
‘Quite so. I do not doubt it for an instant. And you therefore quite naturally drew
the conclusion that the two incidents were related.’
‘Are you suggesting otherwise?’
‘I have no opinion upon the matter, for the data are so far insufficient. There are any number of explanations which might account for what you have seen and heard, and it is much too early to favour any one against the others. It is a capital error to theorise ahead of the data. It biases the judgement. The figure you saw upon the lawn may have been that of a poacher, for example, and may have nothing whatever to do with the other incidents you have mentioned.’
‘I understand your point, Mr Holmes,’ said Lady Davenoke after a moment. She took a sip from a tumbler of water which I had passed her. ‘I am afraid, however,’ she continued after a moment, ‘that my own conclusions remain unshaken.’
‘You may of course be correct. I shall pursue the truth of the matter and then we shall see. What was the butler’s reaction when he learnt that you were leaving Shoreswood?’
‘He seemed quite disturbed about it, Mr Holmes. Indeed, he attempted rather clumsily to dissuade me from going. So I interpreted his remarks, at least, when he kept repeating that his master would no doubt be back in a day or so. It was almost as if he feared what I might discover in London. When it became evident to him that I was not to be dissuaded from going, he tried to learn my intended destination on the pretext that my husband might return in my absence and wish to know where I was staying. His manner was very agitated, his face the picture of deceit. Needless to say, I did not tell him what he wanted to know. Indeed, the fact that he clearly did not wish me to go merely hardened my resolve to leave at once, and the efforts with which he tried to learn my plans merely hardened my resolve not to satisfy his curiosity. I had been convinced ever since my return to Shoreswood that he was not telling me all he knew, so why should I tell him what was in my mind? I could not believe that he wanted the information simply to pass it on to Edward.’
The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes Page 38
