Mammoth Book The Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes (Mammoth Books)

by Smith, Denis O.

  “No! No, no!” cried Claydon in protest, springing to his feet and shaking his head wildly. “You do not understand! The people in my house are not simply looking it over, they are living there as if they have always done so, and as if my own memory of living there is nothing but a pitiful delusion! And nor is the presence of these strangers in my house the only amazing thing: there is also the question of where my own household has vanished to. Where is my wife? Where are the servants?”

  “What sort of people are these strangers?” asked Holmes after a moment. “Are they vagabonds, or otherwise disreputable?”

  “Absolutely not,” returned Claydon emphatically, resuming his seat. “On the contrary, they appeared highly respectable. That is what is so amazing! The lady of the house came to the door eventually, after I had been haggling for some time with a maid who would not let me in, and she was, I must say, very well spoken. She was highly indignant when I insisted that I lived there, and expressed herself most forcefully upon the point, but never ceased to be ladylike, if you know what I mean.”

  “Did you consider calling a policeman to assist you?”

  “I had no need. The lady of the house – the lady of my house, I should say – called one herself, and he threatened to arrest me if I didn’t clear off!”

  “He took the lady’s part rather than yours?”

  “I should say!”

  “What of your neighbours? Could you not have asked them to vouch for you?”

  Claydon shook his head, a mournful expression upon his features. “I do not know any of them yet,” he returned. “Since we moved to Kendal Terrace I have been very busy and preoccupied, so that I have been unable to pay any social calls. My wife has met one or two of the neighbours, but I have not. She says they are charming, which is as one would expect, for it is a very pleasant, somewhat select neighbourhood.”

  Our visitor broke off abruptly and sprang to his feet again, a wild expression on his face. “Why am I spouting this rubbish?” he cried. “Select neighbourhood, charming neighbours – what do these things matter when my house has been stolen and my wife has disappeared? Where is my Lucy? What has become of her?”

  Again he broke off, a strange smile spread across his features, and he began to laugh in a harsh unpleasant way, which made my hair stand on end. All my medical instincts rebelled at that terrible sound.

  “Stop it!” I cried, rising to my feet. “Get a grip on yourself, man!”

  “Here’s an odd thing,” he continued, ignoring my words as if he were quite unaware of my presence and grinning from ear to ear as he spoke: “I spend some part of every working day considering the likelihood of events which people wish to insure themselves against, and here I am, a victim of an occurrence that lies quite beyond all calculation! What premium could I possibly recommend?”

  His eyes wild and rolling, our visitor threw back his head and let forth a fresh gale of uncontrolled and cacophonous laughter. I stepped forward and struck him hard across the face with the flat of my hand, and in an instant the laughter ceased. He put his hand up to his cheek and eyed me with an expression of curiosity.

  “Here,” said Holmes, dashing brandy and water into a tumbler and handing it to me. “Give him this! If he doesn’t recover himself quickly, we may lose him altogether!”

  I pressed the tumbler into our visitor’s hand, but it was only after considerable effort that I at length persuaded him to take a sip. Presently, however, when he had emptied the glass, he appeared to recover control over himself. He passed his hand across his face, as if in an effort to clear his head, and resumed his seat once more.

  “I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” said he after a moment, looking from one to the other of us. “You must forgive me if I have spoken a little wildly; but this business has quite unhinged my brain. It may be,” he continued, running his hand through his hair, “that you will consider me a deranged fool and will decline to assist me, but if so I beg that you will reconsider. What I have told you is the literal truth.”

  “My dear Mr Claydon,” interrupted Holmes in a firm but soothing voice. “It is evident that you have had a most disturbing experience, one that is quite beyond the experience of most men. How impudent it would be, therefore, for anyone more fortunate in his experiences to presume to judge you. I, for one, should certainly not dream of doing so. As to begging, sir, it is quite unnecessary. I sit here, waiting only for your statement of the case in order to take it up. And once having taken it up, I promise you that I shall not put it down again until it is resolved. If, furthermore, we are unable to resolve the matter this evening, you need not fear that you will lack shelter and somewhere to rest your head tonight: you may consider the couch over there to be entirely at your disposal!”

