The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Denis O. Smith

  In the year 1607, Richard Davenoke was Lord of the Manor of Shoreswood, a man who was, by all accounts, neither better nor worse than his forebears, from which one may conclude that he was known for hard riding, hard fighting and hard drinking, for a general amiability on sunny days and a ferocious, unappeasable temper on dark days. His mother, a woman of Burgundian extraction, had for many years been a powerful force in the area, but since her death, two years previously, the responsibilities of the district had rested solely, and some said too heavily, upon Richard’s shoulders. For he was not by temperament a natural leader of men, and his life had already been touched by sorrow once before. His only brother, Arthur, had been drowned in the moat of Shoreswood Hall twenty years previously when still a small child, and it was often said of Richard Davenoke that this tragedy had so affected his young, impressionable soul that he had ever after borne its mark, and been subject to fits of black melancholy. But greater tragedy was yet to befall him, ensuring that the story of Richard Davenoke’s struggle against the Beast of Shoreswood would live forever in the annals of East Suffolk.

  In the spring of that year, a series of inexplicable and ghastly attacks were made, under cover of darkness, upon domestic animals as they grazed peacefully in the fields. On each occasion, the ferocity of the attack was marked, but there was no common agreement among the local people as to the nature of the predator. Sentries were appointed and a watch kept, but the killer was never seen. Some argued that a wolf must be responsible, but others, observing with truth that no wolf had been seen in East Suffolk for over a hundred years, whispered darkly of some more unnatural agency.

  After this initial onslaught, the attacks ceased for a while, but when they began afresh, as many had feared they would, it was with an even greater ferocity than before. Nothing that lived and breathed was safe from the blood-lust of the mysterious and unseen beast: sheep, cattle, horses and every other kind of harmless animal, all were butchered alike. By this time there was great fear among the local folk as to what the evil creature could be which passed amongst them at dead of night, for in not one instance of this hideous slaughter had an animal been killed for food. Clearly the beast was one which killed only to satisfy its thirst for blood. Then, at last, as all in their hearts had feared, a human victim was taken, a local farmer’s son who had been walking home alone, late at night. His body was found by the roadside next morning, almost torn to pieces by the ferocity of the attack.

  Armed bands of men were at once formed, under the leadership of Richard Davenoke, to hunt down the beast; but though they scoured the countryside round, searched with hounds, and kept armed watch at night for many weeks, no trace of the mysterious creature could be found. A little later, another man was attacked and killed, then a third, then a fourth and fifth. People spoke now of the Beast of Shoreswood, and dark rumours began to circulate concerning Richard Davenoke’s supposedly dead brother. There were some who now recalled a strange deformity of the features which this unfortunate child was said to have possessed, a deformity so terrible that it was said to have given him the appearance of some low animal or rodent. Others remembered tales which had been current in the countryside twenty years previously despite the family’s attempts to suppress them, of wild childish tantrums verging almost upon madness.

  Perhaps, the rumours now suggested, the story of Arthur’s death had been untrue, fabricated deliberately to conceal a truth far worse, that his bestial insanity had obliged his family to hide him away from the eyes of the world, confined for life in some secret and inaccessible chamber in Shoreswood Hall. Perhaps the source of the evil which had thrown such a pall of terror over the countryside was to be found in that dark and sombre building.

  As is the way among fanciful and ill-educated people, these rumours soon acquired the status of fact. More and more openly were such thoughts spoken aloud, until they reached the ear of Richard Davenoke himself. Greatly angered, he did all in his power to suppress the rumours, but there were those who said that he did so with a weary reluctance, and without the light of truth in his eye. Certainly, the whole dreadful series of events seemed to have exacted an awful toll from the man. As chief landowner in the area, he had naturally assumed responsibility in the matter, and this responsibility and the worries and cares which came with it had almost destroyed him. Broken in health, his face lined with anxiety and his hair prematurely grey, he went about his daily business with the weariness of one who would welcome the release of the grave. In some, his appearance and manner evoked sympathy, but there were many others who saw in them a confirmation of the very worst of the rumours. A man so racked, they argued, was a man who was torn between two loyalties, who could not bring himself to do what in his heart he knew he must.

