In addition to these minor inconveniences, there was the less frequent, but more disturbing matter of the danger which my fellow lodger seemed to draw to himself like a magnet, and which was likely to fall, also, upon anyone who spent any time in his company. Though Holmes himself was among the most cultured and reasonable of men, his work brought him into contact with many who lacked his refinement, who cared little for the subtleties of argument, and whose first resort if thwarted was to violence. I could not begin to enumerate the many occasions upon which our prosaic little sitting room was the scene of heated quarrels, fisticuffs, violent assaults and, on at least two occasions, attempted murder.
These, then, were some of the chief disadvantages of sharing chambers with Sherlock Holmes. Hardly suitable lodgings, it might be supposed, for a retired Army officer on a wound pension, with generally uncertain health and few social contacts. And yet, for all that, I cannot in all honesty say that I would have wished to reside anywhere else. I could certainly have enjoyed a quieter existence elsewhere, but what a world of experience I should thereby have missed! Where else might I have descended to breakfast to find a baffling cryptogram propped up against the cruet stand, or a mysterious chart fastened to the corner of the mantelpiece with a thumbtack? Where else could I have learned all the details of the most intriguing crimes and mysteries of the day from the one man in the country who truly understood them? What other circumstances could possibly have provided such a thrill as when I was privileged to be present as Holmes’s clients told of the often strange, sometimes terrible events that had brought them to seek the help of the famous detective? Such intellectual pleasures were more than sufficient compensation for the practical inconveniences of life at 221B, Baker Street.
As to Holmes himself, he was a man of many parts and many moods. He could on occasion be taciturn and uncommunicative for days on end, but he could also, when he chose, be the most stimulating company imaginable. And although his sense of humour sometimes seemed a queer one, and could occasionally be caustic and harsh, he was nevertheless quite the sharpest, wittiest man I have ever known.
As the months of our shared residence in Baker Street passed, and we perhaps got the measure of each other more precisely, he began to speak to me more frequently of his work, occasionally recounting in detail some episode in which he considered that his theories as to the art of detection had been particularly well vindicated. On one occasion I ventured to suggest that if one or two of his more interesting cases were to be written up in a form designed to appeal to the general reader, it might make his views more widely understood.
“An excellent suggestion,” was his affable reply, “provided, of course, that appropriate emphasis is laid upon the methods by which the solution was reached. But if it is to be done, then it is you that must do it, Watson, for I certainly cannot spare the time.”
I said that I would make an attempt at the job, and would endeavour to do justice to his theories, and there, for the moment, the matter rested. But from that day forward, as if recognizing that I could perhaps perform a service for which he himself had neither the time nor the inclination, he began to involve me more intimately in his investigations, and even occasionally specifically requested my presence. It was then that I realized fully for the first time how frequently in the course of his work he placed himself in physical danger. Nor, as I soon discovered, was it ever possible to predict with any accuracy which of his cases might have such an outcome, for upon countless occasions an investigation which had appeared at first to be but a trifling matter would lead us ultimately into a situation of mortal peril. A case that illustrated this well was that which concerned Mr Rhodes Harte of Ipswich and the mystery of Owl’s Hill, and it is this that I shall now recount.
It was a pleasant morning in that period of late spring when the flowerbeds in the parks and gardens of London are full of colour and all but the tardiest of the trees have opened their buds and are covered with bright green leaves.
A telegram had arrived for Sherlock Holmes as we awaited breakfast. He had scribbled a brief reply, but passed no remark. After breakfast, however, after leafing through the newspaper in a desultory fashion for a while, he tossed it aside and asked me if I knew where Little Gissingham was.
“I have never heard of it,” I returned. “Why do you ask?”
“It was from the railway station there that the wire came this morning. A gentleman there, a Mr Rhodes Harte, wishes to consult me. He is arriving by the late morning train.”
“Does he give any indication as to the nature of the matter?”
“Only that it is ‘a perplexing problem’. But let us see where he is journeying from!”
He took down a gazetteer and atlas from his shelf of reference works, and turned the pages over for a few moments in that rapid, almost birdlike manner with which I was familiar. “Here we are,” said he at length. “It is in the county of Suffolk, Watson; very close to the border with Essex. ‘Little Gissingham’,” he continued, reading from the gazetteer. “‘A pretty little village. Parts of the church are Anglo-Saxon, and the porch is Norman. There are several fine half-timbered houses, and one inn, the Fox and Goose.’ That is the extent of our information.”
“It sounds something of a rural backwater,” I remarked.
“Indeed. And the impression is confirmed by the evidence of the map. There are a number of such small villages in that part of the country, nestling in the river valleys that wind between the hills near the Essex border, but even in such quiet, secluded company, Little Gissingham appears relatively insignificant.”
“It has a railway station, at least,” I observed.
