The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Denis O. Smith

  It was as we were passing Brentwood station that Sherlock Holmes spoke for the first and only time on what was the most melancholy and depressing journey I can ever recall.

  ‘I have failed,’ said he. ‘I have failed more tragically than I have ever failed before.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ I retorted, seeing clearly what was passing in his mind. ‘No blame can attach to you. There is nothing you could have done which would have averted this tragedy.’

  ‘I could have told Lady Davenoke all I suspected, when we spoke yesterday afternoon. A positive theory, however disagreeable, is more consoling to the mind than a vague, nameless dread.’

  ‘Perhaps, but the lady was in such a state of nerves that I doubt very much that your confidence would have had any beneficial effect upon her. Besides, you were endeavouring to limit your interference in the matter to the very minimum. Your judgement was sound.’

  My friend lapsed into silence for a moment before replying.

  ‘The saddest story I have ever known,’ said he then, ‘is that of the Babes in the Wood.’

  My face must have betrayed the surprise I felt at this abrupt and, so it seemed to me, incongruous remark, for he hastened to assure me that he spoke in earnest.

  ‘The whole of world literature contains nothing more pitiful,’ he continued. ‘There is no tragedy written which is not a mere embellishment upon that theme. What are Oedipus and Hamlet, but helpless babes lost in the thicket of fate, unable either to understand their predicament or to escape from it? In the story of the Babes in the Wood, the two infants are banished to the forest by a wicked parent and only spared the axe because the man delegated to do the deed shrinks from it at the last. So they wander together in the forest as the cold night closes in. Without food or shelter, and without either the knowledge or resource to procure them, their tenure of life is a brief and pathetic one. They die unloved and unwanted, forsaken and alone; and when they are dead the trees shed their leaves upon them, as a coverlet, and a robin pipes his song over their grave. And what is so pathetic and moving about their fate? It is that they are so innocent, so helpless. There is no true tragedy in the world’s literature which you can name me, Watson, which is not that story retold.’

  I was not disposed to argue with him, so I said nothing. Besides, I could see that he felt keenly the sentiments of which he spoke.

  ‘And the profound sad truth,’ he continued after a moment, ‘which I confess has only come to me as I have advanced a little in years, is that, at bottom, when all the talking is done and the posturing abandoned, we are all lost babes, in the wood we know as life.’

  I returned to Suffolk the following week to give evidence at the inquest. No traces had been found of the bodies of Sir Edward Davenoke and his wife, nor ever were. The verdict reached by the coroner’s jury was one of accidental death in both cases, it being supposed that the blaze had been started by chance, by one of the many lamps and candles which had been lit that night. Sherlock Holmes, I was aware, was privately of the opinion that, distraught with grief, and driven perhaps beyond the bounds of sanity, Davenoke had fired the Hall himself; but neither Holmes nor I voiced this opinion publicly. Nothing would have been gained thereby, and the matter could in any case never have been proved for certain one way or the other. Of Shoreswood Hall itself nothing remained but a blackened shell upon a blackened field. It had occurred to me in London that the contents of that damp underground chamber in which we had spoken with Sir Edward might have escaped the inferno, but that, too, was empty and black, no doubt overcome by the intense heat of the raging fire above it.

  _______

  This, then, is the true history of the final days of the family of Davenoke, resident in East Suffolk since the days of the Plantagenets, and of how Mr Sherlock Holmes and I came to be involved. It is my hope that this narrative, with all its faults and inadequacies, will go some way towards satisfying the curiosity of those many correspondents who have raised the matter with me, in particular that worthy archivist, Mr Alexander Pargeter of the Suffolk County Records Office at Ipswich. In closing I could do no better than to quote from an article which appeared in the Daily Telegraph three days after our return to London, under the heading ‘THE LAST OF THE DAVENOKES’. The anonymous correspondent, in a fine essay, demonstrating round good sense and historical perception, comments upon the previous history of the family and laments the death of Sir Edward and that of his young American bride, upon whom so many hopes had rested, and concludes with the following remark:

  ‘With the tragic and untimely death of Sir Edward Davenoke, seventh baronet of that title, and last of his line, there passes away for all time not merely his own family and name, nor yet merely one significant part of the history of the County of Suffolk, but, indeed, a part of the very history of England.’