  The atrocious and bloody deeds of violence continued to occur at irregular intervals, turning the nights of the country-folk to sleepless terror; and as they did so, so did the rumours grow and strengthen themselves by feeding upon the ignorance of the people. There were those who said, although not to his face, that Richard Davenoke should, once and for all, deny upon holy oath, if he could, the stories which were being told against his brother. Some argued for the opening of his brother’s tomb, whilst others wished to see a company of local yeomen allowed to enter and search Shoreswood Hall. Where this growing discontent might have ended, no one can say, for all at once, upon a shocking and horrific night in August, the matter reached a final and terrible climax.

  In the darkest hours of the night, so it is said, when all had been long asleep, every soul in Shoreswood Hall was on a sudden instant rendered wide awake and struck with terror by the most dreadful and blood-curdling scream. For a long moment, the echo of the scream seemed to hang in the silent air after the sound itself had died, then doors were flung back and the noise of running footsteps filled the stairways and corridors of the Hall. One man cried out that he had seen a crouching figure slip away along a dark corridor, and several hurried that way to give pursuit, but nothing was found. The largest crowd had by now gathered outside the bed-chamber of Elizabeth Davenoke, wife of Richard, for it was from there that the unearthly sound had issued, but none dared enter. Then Richard Davenoke himself stepped to the front of the crowd, and, taking a long-bladed knife from his chief steward, he placed his hand upon the latch. With a resolute and grim expression, he bade all there remain without the door on peril of their lives, then, with a gesture of impulse, wrenched the door open and passed within, bolting it fast behind him.

  What took place in that room then, none can tell. Certainly there were cries and groans, and the sounds of a struggle filled the air. Outside the room, the servants of Shoreswood stood listening in impotent and silent horror for what seemed an eternity. Abruptly, the door opened once more, and Richard Davenoke emerged, his clothes torn and his body a mass of cuts and scratches. ‘Your mistress is dead,’ said he with a face of stone, at which the servants all fell to weeping. ‘She is the very last victim that will ever be taken by the monster that has terrorised us for so long. Return to your beds now, and you, Joseph, my good and faithful servant, do you come with me and assist me, in the grim work that must now be done.’

  Thus ended the six-month reign of terror of the Beast of Shoreswood, for there were no more killings. The funeral of Elizabeth Davenoke took place a few days later amid scenes of much sorrow, for she had been greatly loved in the district. There were those who said that another ceremony took place also, at dead of night, but if this were so, nothing is known of it, for a veil of secrecy had fallen upon Shoreswood Hall. There was great sympathy for Richard Davenoke in his time of sorrow, and he was never pressed to reveal what he knew of the terrible events of that year. Speculation naturally abounded, but no story was ever either confirmed or denied by the Lord of Shoreswood, who had sworn himself to total silence upon the matter. From that time onward, so it is said, he never once left his estate until the day he died, and scarcely ever ventured outside the Hall itself, spending his days in solitary study and prayer.


  Fifteen years later, upon Richard’s death, his oldest son, Thomas, promised to make public all he might discover among his father’s papers concerning ‘The Beast of Shoreswood’, but either he found nothing, or chose not to disclose it, for the promise was never fulfilled. The alteration in the young man’s character which took place at that time led many to suspect that he had indeed discovered the truth, but thought it better to conceal it. For it is said that from the day upon which he assumed the title of Shoreswood, he was never again seen to smile. Thus arose the tradition that upon learning the secret of the Davenokes, each happy heir becomes a sorrowful man. Fanciful as this must strike the modern reader, it is a curious fact that no Lord of Shoreswood has ever openly disputed the tradition. Indeed, the family’s reluctance to speak at all upon the subject of the Beast or the secret chamber is striking, and, moreover, makes it unlikely that any fresh information will be forthcoming in the near future. As to the further manifestations of ‘the Beast’, an outbreak of sheep-maiming in 1699 was ascribed to it, as were a similar outrage in 1784 and the mysterious disappearance of twenty head of cattle in 1837; but in every case the evidence was scant, and the Shoreswood monster seems to have received the blame only for want of any better theory.