“That is true, although I doubt that that bespeaks any importance in the place itself. It appears from the map that it simply happens to lie on the route of a railway line between other, more notable, places. In any case, the line in question is not an important one, but a mere side shoot from the Cambridge line, which meanders in a leisurely manner across the countryside until it meets up with the coastal line near Colchester. Hum! Let us hope that Mr Harte does not have to wait too long for a connecting train, and that he arrives here soon to enlighten us as to his problem!”
It was almost lunchtime before our visitor arrived. He was a man of about five and forty years of age, of middle height, erect in his bearing, and with a lively and intelligent face. He was dressed in the dark frock coat and pearl-grey trousers of a professional man, and under his arm he carried a large brown-paper package tied up with string, which he placed upon the table as I took his hat.
“I see you have been looking up Little Gissingham,” he remarked, eyeing the map book, which lay open upon the table.
“I find it as well to furnish myself with the fullest knowledge of any matter I am asked to look into,” returned Holmes, shaking his visitor’s hand and ushering him into a chair. “It generally saves time in the end.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said the other in an appreciative tone. “My professional experience has been precisely the same. As to Little Gissingham, it appears a very quiet little place, but the events of last night prove that, even in such a sequestered spot, the strangest of things can occur.”
“You arouse my curiosity,” said Holmes, rubbing his hands together in delight. “Am I to understand that you had never visited Little Gissingham before yesterday?”
“Never. I had passed through the railway station there once or twice, but had never paid it any attention.”
“Was it your work as a solicitor which took you there yesterday?”
“Not really. But how do you know my business? Do you know of my connection with Mr Halesworth?”
Holmes shook his head. “The seals upon your watch chain appear to be those of a solicitor,” said he. “But if it was not professional work that took you to Little Gissingham, Mr Harte, perhaps it was something to do with that bulky package you have brought with you. Whatever the reason,” he continued as his visitor nodded his head, “it is apparent that y
ou intended to remain there for only a short time, and then to return home before nightfall. Evidently something occurred to delay you. You missed the last train, I imagine, and were obliged to put up at the Fox and Goose.”
“That is correct in every detail,” exclaimed Harte in surprise. “But how do you know all this?”
“Forgive me for mentioning it – I have no desire to embarrass you,” responded Holmes after a moment, “but there are certain features of your appearance which suggest that you were unable to devote as much care to your toilet this morning as you might have wished. This in turn suggests that you did not have with you those necessities with which a man would equip himself if he knew he would be staying away from home for the night. The conclusion is clear: that your sojourn at the Fox and Goose – the only inn in Little Gissingham, according to my gazetteer – was unpremeditated.”
“That is so, Mr Holmes. I slept last night in my shirt and passed the most uncomfortable night of my adult life. This morning I endeavoured to make the best of myself, but lacked a razor, a clean collar and everything else one takes for granted at home. Dear, oh dear!” he murmured, shaking his head. “I had no idea that my appearance fell so short of a desirable standard!”
“Be assured, sir, it does not. But it is my business to observe such trifles. I am sure that no one else would have noticed anything amiss with your appearance. Let us see! Did anything of the sort strike you, Watson?” he asked, turning to me.
“Certainly not!” I returned.
“You see?” said Holmes to his visitor. “You have no cause for anxiety!”
“Thank goodness for that!” cried the other in evident relief.
“Now,” said Holmes, “if we may proceed with the matter? It was not legal business, you say, that took you to Little Gissingham?”
Rhodes Harte shook his head. “Only very indirectly,” he replied. “I am, as you conjectured, a solicitor, and have been in partnership with Mr Halesworth in Ipswich for many years. About six weeks ago I had occasion to travel across the county to visit an old client of ours, Mr Packham. He lived formerly in Ipswich, but when he retired he moved to Saffron Walden, about forty-odd miles away on the other side of Essex. He is an elderly gentleman and has difficulty getting about, and as he seemed very keen to consult me, I agreed to go and see him. It was a delightful spring day, and although the journey involved changing trains a couple of times, and was thus quite a long one, it nevertheless made a pleasant break from routine to be away from my chambers for a while.
“On the way home, I was obliged to wait for some time at a rural railway junction. It was a sunny afternoon, and I was enjoying sitting on the bench on the platform, listening to songbirds in the nearby trees. There was another man sitting there, reading a book, a scholarly-looking, elderly man with a high domed forehead and mane of white hair, and after a while we fell into conversation. I had observed that the book he was reading was David Copperfield, and I passed some remark as to its being a very entertaining book.
“‘It is more than entertaining, sir!’ returned he, closing the book up and giving me a piercing glance. ‘It is extremely stimulating to the intellect!’
“‘Oh, quite so,’ I agreed. ‘I meant merely that it contains some very amusing characters and situations.’
