‘What happened when you arrived in London?’ queried Holmes, as our visitor paused.
‘I called upon Lady Congrave, who appeared delighted to see me. She insisted that I stay with her whilst in London and would brook no argument upon the point. She had a friend staying with her – Miss Edith Strensall, a young lady of about my own age – and she, too, was most welcoming. I did not at first tell them what had brought me to London and they did not press me upon the point. The following day – that is, last Friday – I called at the Royal Suffolk Hotel. The manager, Mr Solferino, was most kind to me, but he was unable to help. Edward was not staying there and an examination of the hotel register showed that he had not been there at any time in the past six months. I asked Mr Solferino why the letter I had sent had not, then, been at once returned to me, and he explained that he had assumed that there had been some confusion over dates, and had held on to my letter for a couple of days in case my husband turned up.
‘“It has been sent back now, however,” said he. “Indeed, I am surprised that you have not already received it. No doubt it will be there by now. Please give your husband my best wishes – when you find him!” he added with a smile, not realising the feeling of utter desperation which gnawed at my soul.
‘I spent the next few days endeavouring to be pleasant to Lady Congrave, Miss Strensall and their visitors with increasing difficulty. Finally, yesterday afternoon, when the three of us were alone, Lady Congrave spoke frankly to me and begged me to tell them what it was that weighed so heavily upon my mind. I poured out my heart to them then and was glad afterwards that I had done so. They were most sympathetic and, more than that, they both made a positive suggestion. Miss Strensall declared that she would return with me to Shoreswood – she had no engagements and could leave as soon as I was ready – and Lady Congrave urged most strongly that I put the matter in your hands, Mr Holmes.’
‘I am honoured by her recommendation.’
‘She said that if anyone could help me, Mr Holmes, it was you; that you had never been known to fail.’
‘If only that were true!’
‘Mr Holmes, you must not fail this time! You must apply your utmost powers to my case. I am beset by such terrible, terrible troubles. What have I entered into with my marriage? What secret deeds are afoot at Shoreswood Hall? And where, oh where, is Edward? Only my husband can banish my fears and reassure my doubting mind, and only you, Mr Holmes, can tell me what has become of my husband!’
Our visitor’s voice had risen with emotion as she spoke, until these last words came in a cry of pleading which was pitiful to hear.
‘I shall do all in my power,’ said Holmes, in a voice which was at once soft and soothing, and yet contained in it also a note of confidence and authority. ‘Your case interests me, madam, and I can understand fully your distress. You have had a number of odd and disconcerting experiences, and have had no one to turn to for comfort. For some of these experiences, singular as they appear, there may of course be a perfectly natural explanation; but there are one or two points in your narrative which do not seem to admit of any very obvious answer.’ He sat for a moment in silence. ‘I cannot promise complete success, Lady Davenoke, but I think we should be able to make some progress.’ He lapsed once more into silence, tapping the ends of his fingers upon his chin. ‘Of course,’ he continued after a moment, ‘your husband may return of his own accord at any time and thus solve your problems at a stroke. Let us hope that that is so.’
A faint smile passed across her features at this remark, but the look of anxiety did not entirely leave her eyes. ‘Do you have hopes, Mr Holmes?’ said she.
‘Certainly, certainly. But first I must ask you an unpleasant but necessary question. Have you reported your husband’s disappearance to the authorities here?’
‘I went straight to the police after leaving the Royal Suffolk Hotel,’ Lady Davenoke replied, nodding her head. ‘They could shed no light upon the matter. No body has been found which could possibly be that of my husband, if that is the unpleasant possibility to which you refer. They have also been in touch with the County Constabularies of Suffolk and Essex, in case Edward had met with an accident on his way to London, but both sent a negative reply.’
‘Do you know of any relative or friend with whom he might stay?’
‘None at all. Edward has not a single close relative and the only friend he retains from his schooldays, Marmaduke Morton of Canterbury, is at present in the West Indies.’
‘Very well. When do you intend to return to Shoreswood?’
‘Today.’
Holmes’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.
‘My husband may, as you say, return – indeed, he may have returned already – and, if so, I would wish to be there. I would not go back to that place alone, you understand, but with a good friend beside me, someone with whom I can discuss matters, I believe that I shall be equal to whatever may occur. Besides, telling my troubles to you has fortified my heart and given me new hope. You look doubtful – do you think I do wrong in returning to Shoreswood?’
‘It might perhaps be better if you stayed away a few more days.’
‘Shall I be in danger there, Mr Holmes?’ queried our visitor, with a sharp glance at my friend’s impassive features. ‘Please answer me frankly!’
‘That I cannot say, Lady Davenoke. The matter is not entirely clear to me.’
‘Well, I would wish to return if it were possible. Would you wish to forbid me?’
Holmes shook his head with a smile.
‘Then I shall go,’ said she, returning his smile. ‘With Miss Strensall’s support I know I shall not be fearful. She is a very sensible woman. I shall await Edward’s return at Shoreswood, secure in the knowledge that you are doing all in your power to find him.’
‘Very well,’ said Holmes. ‘I shall be in touch the moment I have any news. And should you require our presence at Shoreswood,’ he added after a moment, ‘you have only to send a telegram.’