  This then is the history of the Beast of Shoreswood, and of what is known as ‘The Curse of the Davenokes’. Is there any substance in these old tales? Is there any dark secret concealed in Shoreswood Hall? Or is the whole story a mere accretion of legends around a mundane and long-forgotten incident? I leave the reader to draw his own conclusions, which will be every bit as valid as the writer’s. Those who are interested may read with profit Dr Wilhelm Hertz’s monograph Der Werwolf (1862) which gives the best general account of such legends.

  ‘What a grim old tale!’ said I, as I put down the book.

  ‘Yes, it is charmingly Gothic, is it not?’ agreed my friend. ‘The author’s remark – that later outrages were ascribed to the Beast’s activities only in want of a more constructive theory – is a perceptive one. It was ever the case with such legends: once they are established they provide the basis of an explanation – of sorts – for all that would otherwise remain unexplained. This fact is no doubt a great encouragement to would-be malefactors.’

  ‘In the past, perhaps,’ said I, smiling; ‘but the influence of such tales must now be quite dead and buried – thank goodness!’

  ‘Not necessarily, Watson. Dark deeds have long shadows!’

  There was a thoughtful note in his voice, which arrested my attention.

  ‘Surely you cannot think that this old legend has anything to do with Lady Davenoke’s case!’ I cried in surprise.

  ‘I am very much afraid that it may have,’ said Holmes, shaking his head.

  ‘But it is mere fantasy!’ I protested. ‘We surely cannot give credence to such a farrago of nonsense! Why, you yourself said to Lady Davenoke, only the other day—’

  ‘In this instance,’ interjected my friend, ‘it scarcely matters at all what you or I believe, Watson. What is important is what may or may not be believed by others. There is something unpleasant about this case; something which smells, like the rot of evil. We shall not cleanse the air and clear the troubled brow of Lady Amelia until we have found the source of the rot and destroyed it – whatever it may be.’

  Three days passed and we heard nothing further. Several times I observed Holmes take up the Suffolk County Guide and read again the history of Shoreswood and the Davenokes with a frown upon his face. Then he would cast the book aside and close his eyes, and sit an hour in silent thought, his brow furrowed with concentration. At other times he would sit with one of his beloved black-letter editions upon his knee, his fingers picking absent-mindedly at imperfections in the pages, his eyes far away, and the page remaining unturned for hours at a time. Once I heard him speaking aloud to himself in German, and I assumed that he was reading from the book upon his knee until the words ‘Davenoke’ and ‘Hardwick’ caught my ear.

  ‘I begin to think that I have erred,’ said he upon the evening of the third day, ‘in not going down to Shoreswood last week, with Lady Davenoke. I admit to you, Watson, that I believed then that the matter would very likely resolve itself without my intervention. The longer it fails to do so, the greater is the danger to my client’s state of mind. It is this that worries me more than any other consideration.’

  ‘More even than any physical danger to which she may be exposed?’

  ‘Decidedly so,’ returned my friend. ‘You saw the condition she was in, Watson, on the day she paid us a visit: those haunted eyes, those nervous, twitching fingers. I have never seen a woman so near the end of her tether, and what is it now? – five days? six days?’

  ‘She has, at least, her friend, Miss Strensall, to keep her company now,’ I remarked. But Holmes shook his head, an expression of misgiving upon his features.

  ‘Perhaps the companionship will be some comfort to her,’ said he; ‘but a maiden lady, however well-intentioned, is not really what the situation requires.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘I think I shall go down tomorrow whether we hear from Lady Davenoke or not,’ said he after a moment. ‘My presence there can scarcely be less profitable than it is here and it is just possible that I might be able to do some good. I have one or two ideas I should wish to put to the test.’

