The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Denis O. Smith

  ‘But – but she believes I am in London.’

  ‘Fortunately, I did not.’

  ‘But – how came you?’ cried the other again, his voice almost hysterical. Then his eyes wandered to the open door behind us and the long dark passage which stretched away. ‘You have come through the tunnel!’ he cried. ‘No, no; that is impossible! No one knows of it! No one can have learnt the secret!’

  ‘There is no secret of man’s contrivance that cannot be uncovered,’ said Sherlock Holmes softly.

  ‘How dare you!’ cried Davenoke, his wild confusion resolving itself into hot anger. ‘How dare you intrude upon the privacy of my house!’

  ‘Your wife would have us find you wherever you were,’ returned Holmes; ‘that we are here therefore depends only upon the fact that you yourself are here.’

  ‘Why, you impertinent scoundrel! You interfering busybody! You have no right to pry into the affairs of others!’

  ‘Nor have I the desire.’

  ‘What I tell my wife is my own business!’

  ‘But when you tell her nothing but lies, she has a right to learn the truth from someone else. I act only in her interests and at her request. She has been most grievously worried by your unexplained disappearance.’

  ‘I cannot tell her,’ said the other after a moment’s hesitation. ‘I am engaged upon a matter of the utmost privacy, which must remain secret, even from my wife.’

  ‘You are engaged in a study of the family legend, the so-called “Curse of the Davenokes”.’

  ‘You seem to know a great deal of my business,’ retorted the other, a spark of anger returning to his eye. Then as Holmes did not speak, he nodded his head slowly and when he spoke it was in a more subdued voice: ‘Yes,’ said he; ‘partly that.’

  ‘Richard Davenoke’s account, in fact, of the troubles which beset the area during his time, in the early years of the seventeenth century.’

  ‘That indeed forms part of it. You have obviously read something of the matter, Mr Holmes.’ There was a note of respect in his voice and also something of caution. ‘You will be aware, then, that it is only when a Davenoke succeeds to his inheritance that the secret is vouchsafed to him. I am here because I have sworn to be here. I am acting as I was instructed to act, in a letter which my father left for me with the solicitor. He enjoined upon me that before reading the documents he left for me, I swear an oath upon the Bible that I shall at once study all that my ancestors have written upon the subject, communicating with no one at all whilst I am so engaged, and leaving this chamber only at night-time; and that I shall tell no one of what I have learnt, when I have completed the task. So my father instructed me; so his father had instructed him; so each heir is instructed by the one that has gone before.

  ‘Do not for one moment suppose that I wished to be here when I knew my wife had returned to the house; but there was nothing I could do about it when once I had pledged my word. I had no idea when I began that the task would be so great, and I thought I should have it finished in a couple of days. But there is so much to read, and the script is so ancient and unfamiliar. There are places, too, where it has almost faded from sight altogether, and these passages I am duty bound to copy out afresh, as my forebears have done, that the story be not lost altogether. The history is written in many hands, among which I recognise that of my own father. But, during all the time I have spent here, not five minutes have passed but I have thought of my wife – Heaven knows, I longed to see her again! One night, I even crept to her bedroom window, hoping to catch a sight of her, but the curtains were drawn and the window was closed and secured in some way, so I did not succeed in my plan.’

  ‘You succeeded at least in putting terror into your wife’s heart,’ said Holmes sternly. ‘It was a most foolish thing to do. She had already observed your creeping about the lawn in the moonlight, and believed that you were a phantom from another age.’

  Davenoke sat down heavily on his chair and clapped his hand to his head.

  ‘You could at least have sent a message to your wife through your confidant, Hardwick,’ continued Holmes, in a tone of remonstrance.

  ‘No, no!’ cried the other in a pleading tone. ‘You do not understand! The oath forbids me from speaking to anyone, anyone at all. Hardwick brings me food and takes away my empty plates, and that is all.’

  ‘Lady Davenoke heard him, one midnight. That also frightened her.’

  ‘I regret that it did so, but the preservation of secrecy was uppermost in my mind. For it is written that he who breaks his holy oath upon any point shall bring down a curse upon himself and his household.’

