The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Denis O. Smith

  ‘“I am,” I returned in surprise.

  ‘“Very good,” said he, as he warmed his hands before the blazing fire. “Then you are just the man I am looking for; and I, I may tell you, am just the man that you are looking for!” So saying, he took my hand in his and wrung it vigorously.

  ‘“Your meaning is not clear to me, Mr Pleasant,” said I, puzzled by his manner.

  ‘“No?” he returned, flinging himself down in an armchair, crossing his legs, and, I must say, making himself very much at home. “You, Mr Potter, desire to sell this house. I am correct, am I not? And I, Mr Potter, desire to purchase it. What could be simpler!” He leaned back in his chair, winked at my wife in a conspiratorial manner, as if I were a half-wit, and chuckled heartily.

  ‘“Pardon me,” said I, “but I regret that you have been misinformed. I have no wish to sell this house. On the contrary, my wife and I have recently resolved to make it our permanent abode.”

  ‘“What!” cried he, springing up as if galvanised. “Can this be true? Do you mean to tell me that I have come all this way, in this foul weather, and have turned my ankle over in the lane, simply to have my offer thrown back in my face, and be dismissed without a minute’s consideration!”

  ‘“I regret the weather,” said I, feeling a little uncomfortable, “although it is scarcely my fault. Nor is it my fault that you have been misinformed. Might I enquire the name of the agent who told you that Juniper Cottage might be up for sale?”

  ‘He ran his fingers through his damp hair, and sat back down, a look of the most utter disappointment upon his features.

  ‘“It was not an agent,” said he at length. “It was a very knowledgeable man I met at the inn down the road, the Rose and Crown.”

  ‘Mr Pleasant explained that he was a commercial traveller for a stationery company, and having been a frequent visitor to the Woolwich area, considered that it would be an agreeable spot in which to live. He had mentioned this fact to a chance acquaintance at the Rose and Crown, who had informed him that Juniper Cottage was about to be put up for sale.

  ‘“He is a large, loud man, with a grey beard down to here,” said Pleasant, holding his hand halfway down his waistcoat front. “I dare say you know him well, Mr Potter.”

  ‘“I have never seen such a man,” I responded.

  ‘“That is odd, for he certainly knows all about you, or about your house, at any rate,” insisted our visitor, in a tone which seemed to imply that I was lying to him. “He informed me that you were desperate to sell, as you wished to move immediately.” He paused. “I could make you a very handsome offer,” he added after a moment.

  ‘“The house is not for sale, and that is final,” said I, in an emphatic tone.

  ‘“Very well,” said Pleasant, nodding his head. “I shall not mention it again, Mr Potter.”

  ‘It was still pouring with rain, and the wind sounded even more violent than ever, so I threw more wood on to the fire, my wife made a pot of tea, and we sat for a long time in conversation. Our visitor was amiable enough, once he had dropped the subject of the cottage, and our talk rambled hither and thither in an agreeable fashion. He had been to the theatre the previous evening, he informed us, to hear Jenny Beach sing her latest song, “A Teardrop on a Rose”, and he entertained us for some time with an account of this, and other similar anecdotes.

  ‘The evening wore on, but the storm did not abate. Eventually, it was time for bed, but the storm was as loud and violent as ever. It appeared, as our visitor observed, to have set in for the night. I could not possibly turn him out in such weather, stranger though he was, especially as he had mentioned that his sprained ankle was beginning to ache badly. I therefore offered him a shakedown on the couch, which he accepted gratefully, apologising profusely for putting us to trouble. My wife found a couple of blankets for him, and there, in the little sitting-room, we left him for the night.

  ‘Some time later, I was awakened from sleep by what I thought was distant thunder. But as I lay awake in the dark, I heard the same low, rumbling noise again, and I realised that it came from downstairs. For a moment I felt in a panic, and thought we must have burglars, then I recollected our visitor, and sighed with relief. Evidently he had moved a chair, or some other piece of furniture, to make himself more comfortable. I was just dropping off to sleep again, however, when I heard more quiet noises from below, the scraping of a table leg upon the floor, the opening and closing of a cupboard-door, and so on. I could not conceive what he was doing, but as the noises presently ceased, I did not think the matter worth getting out of bed for.