‘I shall not forget,’ said she.
II: In Which Various Letters are Sent and Received
‘What a very singular problem!’ said Holmes thoughtfully, as his client’s footsteps descended the stair.
‘And a singular young woman!’ I added. ‘One moment she trembles with fear, the next she is so bold as to spurn your advice!’
‘Women are a curious mixture of timidity and courage,’ remarked my friend, who had risen from his chair and was now gazing from the open window. ‘And the advent of either state seems generally to bear no reference to external circumstances.’
Together we watched the slight figure of our visitor, as she made her way slowly along the crowded pavement. Perhaps it was my fancy, but an air of tragedy seemed to hang over her even there, in bustling Baker Street. All at once I had an overpowering sensation of impending doom, an awful conviction that, do what we might, we could not protect Amelia Davenoke from the fate that awaited her. Involuntarily, I shook my head, as if to drive such thoughts from my mind.
‘She seems such a vulnerable young lady,’ said I.
‘It is her youth and inexperience,’ replied Holmes. ‘What do you make of that fellow over there?’
‘The man suffering from toothache?’ I queried, glancing across the street to where a man dressed all in black stood by a lamp-post. His dark frock-coat and top hat were both the worse for wear, and about his neck and jaw, making an incongruous contrast with the sobriety of the remainder of his attire, was a red muffler.
Holmes turned his head and stared at me for a moment, his brows drawn into an expression of surprise and puzzlement.
‘I was applying your own methods of observation and deduction,’ said I in reply to his unspoken question. ‘The temperature must be up in the eighties already, so unless he is a madman he must have some very good reason for wearing his muffler. A bad case of toothache seems the most probable answer.’
‘Ha! I fancy that on this occasion your explanation is a little over-ingen
ious,’ remarked my friend. There was a trace of a smile about his lips, but his voice was cold and serious. ‘Unless I am much mistaken, the purpose of his muffler is not a subtle one, but the simplest imaginable.’
‘Which is?’
‘To conceal his face. He has shown considerable interest in Lady Davenoke since she left our front doorstep. I should not be surprised if—Yes, by George! There he goes! Your boots and your hat, quickly, Watson !’
In less than thirty seconds we were upon the pavement, but neither our recent visitor nor the man in black was anywhere to be seen.
‘She took a cab from the corner,’ cried Holmes, hurrying in that direction.
Down King Street as we turned the corner, two hansom cabs were rattling away towards Gloucester Place and were already some distance ahead of us. It was evident that the man in the red muffler had also managed to secure a cab. Holmes groaned aloud and looked about him in desperation. No other cab was on the street. ‘Come on, Watson!’ said he, and we set off on foot as fast as we could. Ahead of us the two cabs, the one following the other at a short distance, turned left into Gloucester Place and vanished from our sight.
I was quite out of breath by the time we reached the corner and a sudden sharp pain in my left leg served as a savage reminder to me of the wound I bore from the Afghan war. Eagerly, Holmes scanned the busy street ahead of us, his brows drawn down over his piercing grey eyes. The rigidity of his pose, the keen, hawk-like expression upon his face, made him appear for all the world like a bird of prey surveying the field. But on this occasion the hunter’s search was fruitless: no cabs were visible which could possibly be the ones we sought.
‘They must have turned into George Street,’ said he grimly. A few yards ahead of us a cab dropped off a fare and Holmes sprang in. I followed with relief, for the pain in my leg was now severe.
‘First right ahead!’ called my friend to the driver; ‘as fast as you can!’
Along George Street we rattled at a great rate, until we reached the Edgware Road, passing several other vehicles as we did so, but without seeing anything of Lady Davenoke or the man who was following her.
‘We have lost them,’ said Holmes bitterly, as we faced the crowded, bustling prospect of the Edgware Road. ‘They have evidently taken another route. We may still be able to gain an advantage, however!’ he cried, his eyes flashing. ‘Phillimore Gardens, Cabbie! By the fastest route you know!’
The driver whipped up the horse and we were off at a gallop once more, down to the Park, past houses, shops and gardens, along busy roads and quiet, until we at last turned into Phillimore Gardens, our horse steaming with the effort. The street was almost deserted, save for a workman wheeling a barrow along and a couple of loafers leaning upon a wall talking, one of them clutching a copy of the Pink ’Un in his hand. Of one thing we could be certain; at such a pace had we travelled that it was inconceivable that the other cabs could have arrived before us. Now we had only to wait.
For twenty-five minutes we sat there, Holmes with his pocket-watch open upon his knee, but neither Lady Davenoke nor anyone else whom we could recognise arrived.
‘It is my fault,’ said Holmes at length, in a tone of resignation. ‘I had assumed that she would be returning directly to Lady Congrave’s house, but she has evidently gone elsewhere. Come! There is little point our waiting here any longer. Let us return to Baker Street!’ Though his tone was a philosophical one, there was no disguising the expression of disappointment upon his face.