  Holmes snorted. ‘You wrote a letter to your wife,’ said he, ‘which the butler posted for you, to make it appear that you were in London. If you could communicate to the extent of a lie, you could communicate the truth.’

  ‘Hardwick left a note with my food one night,’ replied the other after a moment, ‘informing me that Amelia had written to the Royal Suffolk Hotel. At first I intended to do nothing about it, but when he later informed me that she was leaving Shoreswood and would not tell him where she was going, I became desperate. I strongly suspected that she would go to London, and in that moment of desperation I broke my vow of silence, instructed Hardwick to follow her, to ensure that she came to no harm, and hurriedly composed the letter you refer to, telling him to post it while away. I did it for her sake, to reassure her. It seemed the best idea at the time, but I was, as I say, desperate, and not capable of proper judgement upon the matter. I knew I was breaking my oath, but prayed that the curse would not fall upon me. Now, what have I gained? I have succeeded only in invoking the curse while achieving nothing, either for myself or my wife.’

  ‘This talk of curses is pernicious and evil,’ said Holmes sharply. ‘You must not allow your mind to be prey to such ancient superstitions. The Dark Ages are passed and gone, Sir Edward!’

  ‘Are they?’ returned the other. ‘Are they indeed? You might speak otherwise had you been confined in this cell as long as I have, Mr Holmes.’ He rose to his feet once more, his mouth set in bitter determination, a strange light in his eye. ‘Had you lived alone in this hell-hole and spent your every hour in the company of these—’ He brought his fist down violently upon the pile of documents which covered the table, sending them flying to the floor. ‘Oh, no, Mr Holmes!’ cried he, with a horrible, sneering laugh: ‘There is more in Heaven and Earth than is dreamt of in your philosophy!’

  Holmes snorted. ‘Let us keep to particulars,’ said he sharply. ‘What happened to the dog?’

  ‘Bruno? I killed him! Yes, I do not wonder that your features express shock! He had evidently managed to free himself somehow, for as I was climbing out of my rat-hole in the chapel last night he sprang at me without warning, out of the darkness. No doubt he merely wanted to greet his master, but I was unnerved already by what I had been reading and he took me utterly by surprise. Before I knew what I was doing, I had lashed out with the stick I was carrying and caught him heavily upon the side of the head. He fell without a sound and breathed his last at my feet. Already, the curse begins to take effect, you see, Mr Holmes!’ A perverse glint of triumph replaced the look of horror in Davenoke’s eye as he spoke these last words. ‘Deny it if you can!’ cried he.

  ‘Tell me then,’ said Holmes, answering the vehemence of the other with firmness of his own: ‘Who has placed this curse upon you?’

  ‘It is written,’ responded the other. ‘It is written in the family documents. The Davenokes have been true to their obligations for countless generations.’

  ‘It is written by Richard Davenoke,’ retorted Holmes; ‘a man as you are a man. What right or power has he to place a curse upon generations unborn? Indeed,’ Holmes continued, as Davenoke did not reply, ‘if any man has ever forfeited the right to impose obligations upon another it is he.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Richard Davenoke was a murderer most foul and bestial.’

  Sir Edward spr
ang back, a look of great fear in his eye. ‘You cannot say this!’ he cried. ‘You cannot know!’

  ‘It is only too obvious. Richard Davenoke himself committed all those ghastly crimes which were ascribed to “the Beast of Shoreswood”. He himself was the beast, the only monster who ever dwelt here. To anyone familiar with the ways of evil, the pattern is all too clear. There never had been a Beast of Shoreswood before he invented it. It is the most common feature of all myths: the projection back into the distant and unrecorded past of what belongs rightly only to the present. The invention of history is a great device for those who would hide their own present evil. Richard’s younger brother – the one who had drowned in the moat – was rumoured to have had a hideous deformity of the features; but the hideous deformity was in no one’s face, but in the mind of Richard.’

  ‘He was totally insane,’ said the other simply, clutching his head in his hand. ‘The truth was that the brother had indeed drowned in the moat when young, but he had drowned by the hand of Richard.’

