The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Denis O. Smith

  ‘“‘Depend upon it, Crompton,’ said he: ‘any good fortune you have is sure to be resented by someone, who will not appreciate the effort you must always put in to persuade fortune to occasionally smile upon you. I shouldn’t trouble yourself about Pigge, who is as ignorant a man as I have ever met. You can always rely on me to support you in any dispute with that oaf!’ But here we are, ladies and gentlemen! Come in and inspect my discoveries!”

  ‘We had turned down a narrow lane off the main road as Crompton had been speaking and come to a wicket gate in a tall hedge, which he pushed open. The front garden of his property was modest in size, with a small lawn and rose-bed. He did not pause there, however, but conducted us directly round the side of the house to the rear garden. This was much larger – perhaps a quarter of an acre – and, save for a strip of grass by the house, was in a state of great upheaval, with numerous shallow trenches and mounds of freshly dug earth. In the bottom of some of the trenches I could make out half-buried rows of brickwork. “As you see,” said Crompton, waving his hand at these diggings, “this area has been the focus of most of the activity. The enthusiastic young students from Cambridge were an enormous help to me last summer. You will appreciate by the extent of it that I couldn’t possibly have achieved so much by myself. Since they left, I have carried on alone, but at a much slower rate.” He led us on a path of wooden boards across the soft earth, towards the far corner of the garden, where an area of about fifteen feet square was covered with tarpaulins, their corners weighted down with small stones. Some of these Crompton picked up and tossed to one side, then he rolled back one of the tarpaulins to reveal the ground beneath. There were more rows of ancient-looking brickwork there and, between them, about two feet down, what appeared to be a tiled floor. The tiles were about six or seven inches square and of a dull reddish colour. Most were perfectly plain, but one to which Crompton drew our attention had some very neat writing inscribed upon it, although the lower half of the tile was broken off and missing. I leaned closer to get a better look and read Tacitus in pomario, as Crompton had described to us.

  ‘“Oh, this is wonderful!” cried Aunt Phyllis, craning forward to get a closer look. “It is so interesting to see how the craftsman has incised the letters so neatly. Do you mind if I sketch it?”

  ‘“Why, not at all,” returned Crompton, looking pleased at Aunt Phyllis’s enthusiasm.

  ‘She took a small sketch-pad and a pencil from a little bag she was carrying, and began to sketch the tiles before us. “The tiles are a good rich red colour,” she remarked without looking up from her drawing. “It really needs a bit of paint on this picture to do them justice. Were Roman tiles always this colour?”

  ‘“Broadly speaking, yes,” returned Crompton, “although they vary slightly from place to place, depending on the nature of the local clay deposits. As a matter of fact, this was a question that interested me, as there was some difference of opinion about it: whether the tiles and bricks had been produced locally, or had been carted in from further afield, from Lincoln, say, or from somewhere in the Trent valley. I therefore dug up some reasonable-looking clay from that field over the hedge – the farmer, Mr Thoresby, is a somewhat more obliging gentleman than old Pigge – and made a series of experiments, using the oven in my kitchen to fire the clay. The results were fairly conclusive, as far as I was concerned: my efforts, amateurish though they were, ended up precisely the same shade as these skilfully crafted Roman bricks and tiles, thus suggesting that they, too, had been made locally. Incidentally, the Romans sometimes used a method of heating their houses in cold weather by constructing channels under such tiles as these for hot air from a furnace to pass along, but there is no such arrangement in this case, which lends support to my theory that this was purely a summer residence for a wealthy individual who spent most of the year somewhere else, probably in Lincoln – or Lindum as the Romans called it.”

  ‘For some time we ambled round the excavations, while Crompton pointed out features of interest to us. Then he fetched from the house the two Roman coins, and we were able to see that the emperor’s face on both was the same, although the one he had found in his excavations was quite badly damaged, with some of the edge broken off. Finally, as the sun was declining in the west, casting a golden glow over the countryside, we thanked our host for showing us round and made our way home. It was clear that everyone had enjoyed the visit immensely, and the adults chatted enthusiastically about the surprising wealth of history to be found in this obscure corner of the country. “I had thought it was thrilling enough to sit on the bench that Dr Johnson had occupied a hundred years ago,” said Uncle Moreton, “but to walk on the floor where Tacitus may have trod nearly two thousand years ago is even more amazing.”