  “Oh, thank you, sir!” cried Claydon, clasping his hands together in joy. “You perceive the fears within my soul before I have even voiced them.”

  “Very well,” said Holmes with a chuckle. “Let us waste no more time, then. The sooner you begin your account, the sooner we can begin to help you. Have you ever before been the victim of strange or unexplained events?”

  “Never.”

  “Pray, explain to us briefly, then, how and when you came to reside in Kendal Terrace, and then describe to us the events of this evening.”

  “Certainly. My wife and I, who are both from Northampton, have lived in the house only six weeks. Five years ago, I secured a position in the Northampton branch office of the Commercial Fire and Accident Assurance Company, for whom I have worked ever since. Twelve weeks ago I was offered the opportunity of advancing myself in the company by moving to London and taking up a more senior post. Accordingly, I arrived here ten weeks ago to begin my duties. For two weeks I lodged with a family at Mildmay Park, then my wife joined me and we moved to a small hotel just north of St Paul’s. There we stayed for a further two weeks while we looked for a house to rent. Having inspected several properties, we at length settled on Fourteen, Kendal Terrace as the most satisfactory, and moved in there six weeks ago tomorrow. It is very conveniently situated, only a short distance from Clapham Junction, from where trains run directly to London Bridge.

  “Since that time, my new responsibilities at work have kept me very busy, and I have frequently been late getting home in the evening. This has meant, as I remarked, that I have not yet had the opportunity of making the acquaintance of our new neighbours.

  “On Monday, Mr Stutchbury, who is my superior, informed me that it would be necessary for someone from the London office to travel to our northern office in Manchester at the end of the week, in order to apprise the manager there of certain decisions which have recently been made. He asked me if I would like to perform this duty and, of course, I was thrilled and honoured to be entrusted with such a task, and at once agreed. It was arranged that I should leave work a little earlier today, and take the afternoon train from Euston to Manchester, where I would be met by Mr Glossop, who is the manager of our northern office. All week I have been looking forward to it. Imagine my dismay, then, when at three o’clock this afternoon a telegram was received, informing us that Mr Glossop and half his staff had gone down with measles, and that he would not, after all, be able to meet me. There was nothing for it but to cancel my journey to the north. I therefore left work at the usual time and, feeling somewhat disappointed, caught the usual train home.”

  “One moment,” interrupted Holmes. “Had you notified your wife that you would, after all, be returning home this evening?”

  Claydon shook his head. “There did not seem much point in sending a message to say that I was coming when I should shortly be arriving home in person. I realized, of course, that my wife would be surprised to see me, but the surprise would at least, I hoped, be a pleasant one. On the train home I fell into conversation with a man called Biggins, whose acquaintance I have made over the last six weeks as he also travels between Clapham and London Bridge every day. He was telling me what had befallen a friend of his who kept pullets in his bac
k garden, and as he had not finished the story when we alighted, he invited me to join him at the local hostelry to hear the end of his account. It is not the sort of thing I should normally have done, but I had been feeling somewhat down in the dumps since the cancellation of my trip to Manchester, and, besides, his story was an interesting one – somewhat far-fetched, but fascinating, nonetheless – so I agreed. You will see the relevance of this in a moment.

  “My acquaintance took me to a public house not far from Clapham Junction. We were standing near the bar and he had just handed me a glass of beer, when a large man to the side of me had some kind of spasm and fell heavily into me. In his efforts to maintain his balance, he flung out his arm, which knocked the glass from my hand, and spilled the contents all over my clothes. Not only that, but the back of his hand struck me hard on the nose, making my eyes water, and his fingernail scratched my cheek. Still, he was in a worse state than myself, I thought, for he had fallen to the floor in a heap, so I bent down to help him to his feet. Unfortunately, as I did so he abruptly raised his arm, and his elbow caught me a very painful blow in the eye. I stepped back sharply, pressing my hand to my eye, which felt as if it had been dislodged from its socket, and my hat fell off my head. The man on the floor was still trying to rise to his feet, so I stepped back again to get out of his way, and as I did so, I trod on my hat and squashed it flat. At that moment, my nose began to bleed copiously.