  ‘I suspected it,’ said Holmes. ‘And these papers, I imagine, consist of Richard’s personal history of his whole vile, bloody life: a sort of diabolical “Confessions of St Augustine”.’

  Sir Edward nodded his head slowly, his face haggard and grave. ‘How you can know these things, I do not know. The family has kept the secret for three hundred years. The family name has not been stained.’

  ‘It serves no purpose now.’

  ‘I have given my oath to my own father, as every Davenoke has done before me.’

  ‘Indeed, right back to Richard himself, who sought to protect only his own name. It is there the chain begins, in a pool of blood. What one man has begun, another may end. You must break the chain, Sir Edward!’

  ‘I have my duty as a Davenoke.’

  ‘Your first duty is to the living.’

  ‘A solemn oath is a solemn oath.’

  ‘A solemn oath upon an evil issue is no oath at all.’

  ‘Do not fence words with me, Mr Holmes!’ cried the other, his voice rising with anger.

  ‘Your wife – Lady Davenoke – has been half out of her mind with worry these last weeks. Does that mean nothing to you?’

  Sir Edward did not reply, and it was evident from the tortured twitching of his face that his mind was in a state of terrible turmoil and indecision. Sherlock Holmes’s firm manner and clear argument had had some effect, and a battle was now raging in his soul between the forces of light and of dark; between independent reason and the power of tradition. For several minutes a deathly hush fell upon that dank chamber as Sir Edward rocked upon his feet, his head clutched in his hands. At length he opened his mouth as if about to speak, but what he was to say then, we were never to learn. For there came all at once a most startling interruption.

  The sound of clattering feet broke suddenly upon the silence and seconds later the heavy door opposite burst open with a crash. In rushed Hardwick, clad only in a dressing-gown and bearing a lantern. His hair was awry, his eyes wild with panic.

  ‘Sir Edward!’ cried he in anguish, taking no heed of our presence. ‘Come quickly! Lady Amelia has had an accident. Oh, come at once!’

  ‘What!’ cried the other.

  ‘She walked in her sleep, Sir Edward. She did not know the stairs. She has fallen and hurt herself. Come quickly!’

  We hurried at once from the room, Davenoke leading the way up a steep stone staircase which seemed to be set within the very wall of the building. Under a low arch we passed and emerged through the back of a colossal old fireplace, into a dark and empty room. Through an open doorway we hastened and along an echoing corridor, the madly swinging lanterns casting their wild light upon dark and sombre old portraits, grim suits of armour and heavy medieval weapons which hung upon the walls. Then we were through a doorway and into a wide hall, lit with many lamps and candles.

  Three or four people stood in their night-clothes at the foot of the stair, their faces full of fear and apprehension. Before them lay the prostrate figure of Amelia Davenoke.

  ‘I am a doctor,’ I cried. ‘Stand aside. Do not move her!’

  I bent to the still figure at their feet. The luxuriant copper-coloured hair lay loosely upon her shoulders and I moved it gently to one side. There was something horribly unnatural about the angle of her head and neck. Desperately and repeatedly I sought for signs of life, but all in vain. It was clear that she had broken her neck in the fall and would breathe no more. I cannot describe the feelings which coursed then through my soul; I recall only that I rose to my feet and breathed deeply before I could make the terrible pronouncement which had fallen to my lot.

  The women present burst forth at once into terrible weeping. I believe, in truth, that they had known the sad fact already, but had hoped against all reason that I could prove their senses to be mistaken. Hardwick began to usher them gently up the stairs and I had turned to say something to Holmes, when we were all struck rigid by a terrible piercing cry.

  ‘The curse is come upon me!’ cried the young baronet, in a voice which struck a chill to my soul. ‘It has came to pass as it is written!’

  ‘Sir Edward—’ began Sherlock Holmes.

  ‘You!’ interrupted the other, turning upon my friend with a murderous venom in his eye. ‘You dare to speak to me!’ he cried. ‘Get out! Leave my house this instant! Get out, do you hear !’