  The Adventure of the Minor Canon

  The month of June is a time of long evenings and sunny weather, and a popular choice for weddings and other festivities. Yet, in England at least, the pleasant, balmy days of June are not infrequently punctuated by days of cooler, showery weather. Such days are but a fleeting annoyance to most people, forgotten almost as soon as they have passed; but a rainy day in June never fails to stir up memories for me, for it was on just such a day that the curious case of Martin Zennor was first brought to the attention of my friend, Sherlock Holmes.

  Holmes had been busy for several weeks with a singular succession of cases, including the puzzling theft of the Bolingbroke miniature, the strange mystery surrounding ‘The Deeping Question’, and the sensational murder at the Nonpareil Club, and the unremitting effort he had put into these cases had at last taken its toll upon his strong and resilient constitution. On the morning in question, having finished his breakfast, he stood up from the table, stared out of the window for a moment at the rain-soaked street below, then announced that he was returning to his bed for an hour or two, as was his habit when he was exhausted. Scarcely had these words left his lips, however, when there came a strident peal at the front-door bell.

  ‘Now, who is this,’ said he with a weary sigh, ‘come to plague us with his problems?’

  A moment later, his question was answered. A young man in clerical garb was shown into the room and announced as Mr Martin Zennor. His thin, pale face showed signs of great anxiety and the dark shadows about his eyes suggested that he had slept little the previous night. I hung up his wet hat and coat, as Holmes waved him to a chair by the hearth and took his pipe from the mantelpiece. ‘How can we help you, Mr Zennor?’ said he. ‘You have, I see, recently arrived in London from the south-east.’

  ‘That is true,’ returned the other. ‘I caught a train about seven this morning, arrived about ten minutes ago and have come here directly from the station. But how do you know?’

  ‘They have taken up most of the paving stones outside the eastern front of Victoria station in the past few days, exposing the clay beneath. The rain has made this sticky, and it is difficult to avoid getting a little of it on one’s instep when passing from the station exit to the cab-stand.’ Holmes indicated his visitor’s shoes, as he put a match to his pipe and seated himself in the vacant armchair by the hearth. ‘Now,’ he continued after a moment, puffing gently at his pipe; ‘pray give us the details of what has brought you here.’

  The young man did not reply at once, but fidgeted with his collar for a moment, then took out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. Holmes leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, his face a placid mask of patience and calmness. Above his head, the blue wraiths of tobacco-smoke twisted and spiralled.

  ‘My situation is a miserable one,’ began his visitor at last, passing his hand across his brow, ‘almost, one might say, a desperate one. I am accused – and practically condemned already, without a fair hearing – of attempting to steal a sum of money belonging to the cathedral at which I am one of the minor canons.’

  ‘Which is, of course, Canterbury Cathedral.’

  ‘What! You know alread
y? May I ask who told you?’

  ‘You did, Mr Zennor. We know that you have come up from the south-east and you stated that it has taken you about two hours to do so, so clearly the cathedral in question can only be Canterbury. But come, these are mere trifles; let us get down to the matter! You are quite innocent, I take it, of the charge laid against you?’

  ‘Utterly so.’

  ‘Then why are you accused?’

  ‘The money – in the form of a cheque from a wealthy benefactor – was discovered to be in my possession, shortly after it was found to be missing.’

  ‘A circumstance for which you no doubt have a perfectly good explanation.’

  ‘Unfortunately not.’

  ‘Dear, dear!’

  ‘The cheque was in an envelope in my coat-pocket, but how it came to be there, I have no idea.’

  ‘How very interesting! If you did not put it there, then, presumably, someone else did. Hum! The cheque disappeared, I take it, from the cathedral offices?’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘And the discovery of it in your possession: did that also take place at the cathedral, or in your lodgings?’