  ‘In the morning I tapped on the door of the sitting-room and pushed it open. There appeared to be no one there, and for a moment I thought that Mr Pleasant had already left us. Then I saw that he was crouching down on the floor, peering under a bureau. He sprang up when I addressed him, and explained that he had dropped a coin, which had rolled under the bureau. “It doesn’t matter,” said he: “it’s only a halfpenny.” He accompanied me to the dining-room for a little breakfast, but as we left the sitting-room I observed that some of the pictures on the walls were hanging crookedly, and I could not help but wonder again what our strange visitor had been doing during the night. Whatever it was, it had evidently not affected the recuperation of his sprained ankle, which appeared to have mended completely overnight.

  ‘I was a little late – as a result, no doubt, of my disturbed night – and had to hurry off to the railway station, leaving Mr Pleasant to linger over his boiled egg. On the way down the lane, however, I chanced to meet our neighbour, Major Loxley, who had been out early to buy a newspaper. I explained to him about our visitor, and asked him if he would look in at Juniper Cottage, in case my wife was concerned about the presence of a stranger there. This he agreed to do.

  ‘When I arrived home that evening, my wife informed me that Major Loxley had called, as I had requested, but that while she was speaking to him at the front door, Mr Pleasant had disappeared from the dining-room. They had found him in the study, looking through the volumes in the bookshelves. My wife says he appeared a little discomfited at being discovered there. Several of the books were out of the shelves and stacked upon the floor, and, as they entered, he was rapidly turning over the pages of an antique copy of the Old Testament.

  ‘“Pardon my boldness,” said he; “but having put my head into this room by mistake, I could not resist having a look through this fine collection of books.”

  ‘“You might have asked permission,” said Loxley, in a tone of censure; but as the other was profuse in his apologies he did not press the matter further. Shortly afterwards, Mr Pleasant left.’

  ‘Do you know if Major Loxley knows of the man with the beard that your visitor claimed to have met at the local inn?’ queried Holmes.

  ‘I put that very question to him when I called round to see him, on the evening of the following day. He said he knew of no one in the district who could be described as “large and loud” and with a long grey beard, and we could only conclude that Mr Pleasant had lied to me. Bearing that in mind, and also the forced entry which had occurred before we moved into Juniper Cottage, I began to speculate as to whether my late uncle might have had objects of value in the house of which I was unaware. Loxley, however, thought not.

  ‘“Major Ullathorne picked up many odd curios in the course of his travels,” said he, “but none, so far as I am aware, of any great value.” He did think, however, that some of the books might fetch a few pounds. “The Old Testament that was interesting your visitor, for instance,” he continued. “I happened to notice that it was once the property of J. Hardiman Smallbone, and was signed by him, which probably makes it of some value.”

  ‘My features must have betrayed my puzzlement, for he quickly explained that this man Smallbone had been a local parson in the latter half of the last century, whose fiery and impassioned sermons had brought him celebrity throughout north-west Kent. Any volume which had been part of his own private library would
have great value for his admirers and possibly also for the County Archive. Major Loxley considered that it might be worth my while to have some of the older books valued, and recommended a book-dealer in Woolwich, by the name of Vidler. As I was keen to dispose of some of my uncle’s possessions, in order to make a little more space in the cottage for our own belongings, I took up his suggestion, and we arranged to take a box of books down to Vidler’s shop the following afternoon, which was Saturday.

  ‘Mr Vidler was interested in the selection I took to show him, and appeared about to make me an offer for the lot. But as he was deliberating, I began to have the odd and disconcerting feeling that someone was watching me. Once or twice, out of the corner of my eye, I had had the impression of a face peering round a doorway at the back of the shop. I looked up sharply, and as I did so a face withdrew behind the door-frame. It was only a momentary glimpse I had, but in that fraction of a second, I had the distinct impression that the man watching me was none other than Jonathan Pleasant, the man I had put up at Juniper Cottage on the night of the storm.