“‘That can scarcely be denied,’ conceded the scholarly gentleman in a somewhat grudging tone, ‘and yet those characters and situations for which the book seems to be most renowned are, in my opinion, among its least interesting features. The characters of Mr Micawber and Uriah Heep, for instance, are certainly entertaining enough, but it is arguable whether they shed much light upon human beings in general. Some of the other characters, however, and the relations between them, are drawn with very great subtlety and profundity, and it is there, I would argue, that the book’s true merit lies. It is certainly a good book. That is generally agreed. Unfortunately, it is, for this reason, not infrequently given to young people of fourteen and fifteen years of age, as a school prize or birthday present. You are wondering, no doubt, why this is unfortunate. Because, sir, although such young people, whose intellects are just beginning to mature from childhood to adulthood, will no doubt derive some pleasure from the book, they are unlikely to really appreciate – or even fully understand – its subtleties. And having read it once, most of them will never read it again, and thus will be denied the opportunity to appraise the book with a mind fully matured by experience of life.’
“With that he put the book down altogether, stowing it away in a leather satchel at his feet, and asked my opinion of the matter. I made some response, and soon we were deep into a broad and fascinating discussion upon literature in general, English literature especially, and Charles Dickens in particular, and I must say that it was quite the most stimulating conversation I have had on any subject in the last twelve months. My companion’s views, which he delivered with great eloquence, were highly original and fascinating, and I should have been perfectly content simply to sit there and listen to him until the train arrived, but he was very keen, also, to elicit my opinions, as if to weigh them against his own, and to every word I uttered he gave the most careful and courteous consideration. He was, in short, not simply a very learned scholar, but a true gentleman. He introduced himself as Dr Kennett, and informed me that he was returning from a public lecture he had attended that day in Cambridge. I was a little surprised at this, for it seemed to me that it might have been more profitable for all concerned if a man of such erudition, and with such a passion for his subject, had been employed in delivering a lecture rather than in listening to one. Nor was his enthusiasm for learning confined to literature. He mentioned in the course of our conversation that he had alighted at that little rural station on the merest whim, having been attracted by the appearance of some woods that bordered the railway line. On the spur of the moment, he explained, he had decided to break his journey there and explore the area, which was unknown to him. I asked him if his exploration had been interesting.
“‘Very much so,’ said he. ‘The wild flowers in the woods are fascinating at this time of the year. I tramped about there for quite some time, and when I was satisfied that I had seen all that there was to see, I refreshed myself at a nearby inn, and am now ready to resume my journey.’
“Our train arrived shortly after that and we took a compartment together, continuing our most interesting conversation, as the train made its way along a peaceful river valley, and through a succession of little village stations. By the time we reached the station at Little Gissingham, our literary discussion had, I recall, moved on to Shakespeare, and my companion was expatiating on what he saw as similarities of theme in Hamlet and Dickens’s Great Expectations, when all at once he broke off and sprang to his feet with a cry.
“‘Do excuse me, but this is my station,’ said he. ‘I was enjoying our discussion so much that I quite forgot to take any heed of where we were!’ In great haste, he opened the carriage door and sprang onto the platform. ‘I do hope we meet again, Mr Harte!’ cried he as he slammed the door. At that moment, the guard blew his whistle, and a moment later the train moved off and began to pick up speed. My carriage was scarcely clear of the platform, however, when I noticed that my companion’s leather satchel was lying on the floor at my feet. In his haste to leave the train, he had clearly forgotten all about it. I quickly opened the window and leaned out, but he had already left the platform. A moment later, the train passed round a curve, and the little station had vanished from my sight. There was nothing more that I could do.
“When I reached Colchester, I handed the satchel in at the lost property office. ‘The owner’s name is Kennett,’ I said, as the official wrote out a receipt for me. ‘To the best of my knowledge he lives at Little Gissingham. It might be worthwhile to notify the station master there that the satchel has been found, in case the gentleman makes enquiries about it.’
“The official said he would do as I suggested, and there I left the matter. Not knowing my
new acquaintance’s address, I could not think that there was any more that I could do. And that, gentlemen,” said Harte, breaking off from his narrative and pausing a moment, “marks the end of the first part of my story. An unexceptional little episode, you might think. However, I’ll warrant you will think otherwise about the second part, all of which took place just yesterday.”
“We are keen to hear the sequel,” returned Holmes. “I take it from your manner that events have taken a somewhat surprising turn.”
“Indeed, several. Do you mind if I smoke?” continued Harte, taking a cigar case from his pocket. “I find a cigar is soothing. My nerves are all shot to pieces by this business!”
“Not at all,” cried Holmes with a chuckle, tossing across a box of matches to his visitor. “We would not want your nerves to prevent your continuing your account!”
For some time the solicitor sat puffing at his cigar in silence while we waited for him to continue.
“Yesterday,” said he at length, “I was obliged again to travel across the county to see old Mr Packham at Saffron Walden. I took the train down from Ipswich to Colchester, as before, and finding that I had a little time to wait for my connection, thought I would enquire if Dr Kennett had retrieved his satchel from the lost property office there. Our delightful discussion on literature had returned to my mind several times during the intervening six weeks, and I had often wondered how the splendid old fellow was getting along. To my surprise, I was informed that the satchel was still lying on a shelf in the lost property office, and that no one had ever been in to claim it.
The Mammoth Book of the Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes Page 25