  ‘Neither. It occurred here in London, just yesterday. I had come up to town on a couple of errands, one of which was to convey some papers to Canon Seagrave, one of the Archbishop’s clerks at Lambeth Palace. I had also volunteered to bring with me an urgent letter from the Dean of the cathedral to the Archbishop. It was whilst I was there, at Lambeth Palace, that news of the cheque’s disappearance reached London and also that the discovery was made that I had it in my possession. The general belief, I imagine, is that I was intending to exchange the cheque for cash at Sir Anthony Ingoldsby’s bank, which is at Charing Cross.’

  ‘He being the benefactor you referred to?’

  ‘Precisely. He had made out the cheque for a hundred pounds, and had signed and dated it, but had been unsure to whom the cheque should be addressed, so had left that part of it blank.’

  ‘Tut tut! A most inadvisable procedure! What a temptation such an unfinished cheque left lying about must present to the unscrupulous!’

  ‘Well, the office in which it was left “lying about”, as you put it, was, after all, in the cathedral precincts. One might perhaps be forgiven for believing that in such a place, the temptation to which you refer would be negligible.’

  ‘Perhaps one might; but it is still unwise to leave such a temptation unguarded. It is generally a mistake to rely too heavily upon the innate virtue of those with whom you have dealings. It is always more agreeable to be pleasantly surprised by the appearance of virtue than to be disappointed by its absence. However, leaving such general considerations aside, the fact remains that the cheque vanished from the cathedral precincts in Canterbury and reappeared in your coat pocket in London. Could this not have been simply a mistake of some kind? Could the cheque not simply have been put in the wrong coat pocket?’

  ‘That would, I agree, be the obvious conclusion; but it does not seem possible in this instance. It is not simply that the cheque should not have been in my pocket, it should not have been in anyone’s pocket. It was in a tray on a shelf in the office, awaiting the arrival of the Dean’s secretary, who would deal with it.’

  ‘Who has access to this office you refer to?’

  ‘Anyone, really. The door is never closed.’

  ‘Is there always someone present in the office?’

  ‘No, not always. It is the centre of activities for the minor canons, and people are coming in and out of it all day; but quite often, when we are all busy elsewhere in the cathedral, it is left unoccupied.’

  ‘I see. And is it anywhere near where you hang your coat up?’

  ‘Yes. There is a short corridor just outside the office, leading to the cathedral yard, in which there is a row of coat-hooks. All the minor canons hang their coats up there.’

  ‘I suppose the coats all appear very similar,’ remarked Holmes after a moment. ‘Do they ever get muddled up?’

  ‘It does happen occasionally. Of course, the coats are all marked somewhere with their owners’ names or initials, but these marks are not all in the same place and sometimes, when people are in a hurry, they don’t trouble to look for the mark, but just guess which coat is which.’

  ‘I see. So, if, as you say, there was no legitimate reason for the cheque to be in anyone’s pocket, it could not have been a simple accident, but must have been put there deliberately, for some reason. Do you consider you have any enemies, Mr Zennor, anyone who might wish to incriminate you?’

  Our visitor shook his head. ‘I am absolutely sure I do not. Of course, there is sometimes a certain degree of mild rivalry among the minor canons, but on the whole, I believe, we rub along very well together. No one could possibly gain anything by trying to besmirch my reputation.’

  Holmes frowned and sat in silence for several minutes. Then he put down his pipe and took out his note-book. ‘Perhaps,’ said he, ‘you could give me a list of all the minor canons at the cathedral. I think I shall have to speak to them, for it may be that, although innocent of any direct involvement in this puzzling matter, one or more of them may have seen or heard something which could cast a little light on it.’

  ‘Certainly,’ replied our visitor. ‘There are six of us altogether. Apart from myself, these are Stafford Nugent, Wallace Wakefield, Hubert Bebington, Michael Earley and Henry Jeavons. We are all under the supervision of Dr Glimper, who is in overall charge of most day-to-day matters at the cathedral and who answers directly to the Dean himself.’