Holmes went out after lunch, without saying where he was going. I passed the afternoon in an armchair, my aching leg upon a stool, endeavouring to read Colonel Forbes Macallan’s History of the Afghan Campaign. Certainly the sweltering weather suited the subject of the book, but try as I might to concentrate, I found my mind constantly wandering to our morning’s visitor and her recent strange experiences. Lady Davenoke’s singular tale, and our hectic dash through the streets, had left a most sinister impression upon my mind.
Why had her new husband, apparently so attentive to her before, now deserted her so abruptly and without a word of explanation? Why, in coming up to London, had he broken with the family tradition of staying at the Royal Suffolk Hotel? What was the explanation for the lights which Amelia Davenoke had seen in the ruined chapel at night-time and for the figure she had seen upon the lawn in the moonlight? Who was the man with the red muffler and why was he following her about London? The more I pondered these matters, the less sense could I make of them. My heart went out to that slight, elfin-like young woman, who walked amidst such mystery, so far from home and family, when she should have been enjoying to the full the first happy months of married life. With all my heart I wished to help her, but felt at an utter loss to know what to do. Fervently I hoped that Sherlock Holmes would conceive some line of inquiry, some course of action which we could follow.
My friend returned at a quarter to six, an expression of fatigue upon his face. He dropped into his old blue armchair and stretched out his legs.
‘If Edward Davenoke were staying at one of the many hotels in the West End,’ said he after a moment, ‘the chances of our finding him would be slight, to say the least. However, we are given to understand that he has come up to town upon business of some kind and it therefore seems likely that he would take a hotel in the City.’
I nodded and he continued:
‘This consideration reduces the field of inquiry significantly, for there are far fewer hotels at that end of town than this. Now, I have this afternoon visited every hotel in the City at which our missing baronet might conceivably stay, without finding the slightest trace of him.’
‘You must be very disappointed!’
‘On the contrary,’ said he, ‘it is a most pleasing result – for the spirit, at least, if not for the body.’
‘I do not understand, Holmes.’
‘I mean, Watson, that the result of my inquiries is precisely as I had expected. It is always pleasing to have one’s views confirmed. As the chemist tests substance after substance for a certain reaction, hoping all the time in his heart that the reaction will not occur, for it is his theory that it should not do so, so I – the chemist of human complexities – test hotel after hotel for the presence of Edward Davenoke, hoping all the time, in this sense at least, that I do not find him there.’
‘Then you do not believe that he is staying in a hotel at all?’
‘Precisely, Watson. Pass me a whisky and soda, there’s a good fellow – and a cigar, too, if you would be so good; my body could tolerate a little relaxation!’
‘But if you are so sure that he is not there, then why look?’
‘The spirit of scientific inquiry, my dear fellow. One must test one’s theories. What is a theory that is never put to the test? – Nothing but a puff of empty vapour.’
I endeavoured to press my colleague further as to his views upon the matter, but he was unforthcoming. For twenty minutes he lay back in silence in his chair, the blue smoke of the cigar curling lazily up to the ceiling.
‘I wrote to Lady Davenoke whilst I was out,’ he remarked abruptly, without opening his eyes.
‘You sent her a telegram?’
‘No, a letter; for I wished to be sure that she was back at Shoreswood when my communication arrived, just in case anyone else there felt an inclination to open it in her absence.’
‘You suspect that someone might do such a thing?’ I queried, surprised at his remark.
‘It is possible and it is not a risk I was prepared to take. I have asked her to confirm that all is in order at Shoreswood and that everyone who should be there was indeed there when she returned. Now,’ he continued, rising from his seat, ‘I am retiring.’ He selected an old brier from a rack of pipes upon the mantelpiece and took up the Persian slipper in which he kept his tobacco. ‘Kindly inform Mrs Hudson that I shall not require supper this evening.’
My features must have betrayed the surprise I felt at his retiring at so early an hour, for at t
he doorway he paused.
‘I need to think,’ said he, ‘and my bedroom, being quieter, suits the purpose better. As for eating, you must be aware that the digestion of food takes oxygen from the brain and is thus inimical to profound thought.’ With that explanation he was gone and I saw him no more that night. It was evident, however, that his mind was sorely exercised by Amelia Davenoke’s problem, for late into the night I could hear the sound of his footsteps pacing backwards and forwards across the floor of his room.
In the morning, my friend did not show himself until late. His eyes were dark, his face haggard and drawn, and I had no need of my medical training to perceive that he had had little sleep that night. A few letters had arrived for him by the morning’s post. These he glanced over mechanically and without interest, his mind clearly elsewhere. Upon opening the last one, however, his expression changed utterly and he sat bolt upright in his chair as if he had been galvanised. It was, I could see, a letter-card, of the type which costs a penny-farthing from post offices, and which can be folded and sealed when the message has been written upon it.
‘The matter deepens,’ said Holmes in a tone of excitement. ‘Take a look!’
I took the letter from his outstretched fingers. The following brief and unsigned message, untidily written in black ink, was all it contained:
‘Keep out of matters that do not concern you, Mr Holmes. Your intervention in the private affairs of others can do no good and may well bring harm. Drop the matter at once and forget that you ever heard anything of it. I give you this warning for your own good and for that of your client.’
The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes Page 39