  ‘Would a companion be of any value to you?’

  ‘My dear fellow! I had quite overlooked your natural diffidence and presumed that on this as on so many occasions you would be my colleague. Will you come?’

  ‘Nothing could prevent it!’

  I was awakened abruptly at half past six the following morning by the deafening crack and rumble of thunder, directly overhead. The window in my bedroom rattled violently in its frame, and in an instant I was fully conscious and alert. I leaned from my bed and drew back the curtain, and as I did so a searing white light seemed to split the sky asunder. Scant seconds later the thunder crashed and rolled again, and the house trembled as if struck a blow by a mighty fist. A moment of unnatural silence followed, then the muffled beat of heavy raindrops filled the air and a sudden cold gust blew into the room. How many others, I wondered, of the four millions of souls that surrounded me in this brick-built fastness of civilisation, watched with awe as I did at that moment. For despite his pretensions to independence and aloofness from his fellows, that which unites one man with all others is both stronger and more deep-seated than that which separates them; and there is nothing which unites mankind so readily as the wild and merciless assault of cruel nature.

  In twenty minutes the storm had passed away and the sky had lightened a little, but the rain continued to beat down without pause. As I dressed, I observed that it had proved too much for the guttering of the house opposite my window, and sheets of water fell in a dismal and unbroken curtain from the roof. I am not a man much given to fancies, nor one to put faith in portents or premonitions, but I confess that upon that morning the sense of relief which rises with the passing of such a storm was in my case tempered by an odd and troubling sensation of foreboding, as if the overture were finished, and the stage set for a singularly terrible and tragic drama.

  There was a knock at my bedroom door as I was shaving and Sherlock Holmes entered.

  ‘The weather appears to have broken at last,’ I remarked, gesturing with my razor to the scene outside.

  ‘So has the case,’ said he, holding up a sheet of blue notepaper in front of my mirror. I took it from his grasp and turned it to the light. At the head of the sheet was the lion-and-bird crest of the Davenokes, and the date of the previous afternoon. The message was brief and ran as follows:

  MY DEAR MR SHERLOCK HOLMES,

  I beg that you will come down to Shoreswood at once. I have heard no more from my husband. There are lies all about me here and I am being watched constantly. Edith weeps a good deal and is little comfort to me; indeed, I regret that ever I brought her here, poor girl, for I
fear that I have only succeeded in luring another victim into this dark web of secrecy and evil. Do not write, for I believe that the incoming mail is tampered with, but come at once and bring your friend Dr Watson.

  YOURS SINCERELY, AMELIA DAVENOKE

  ‘We leave by the ten-twenty train,’ said Holmes as I finished reading.

  III: The Secret of Shoreswood Hall

  The rain was still pouring down when we left our chambers and Baker Street had more the appearance of a river than a road. Fast currents splashed and swashed their way along the gutters, foaming and whirling round obstructions, while heavy raindrops battered the surface ceaselessly, sending fountains of spray high into the air.

  Holmes was in a taciturn mood, and spoke scarcely a single word until we had left London far behind and our train was speeding through the rain-drenched Essex countryside. There was a suppressed excitement in his manner which I recognised, and I knew that he was glad to be afoot upon the trail once more and to have left behind the frustrating inactivity of Baker Street. For my own part, however, I could not help feeling that we were bound upon a fool’s errand. What could we hope to achieve in Suffolk, aside from giving a little momentary cheer to Lady Davenoke by our presence? Come to that, was it likely that we could achieve even that modest aim? We could not, after all, produce her husband, which was all she really cared about. But I had known my companion well, for six years and more, and had rarely known him be far astray in his reasoning: if he considered it worth our while to travel down to deepest Suffolk, I must suppose that it were so, doubtful as it seemed to me.

  Holmes had been staring abstractedly from the window for some time, a frown upon his face, when he abruptly leaned forward and spoke.

  ‘We are running close to the coast,’ said he. ‘We should be in Ipswich shortly.’