  ‘The following day was dull and overcast, and we spent most of it in Louth, the nearest town of any size, where Aunt Phyllis found a small mirror in a battered frame in what she described as an “old curiosity shop”. This is the mirror you see before you, Watson. She made us promise that the next time we went to the sea we would take a basket with us and collect as many pretty little shells and pebbles as we could find. “And then,” said she, “I will show you how we can decorate this mirror to make a keepsake of our holiday.”

  ‘On the way home I gave fresh consideration to the big spreading tree at the bottom of the garden and thought of a way of overcoming the difficulty of the first few feet. As soon as we got back, therefore, I found an old cask and, with Sylvie’s help, manoeuvred it into position at the foot of the tree. Standing on that, I was able to stretch my hand up to a small clump of twigs and thus pull myself up into the main branches of the tree. After that, progress was not too difficult, although I did not manage to get anywhere near the top. At the place I had stopped, about two-thirds of the way up the tree, there was a comfortable place to sit, and from that vantage point I was able to survey the rolling countryside which surrounded The Highlands. In a narrow lane in the distance I saw a man I recognised as Mr Crompton, clad in a linen jacket and straw hat. Further away, round a bend in the same lane and thus out of sight of Mr Crompton, another man was approaching. He was clad in a dark suit and hat, and I recognised him as “the sinister stranger” that Sylvie and I had seen in the field next to The Highlands. On this occasion he had a child with him, a boy of about my own age, as far as I could make out.

  ‘As I watched, the two men came in sight of each other and, as they did so, Crompton stopped abruptly. A moment later he had resumed his leisurely walk and the two men gradually approached each other. When they met, they paused for a moment and engaged in conversation, but it was not for long, and they soon went their separate ways. All the while, I was conscious that Sylvie was still standing at the foot of the tree, waiting to hear from me, and I felt sorry and a little guilty that I was enjoying being up the tree and she could not. I was therefore about to descend when something surprising occurred which arrested my attention. Mr Crompton had stopped and turned to look at the retreating back of the other man. For a long moment he just stood there staring, as if he had perhaps remembered something he had meant to say, but then, abruptly, he raised his hand and shook his fist at the other man. A moment later he had turned away once more and resumed his course down the lane. Startled by what I had seen, I quickly climbed down and described it in detail to Sylvie, but neither of us could think what to make of it. Again we debated whether we should mention what we had seen to the adults, but again we decided against it.

  ‘The next day dawned bright and clear, and over breakfast Uncle Moreton and Mr Hemming decided that we should make another trip to the coast. “We don’t know how long this fine weather will last,” remarked Uncle Moreton, “and we might not feel much like bathing if the air turns colder.”

  ‘As we left, the wind seemed to be getting stronger and by the time we reached the coast it was blowing very sharply off the sea, piling up the waves and sending them crashing on to the shore in a cascade of foam. We had our bathe, but it was a very bo
isterous one, and I think we all had to grit our teeth a little to enter into that wild maelstrom of chilly water. Afterwards, with chattering teeth, we collected as many attractive shells and pebbles as we could fit in the basket we had brought with us and set off for home, cold and exhausted but feeling pleased with ourselves for our hardiness.

  ‘When we reached The Highlands, we found that Sylvie and the two women had already cleaned and smoothed the frame of the mirror, and had just finished applying a second coat of blue paint to it, making it look very smart. Sylvie and I then set about washing all the shells and pebbles in a bowl of water in the garden and laying them out in rows on an old towel so that we could choose our favourites. We were busily employed in this way when Mr Crompton came in through the garden gate. He came over to see what we were doing, and when I explained about the mirror, he clapped his hands together in delight. “How very artistic,” said he. “I’m sure it will look splendid!” At that moment, the adults emerged from the house to take tea in the garden and invited him to join them.