  After only a moment’s hesitation, Holmes made a sign to me and we quickly withdrew.

  ‘It is a terrible thing, to leave him there like that,’ said my friend tensely, as we passed through the front doorway into the darkness of the night. ‘But, had we stayed, it might have been more terrible yet. You saw the look in his eye, Watson.’

  I had to acknowledge the truth of his observation. Dreadful as it seemed to walk away from that tragic scene, there was nothing else we could do. The man had every right to throw us out, innocent though we were of any part in the tragedy which had befallen him.

  Not a single word further passed between us that night, but I caught sight of Holmes’s ashen face as we mounted the stairs of the inn and saw more clearly there than any words could ever have conveyed, how deeply the death of Amelia Davenoke had moved him. For myself, I confess that I was numb with shock at the events of the evening, and sat long in a chair, smoking my pipe and unable to sleep.

  It was scant hours later, and the first grey light of dawn was breaking, when I was roused by a terrific commotion downstairs. At first I endeavoured to ignore it; I needed no further alarms that night. But the tumult increased, until I wearily left my bed, slipped on my dressing-gown and hurried downstairs to see what was the matter. I found Sherlock Holmes, fully dressed, at the foot of the stairs, in earnest conversation with the landlord.

  ‘There’s worse, Watson,’ said he, turning to me. ‘I am a desperate fool to have left that young man alone last night – a criminal fool!’

  ‘Whatever has happened?’ I cried in alarm.

  ‘Shoreswood Hall is ablaze, that’s what! They have sent for fire-engines from Framlingham, Woodbridge and goodness knows where else, but I’m damned if it will do any good. Quickly now! Into your clothes and let us see if we can help!’

  Two minutes later I was dressed and we were hurrying up the road in the company of three men from the village. It was a chill morning and patches of mist lay in hollows in the fields.

  ‘It seems,’ said Holmes to me, ‘that not long after you and I had been so unceremoniously ejected from Shoreswood last night, Davenoke decided to make it a general prescription and threw everyone else out, too.’

  ‘What!’ I cried. ‘Miss Strensall, too?’

  ‘Miss Strensall, Hardwick, the cook, the maids – everyone. Hardwick drove them all down to Wickham, where his sister has a house. However, he found himself unable to sleep for anxiety over his young master; so, like the faithful servant he is, he drove back again to Shoreswood to see if there was anything he could do to help. When he got there the house was going up like
a bonfire, from one end to the other, and there was no sign of Sir Edward. He tried to find a way in but the fierce heat drove him back, so he came down and roused the whole village.’

  ‘There’ll be no putting it out if it’s caught as he says,’ said one of the men with us. ‘There’s too much dry wood in that old place.’

  At that moment a great surge of orange flame showed above the treetops ahead of us, like a giant fireball, and the distant noise of roaring and crackling came clearly on the morning air.

  ‘It must be sixty feet in the air!’ I cried.

  ‘The roof has fallen in!’ said Holmes in dismay.

  ‘Aye!’ cried one of the men with us. ‘There’ll be no saving her now.’ We quickened our pace to a run, though each of us knew in his heart that the effort was useless, and when at last we reached the scene, the heat was so intense that we could get no closer than the ruined chapel. Small groups of silent men stood around there in impotent horror as the terrible inferno raged before them with an awesome, deafening roar. From every window the wicked flames blazed and spluttered with the force of a blast-furnace. From the top of the building, dense clouds of smoke and flame surged upwards, and scattered sparks and flaming debris all about us.

  ‘Does anyone know where Sir Edward Davenoke is?’ shouted Holmes at the top of his voice to one of the bystanders. In answer, the man raised one finger and pointed it at the dreadful sight before us.

  At seven-thirty we finally abandoned our terrible vigil and returned to the inn. The fire-engines had at length arrived but had been unable to approach close enough to have any effect upon the fire. The officers of the County Constabulary were summoned, and Holmes spent a considerable time with them in the parlour of the inn, going over and over the events of the previous night. At length, when our presence could serve no further purpose, we made our way to the railway station, weary and dejected beyond description, and caught the first available train to London.