  “‘Oh, bad luck!’ cried Biggins in a cheery tone. ‘Don’t worry about the beer, Claydon – I’ll buy you another!’ Perhaps understandably, I had quite lost my taste for the whole enterprise, but in order not to appear rude, I acquiesced and stayed just long enough to hear the end of the story, then left the pub and set off for home. It was only a short distance to Kendal Terrace, and as I turned into the street I hoped fervently that none of my neighbours would catch sight of me, for I knew that in my dishevelled state I must present a very unattractive appearance. Fortunately, there were few people about, but I made sure that I had my latch-key ready and in my hand some time before I reached the house, for I wanted to slip in through the front door as quickly as possible. When I put the key in the lock, however, I found to my great surprise that it would not turn. I took it out and examined it, to make sure it was the correct key, then tried it again. Still it would not turn. I banged hard on the door knocker, and as I did so I glanced round. Some people on the other side of the street were staring at me and I began to feel distinctly uncomfortable.

  “The door was opened after what seemed an age by a girl I had never seen before in my life, dressed neatly in a maid’s uniform. She had evidently put the chain on the door before she opened it, for it only opened a few inches. Upon her face was an odd, sullen sort of expression.

  “‘What!’ I cried in surprise. ‘Who are you?’

  “‘Pardon me,’ she returned in an impudent tone, ‘but who are you?’

  “‘What do you mean?’ I demanded. ‘And why is the chain on the door?’

  “‘To keep out prying busybodies like you!’

  “‘How dare you!’ I cried. ‘This is my house!’

  “‘Oh yes?’ said she. ‘And I’m the Empress of Japan! Be off with you, and stop being a nuisance to honest folk!’

  “For a moment then, as I stood there, my mind seemed to reel in complete confusion, and I could not form a single logical thought, far less utter any aloud. So great was the shock of seeing this perfect stranger in my house that I was utterly dumbstruck. One can respond, adequately or otherwise, to all sorts of strange and surprising situations in which one occasionally finds oneself, but this was literally beyond the bounds of comprehension.

  “The silence was broken by a second voice, from within the house.

  “‘What is it? What is going on there?’ asked a woman’s voice, which sounded older and more cultured than the maid’s.

  “‘There’s a dirty-looking rascal at the door, madam,’ replied the girl. ‘He’s trying to force his way into the house.’

  “In a moment a second face had appeared above that of the maid, in the narrow gap between the door and the frame. She was a strong-featured woman, about five and thirty years of age. Although she was as much a stranger to me as the maid, there was something vaguely familiar about her appearance, and I wondered if I had seen her about somewhere.

  “‘Well?’ demanded she. ‘What is it you want?’

  “‘Want?’ I repeated. ‘I want to come in. This is my house, and I insist on knowing what you are doing in it!’

  “‘Don’t be absurd!’ she returned sharply. ‘I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in all my life! If you don’t stop pestering us this minute, I shall call the police! Yes,’ she continued, looking past me and across the road, ‘there’s a policeman now. Constable!’ she called.

  “I turned to see a large, formidable figure crossing the road towards us. He came up very close behind me, looming over me as it were, and addressed the woman.

  “‘Yes, madam?’ said he. ‘What appears to be the trouble?’

  “‘This man is making a nuisance of himself,’ said she. ‘He has tried to force his way into the house, he has frightened my maid, and he will not leave us alone!’

  “‘Here, you!’ said the policeman to me. ‘You scoundrel! What’s your game?’

  “Before I could reply, the woman spoke again. ‘He’s been drinking,’ said she. ‘He reeks of alcohol. And he appears to have been in a fight.’