  ‘“This is not purely a social call,” said Crompton as he sat down at the table. “The fact is, I wondered if I could ask a small favour of you. I am going to see my sister, Ethel, in Nottingham tomorrow and shall be away for a couple of nights. My housekeeper will also be away, as I have given her a few days off to visit some relatives of hers in Boston. It’s annoying these two things coming together, but they were both arranged some weeks ago. At the time, it seemed the most sensible and convenient way of proceeding, but now all I can think of is that the house will be left completely unoccupied, and after the recent burglary at the rectory I am worried that someone will take the opportunity to break into High Grove. Of course, I’ve notified Constable Pilley that I shall be away and he will no doubt keep an eye on the house during the evening, but I thought that if you could perhaps walk over there once or twice and just sit in the garden for five minutes, that might be enough to put potential burglars off.”

  ‘“I’m sure we’d be delighted to,” said Mr Hemming.

  ‘By the time we had finished tea, the paint on the mirror-frame had dried, and Sylvie, Aunt Phyllis and I began to position the shells and pebbles to best effect, fixing each in position with a blob of glue. Percival took no part in this. He had developed a persistent cough since our return from the coast, which got worse during the course of the evening, and by bedtime he really seemed quite ill. I was moved out of the bedroom he and I had previously shared into the spare bed in Sylvie’s room, but all night I could hear him coughing and wheezing, and the sound of his mother’s footsteps going back and forth on the landing outside the room. In the morning it was clear that neither Percival nor his parents had slept much during the night, and after a heated discussion in which Mrs Hemming berated her husband for subjecting Percival to the cold winds at the seaside, she decided that she would take him up to London without delay, to consult the specialist who had treated him for some similar ailment the year before. Aunt Phyllis said she would go with her for company and, after a hurried breakfast, the pony and trap were brought round and we all set off for the station at Alford, with poor Percival wrapped up in a blanket.

  ‘When the London train had left, Uncle Moreton, Mr Hemming, Sylvie and I sat for a few moments in silence in the trap. Everything seemed to have happened in such a rush, including catching the train, which had been achieved with only a minute or two to spare, that I think we all needed a little while to catch our breath and order our thoughts. “I think,” said Uncle Moreton at length, “that we perhaps won’t go straight back to The Highlands, but will first make a little trip to Louth and take lunch there. I have been observing you playing in the garden, Sylvie, and it seems to me that – whatever anyone else may think – you would really like nothing better than to climb up that big tree with young Sherlock here. I thought as much,” he continued with a chuckle as she nodded her head. “In that case we must provide you with a proper tree-climbing outfit!” Once we reached Louth it did not take long to find a suitable outfitters and Sylvie was soon “fully equipped”, as Uncle Moreton described it, with corduroy breeches and a linen shirt.

  ‘Upon our return to The Highlands, she and I at once set about climbing up the big tree from which I had watched Mr Crompton and “the sinister stranger”. To begin with, I had to help her, but, to tell the truth, she soon proved herself every bit as accomplished at climbing as I considered myself to be. By leaning out in what seemed to me a very daring way, past a clump of little branches, she succeeded in climbing even higher than I had previously managed. I followed her example and we found ourselves a very comfortable perch from which we could survey the countryside for miles around. As we sat there, commenting on the different colours of the many fields we could see and the little cottages far in the distance, a horse and cart came into view, trundling at an easy pace along a nearby lane. On the seat was Mr Pigge and another man, whom I recognised after a moment as Michael Shaxby. To see a highly respected local farmer consorting with the young man I had been told was the local ne’er-do-well was certainly a surprise.

  ‘“Perhaps old Pigge has offered him a job, to keep him out of mischief,” suggested Sylvie. “Mama is always saying ‘the devil finds work for idle hands’.”

  ‘At that moment we heard Uncle Moreton calling to us from somewhere in the garden, to tell us that tea was ready, so we descended quickly from our lofty perch, which gave him something of a surprise. “I had no idea you were up there,” said he. “I hope you don’t end up in the clouds!”

  ‘After tea, Uncle Moreton applied a coat of varnish to the frame of the mirror, shells and all, to seal it and give it a glossy shine, as Aunt Phyllis had instructed him that morning. While he was doing that, Mr Hemming said he would stroll over to Crompton’s house, to look it over, as he had promised we would. When he returned, some fifty minutes later, Sylvie and I were in our den by the gate, bringing our note-books up to date, and Uncle Moreton was sitting nearby, smoking his pipe.