  ‘Is there any seniority among the minor canons?’

  ‘No. Except, of course, for Dr Glimper, we are all on a level footing.’

  ‘What sort of a rule does Dr Glimper exercise over you?’

  ‘When I was first there,’ replied Zennor after a moment, ‘I heard how ferocious and harsh he was to those under him; but in fact I have not really found him so. He is certainly strict, with regard to adherence to rules and regulations, and an absolute stickler for the observance of all formalities, both great and small, but behind his rather forbidding exterior, I believe he is quite kind and understanding of one’s occasional failings.’

  ‘What is his view of the present business?’

  ‘He is convinced that it must be some kind of bizarre accident or mischance, although he can suggest no convincing explanation for it.’

  ‘He believes in your innocence?’

  Our visitor hesitated. ‘I think so,’ he replied after a moment, ‘but I am not certain of it. I was interviewed on the matter late last night by the Dean’s private secretary, Dr Wallis, with Dr Glimper in attendance. Dr Wallis was very sharp in his questioning, I must say. “This is a very serious matter, Zennor,” said he, “and if you do not tell the truth, the consequences may be disastrous for you.” I insisted that I was telling the truth and knew no more about the matter than anyone else; but he did not appear satisfied. Dr Glimper suggested that one of the cleaners might have accidentally knocked the envelope containing the cheque off the shelf and into a dustpan, and then, not noticing it until in the corridor outside the room, might have believed it had just fallen from one of the coats and thus – erroneously – replaced it in a random overcoat pocket.’

  ‘How did Dr Wallis respond to that suggestion?’

  ‘He described it as the least convincing explanation he had ever heard for anything in his life. Later, Dr Glimper told me that he could not protect me unless I told the absolute unvarnished truth. I do not wish to do my superior an injustice,’ Zennor added after a moment, ‘but there was an expression on his face that suggested to me that he is more concerned with protecting his own office, and the good name of the minor canons in general, than with my own personal fate. I saw a similar expression on the features of my colleagues, yesterday evening. No one will say to my face that they think I am guilty, but it is clear that most of them feel that I have brought shame on them all, unjust though that is. I thus find myself, through
no fault of my own, utterly friendless in my hour of greatest need.’

  ‘That is unfortunate,’ responded Holmes. ‘It is certainly one of the most desolate of experiences, to be accused – or even suspected – of something of which one is perfectly innocent. But, why does anyone suppose you would commit such a crime, Mr Zennor? What do they believe you intended to do with the money?’

  ‘Unfortunately for my case, I have spoken once or twice recently of the somewhat straitened circumstances in which my mother and sister find themselves since my father died, and it is believed by some, I think, that I intended to give the money to them. Of course, it is absurd to suppose that I should steal money belonging to the cathedral to give to my relatives, and just as absurd to suppose that, were I to do so, my relatives would accept it.’

  Holmes nodded. ‘But if people are determined to find an innocent man guilty, they will always manage to find some plausible motive to ascribe to him. Now,’ he continued, with a glance at the clock, ‘there are other questions I wish to ask you, but I also wish to interview your colleagues while the events of yesterday are still fresh in their minds. Do you think I will be able to see them today?’

  ‘Yes, that should be possible. Almost everyone was out on some business or other yesterday, but – apart from Jeavons, who is away all week – everyone should be there today.’

  ‘Excellent!’ cried Holmes, whose energy and enthusiasm appeared to have returned in full measure at the prospect of an interesting case. ‘What I suggest, then, is that we catch the next train down to Kent and continue this discussion as we travel.’

  Thus it was, that, forty minutes later, the three of us were seated in a fast train, as it made its way down through the damp-looking Kent countryside.

  ‘If you would tell us everything that happened to you yesterday,’ said Holmes, ‘and everything of which you are aware that happened to your colleagues, then we might be able to form a mental picture of how Sir Anthony Ingoldsby’s cheque came to be in your pocket. Omit nothing, however trivial, which might conceivably have a bearing on the matter.’