  “This is where my mishap in the public house played so unfortunate a part in the matter. Had my appearance been as normal, I might have had a slim chance of persuading the policeman to listen to my side of the matter. But my appearance told against me.

  “‘Yes, madam,’ returned he, in answer to the woman’s observations. ‘I had noted the gentleman’s appearance. You, sir,’ he continued, addressing me, ‘are you not ashamed of yourself, getting into such a state?’

  “‘I am not in a state,’ I retorted with some warmth, but the policeman did not seem to hear.

  “‘I can assure you, sir, that had you been a common ruffian I should have run you in as soon as look at you. It is evident, however, from your dress’ – here he looked me up and down appraisingly – ‘that you were once a gentleman. But look at you now! Your hat is ruined, your shirt and waistcoat are stained with beer, your suit is sodden and crumpled. Just think what your poor mother would say if she could see you now!’

  “‘My mother?’ I cried in surprise. ‘What the deuce has my mother got to do with it?’

  “The policeman held up his hand and frowned, as if admonishing me for speaking so sharply. ‘A word of advice, sir: never turn your back on your mother. If you do, you will be turning your back on the truest friend you ever had and will regret it to your dying day.’

  “‘I am not turning my back on my mother,’ I cried in exasperation. ‘But my mother is irrelevant to the situation. In any case, I am a married man!’

  “‘Very well, then, sir, consider the feelings of your poor dear wife, waiting at home alone while you stagger about the streets in this intoxicated fashion. Take my advice, sir, go home now, sleep it off, and vow that tomorrow you will make a fresh start!’

  “‘I am trying to go home!’ I protested. ‘This is my home!’

  “‘What nonsense!’ cried the woman. ‘Why, I have never seen this man before in my life!’

  “The policeman nodded. ‘And you, sir?’ he asked, turning to me. ‘Have you ever seen this lady before?’

  “‘No, I certainly have not,’ I replied vehemently.

  “‘Well, then? Don’t you think you ought to run along and stop making a nuisance of yourself?’

  “I hesitated. So monstrously unfair did all this seem that I was quite at a loss for words. Then my eye lit on the sign beside the door. It is a small oblong piece of wood, bearing the name ‘Worthing Villa’. I made it myself and put it up just three weeks ago, after I had read an article in a magazine that described how to inscribe lettering
on wood with a red-hot poker. My wife and I wished to commemorate the very happy holiday we spent last summer in Worthing.

  “‘I can prove to you that this is my house,’ said I to the policeman. ‘You see that sign?’

  “‘Yes, sir,’ he replied cautiously.

  “‘I made it.’

  “The policeman turned his gaze from the sign to me, and I could see at once, from the expression on his face, that I had made a mistake. For although my statement was perfectly true, it must have seemed just the sort of stupid and unbelievable thing that a real liar would have said. So far from establishing the truth of my story, therefore, it merely served to confirm my mendacity in the policeman’s eyes.

  “‘I shall give you one last chance,’ said he. ‘If you clear off in the next ten seconds, I shall let you go. If you are still here in ten seconds’ time, I shall march you straight round to Brixton Police Station, where you will be charged with causing a breach of the peace, and will spend the night in the cells.’

  “I could see that he was in earnest. This left me little choice. I hesitated but two seconds of the allotted ten, then turned, ran off down the road, and did not stop running until I had put some distance between me and Kendal Terrace. I felt in a state of complete despair. What had happened to the world? Where was my wife? Where were my own servants?

  “I stopped, in a daze, by some shops and looked about me. I was hot and my head was beginning to ache, so I loosened my collar and tie. As I did so, I saw that the nearby butcher’s shop, George Lubbock and Son, was still open, although most of the other shops were now closed. This was undoubtedly the shop from which my wife purchased our meat. Perhaps if I explained the situation to the butcher, he could vouch for me and help me to prove that it was not me but the woman in the house that was lying. I put my head in at the shop doorway. There was a man there, scrubbing the chopping block. I coughed to attract his attention and he looked round.