  ‘“You will never guess who I met, prying about in Crompton’s garden and peering through his windows,” said Mr Hemming to Uncle Moreton, as he came in at the gate: “just about the last person in the world I should have expected to see in such a rural backwater as this: John Clashbury Staunton. I’m sure I must have mentioned his name to you at some time. He and I were up at Cambridge together, and everyone knew him as one of the most brilliant undergraduates that the old university had ever seen. Unfortunately, his character was not quite as elevated as his intellect.”

  ‘“What do you mean?” asked Uncle Moreton.

  ‘“He was always very off-hand and rude in his manner, and had a knack of falling out with almost everyone he met. On top of that, he had an obsessive belief that people were spying on him all the time, trying to steal both his belongings and his ideas. He and I had been great friends during our early days at college, but fell out badly later.”

  ‘“Why was that?”

  ‘“He accused me of stealing something from his room. Absurd, of course, but I wasn’t the only one he accused in that way. It was ironic, then, that the only person who was ever actually caught prying in other people’s rooms was Staunton himself, for which he came close to being sent down. However, he managed to talk his way out of that particular difficulty, did brilliantly in his examinations and went on to become a successful classical scholar, in demand not only at Cambridge but everywhere that scholarship was valued. You might imagine from this that his future life was set fair, but trouble seems to have followed him around wherever he went. From what I’ve heard, he has managed to quarrel with practically every other scholar in his field, accusing more than one of them of stealing his ideas. Then there was the business with his wife and the dark rumours that were circulating when she abruptly disappeared. But wait a moment,” said Mr Hemming, breaking off, stepping to the gate and leaning out into the lane. “Staunton said that he would call on us later. Yes, he’s coming now. Look,” he continued, turning once more to Uncle Mor
eton, “I haven’t got time to explain, but whatever you do, don’t mention his wife. Do you understand?”

  ‘“Why, certainly,” replied Uncle Moreton in a tone of surprise.

  ‘A few moments later, Mr Clashbury Staunton arrived at the gate, and to my great surprise I saw it was the man that Sylvie and I had called “the sinister stranger”. With him was the boy I had seen previously. Uncle Moreton called to us and as we emerged from under the laurustinus, he looked, I thought, a little uncomfortable, as if he had not realised that we were so close and would probably have overheard his conversation with Mr Hemming. We were introduced to the newcomers, and Uncle Moreton asked if the boy – whose name was Adrian – would like to be shown round the garden.

  ‘“I’m sure he would,” replied Staunton, answering for the boy in a deep, sepulchral voice. “Go and play with Sherlock and Sylvie, Adrian.” Sylvie and I conducted this boy to what we considered the most interesting corners of the grounds, including our den beneath the laurustinus, but nothing seemed to fire his enthusiasm and throughout the whole time he spoke scarcely a single audible word. Presently we were summoned back to where the men were sitting, and shortly afterwards Staunton and his son left. Now, Watson, I must confess to a shameful secret. I have not very often been an eavesdropper, but on that particular occasion I was consumed with curiosity to learn what it was about Staunton’s wife that had caused Mr Hemming to warn Uncle Moreton against mentioning her, and I therefore went out of my way to listen in upon some of their conversation later in the evening. Much of it was irrelevant, some of it I could not understand, but the gist, as far as I could make it out, was that it was general knowledge that Staunton had treated his wife very badly, and when she disappeared one day without any explanation, rumours had soon arisen that he had murdered her and hidden her body somewhere. These rumours grew – as rumours tend to – until the police began to take an interest and interviewed Staunton on the matter. Eventually, several weeks later, the truth came out: deciding that she could no longer live under the same roof as her husband, Mrs Staunton had simply packed a bag one day when he and the boy were out of the house, and, with the assistance of an old friend in London, had taken herself off somewhere. When this became generally known, it caused an enormous scandal in the society in which they moved, and Staunton himself suffered a complete nervous collapse over the matter and spent several weeks in a sanatorium. Upon his partial recovery, he had been granted a prolonged leave of absence from his duties in Cambridge, whereupon he had taken a remote house in the Lincolnshire Wolds and lived there in solitude with his son. They had been there about eighteen months at the time of our visit.