  ‘“There is something very odd afoot here,” I said softly to Major Loxley. “That man, Pleasant, is following me about!” To the surprise of the old shop-keeper, I made a sudden dash towards his back room, with Loxley at my heels. But as we reached the doorway and looked into the room, a door in the opposite wall banged shut. We could not get it open for a moment, and when we did we found ourselves in the narrow lane which runs behind the shops. We could hear hurried footsteps ringing upon the pavement round the corner, and ran in that direction, but when we reached the corner, there was no one to be seen.

  ‘“Whoever it was, he has vanished,” said Loxley, scratching his head, and we returned to the bookshop. Mr Vidler made me an offer for the box of books, but I felt put out by what had happened, and not in the mood for concluding a bargain, so I told him I would consider his offer, but, for the moment, take my box of books back home again. As I was gathering them together, I asked the shop-keeper if he knew Jonathan Pleasant, and described him. He said he did not, but said that there had been a customer of that description in the shop shortly before we arrived, and that he might have slipped unnoticed into the back room as we entered. I was about to leave then, when it struck me that there were fewer books in the box than before. At first Mr Vidler disputed the matter, but when I insisted upon it, he let out a little cry.

  ‘“Oh, of course!” said he, as if in sudden recollection. “Do excuse my carelessness, Mr Potter! I carried a volume to the window, to study it in a better light, and forgot to replace it. Here it is!” he continued, picking up a volume from a shelf behind where he was standing. It was old Hardiman Smallbone’s copy of the Old Testament.’

  Sherlock Holmes rubbed his hands together and chuckled. ‘Excellent!’ cried he, with the enthusiasm of a wine-connoisseur who has taken his first sip of a particularly rare and fine vintage.

  ‘My story interests you, then?’ queried Potter, a note of relief in his voice. ‘I had feared that you might think it too trivial a matter to concern yourself with. It is, of course, of the first importance to me, for I am determined to get to the bottom of why I am being persecuted by this man, Pleasant; but I can see that it might strike an outsider as a somewhat inconsequential business.’

  Holmes shook his head emphatically. ‘One must never prejudge such a matter,’ said he. ‘One of the most terrible cases I was ever involved with began with the arrival of a packet of children’s wooden bricks in the post one morning. Besides, the great big crimes, which feature so frequently in the newspapers, and in connection with which you may have seen my name, are all too often banal and uninteresting, for all their sensation. The connoisseur of such things, Mr Potter, when presented with a choice between a pint-pot of weak and mediocre beer and a thimbleful of an exquisite and refined liqueur, will always choose the latter. Your case interests me greatly, and I should be pleased to look into the matter for you. Are we now up to date?’ he continued, glancing up at the clock. ‘I should like to see Juniper Cottage for myself, this afternoon if possible, and if we leave now we should be able to catch the three o’clock train from Charing Cross.’

  ‘I believe I have told you most of it,’ returned Potter. ‘I can give you the remaining details as we travel.’

  ‘Capital!’ cried Holmes, springing from his chair. ‘Let us be off to Woolwich at once, then. You will accompany us, Doctor?’

  ‘With great pleasure!’ said I. Mr Potter’s curious little puzzle had fired my imagination, and I was keen to see the scene of the mystery for myself. What Holmes might hope to learn there, I could not imagine, but knowing his profound mental resources, I could not doubt that we should leave Juniper Cottage knowing more than when we arrived.

  Once we were aboard the train, Holmes’s client resumed his account.

  ‘Following the incident at the bookshop,’ said he, ‘I gave the matter a lot of thought, and discussed it exhaustively with Major Loxley, who was tolerably familiar with my late uncle’s affairs, but we could make nothing of it. It seemed to me, on reflection, that the man calling himself Pleasant – I put it that way for I have come to feel that it is not his real name – had the cut of a soldier. He was tall and upright, clean-shaven, and with close-cropped hair. This made me wonder if he was from the local barracks, and if the whole matter were not perhaps connected in some way with my uncle’s old regiment. For although he had been retired from active service for some years, most of his friends and acquaintances were men from the regiment, and he was a frequent visitor to the barracks.

  ‘I therefore called in a few days later, and asked to speak to the commanding officer, Colonel Headley, whom my uncle had known well. I was informed that he was absent that afternoon, at Rochester, but his adjutant, Major Felgate, was most obliging. He is a very smart-looking man, with a black moustache, and very sharp, inquisitive features. He expressed concern when I described to him the odd visitor we had had at Juniper Cottage, and the other incidents.

  ‘“I cannot recall offhand that any of our men exactly matches the description you have given me,” said he, stroking his moustache in a thoughtful way, “but I shall make thorough inquiries. If it turns out that any of our men are concerned in the matter, I shall get to the bottom of it, Mr Potter, you may be assured of that. Major Ullathorne, your uncle, was a very well-respected figure here, and the Royal Medway Regiment would certainly feel it its duty to do all it could to clear up any little mystery connected with one of its finest former servants.”

  ‘He said that he would communicate with me when he had any further information, but I have heard nothing so far, so it seems he has not yet managed to discover anything.’

  Sherlock Holmes nodded. ‘Your uncle’s death was sudden, you say,’ he remarked after a moment. ‘Was he at home when he died?’

  ‘No, his body was found on the Plumstead marshes. Apparently he had taken himself off for a walk there.’

  ‘Indeed? That is a fair step for a retired gentleman,’ observed Holmes. ‘Was it his habit to take such long walks?’

  ‘Not that I am aware. His heart being weak, he was inclined to become breathless if he walked too far.’

  ‘Well, that is curious. There was an inquest, presumably.’

  ‘Yes. No one could shed any light upon why he should have been out on the marshes on a damp afternoon in February, but as the cause of death was established beyond question as heart failure, the matter was not pursued. The County Medical Officer said that the strain of the walk, perhaps exacerbated by the cold weather, had undoubtedly contributed to the heart failure, but that my uncle’s heart having been weak for years, he might have gone at any time.’

  ‘That is true,’ I remarked. ‘With conditions of that type, any stress or strain, physical or mental, is liable to hasten the end.’

  ‘I see,’ said Holmes, nodding his head in a thoughtful way. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us, Mr Potter?’

  ‘There is one more thing. It may have
absolutely nothing to do with the present business, but I think I ought to tell you, for it was certainly odd and unusual. I had quite forgotten about it until these recent events. It was on a Sunday, during the hot weather last summer. I had gone down with my family to visit Major Ullathorne and take tea with him at Juniper Cottage. After tea, we sat for some time in the garden, talking and watching little Horatio play, but our conversation was interrupted by the door-bell. “Now, who on earth can that be, on a Sunday evening?” said Uncle Henry, and it was clear that he was not expecting any other visitors. He hurried off to answer it, for his maid had gone home for the week-end, and we heard him admit someone to the house. The garden in which we were sitting being at the back of the cottage, we could not, of course, see who had entered at the front door, but we could hear the sound of low voices through the open French windows of the study. Presently my uncle reappeared through these French windows, his features very serious, and, I thought, a little agitated.

  ‘“Do excuse my rudeness,” said he in an apologetic tone, “but I am afraid I must ask you to leave, Sidney. Something extremely important has cropped up, and I must devote my full attention to it. I do apologise.”

  ‘“Do not concern yourself, Uncle,” said I. “Daisy and I were just thinking of making our way home, anyway. The light will be going soon, and we don’t want to be walking down to the railway station in the dark.” As I informed him, it was quite unnecessary for him to apologise. My uncle was one of the most polite and considerate men that I have ever met. Besides, it was clear that whatever the information was that his caller had brought, it was of a very serious nature, for I had never before seen him appear so anxious.’

  ‘That is interesting, and suggestive,’ said Holmes, as Potter paused. ‘Of course, it is impossible at present to say whether the incident has a bearing on recent matters or not, but you were right to tell me of it.’

  ‘Do you see any chink of light in the mystery?’ asked Potter. ‘I confess I see none at all. Why I am being plagued by this man, Pleasant, and why he and others should be so determined to get their hands on Hardiman Smallbone’s Old Testament, I simply cannot imagine.’