The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Denis O. Smith

  ‘Well, well; it is not too bad,’ said I. ‘A little squill in syrup should help.’

  ‘I dare say you have seen more interesting cases, Doctor,’ he remarked with a smile, as he pulled on his jacket. ‘My illness must be a fairly dull one from your point of view, I imagine.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said I, amused by his tone. ‘Of course, it is true that yours is hardly the first instance of bronchitis to come my way, but it is none the less interesting for that. It is rare to find two cases exactly the same, even during an epidemic. That is what makes the study of medicine so interesting. The general symptoms of every common complaint are, of course, well known to the newly qualified man, fresh from medical school, but it is only from personal experience that he can gain an appreciation of the amazing variety of forms that each complaint can take. To the man with an enquiring mind, these oddities of variety are endlessly fascinating.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Mr Herbert, nodding his head. ‘A fellow spirit, I see! I, too, have a taste for oddities, Doctor, although not generally of the medical variety. If you are interested, I can give you a real oddity for your collection! You will never imagine what happened to me the other day!’

  ‘Oh?’ said I after a moment, for he stared at me in silence, his eyebrows raised in encouragement, and showed no inclination to proceed until I had responded in some way. It was clear from the look in his eye that he was keen to tell me something, and I confess that I was filled with apprehension as the memory of my interview with Mr Septimus Witherington came back to me.

  ‘I met an old school friend,’ he continued at length.

  ‘Really?’ said I, as he fell into silence once more, his protruding eyes beckoning me to respond. My experience with Mr Witherington had served as a salutary lesson to me and I was wary of appearing too enthusiastic in my interest.

  ‘I’ll wager you don’t think that a very odd incident, Doctor!’

  ‘It does not sound especially remarkable,’ I conceded.

  ‘But wait until you hear the rest of it! Then I’m sure you’ll agree that it is quite the oddity of the year!’

  ‘Excuse me one moment, Mr Herbert, but were there any other patients in the waiting-room?’

  ‘No, sir; I am your last nuisance for today! That gives me an idea, Doctor: what would you say to a bench in a sunny garden, with a glass of the most excellent beer in your hand? I know a splendid place where we can sit and discuss my odd experience.’

  I hesitated. In my position it was not desirable for me to be seen frequenting the local public-houses, especially as several of them enjoyed somewhat dubious reputations.

  ‘It is a very quiet and respectable house,’ added Herbert, evidently reading the expression upon my face; ‘I know the landlord, a smart man by the name of Henderson.’

  ‘What, Tobias Henderson of the Star and Garter?’

  ‘The very same. You know him, then?’

  ‘Only professionally. He got his toe crushed under a hogshead of beer a few weeks ago. He seemed a pleasant enough fellow, considering the somewhat trying circumstances of our meeting.’

  ‘You will come, then?’ urged my companion. ‘It is a matter upon which I should very much value your opinion, Doctor.’

  At that moment I heard the sound of my wife’s footsteps as she bustled about upstairs, and this gave me an idea.

  ‘Very well, then,’ I agreed with a smile. ‘But I cannot stay long. My supper will be on the table shortly.’

  In a few moments I had explained matters to my wife and was strolling along the sunny street with Mr Herbert. At least I now had a ready-made excuse to take my leave of him should he reveal himself to be some sort of fanatical bore in the mould of Septimus Witherington. He could scarcely follow me home from the pub, after all, I reasoned. Had we pursued the conversation in my consulting-room, on the other hand, it might have proved difficult to dislodge him had he chosen to ignore my hints.

  A walk of ten minutes brought us to the Star and Garter. A garden at the rear was set out with tables and chairs, and dotted about with pots of geraniums and petunias. It was indeed a pleasant spot. The mellow evening sun cast its warm light upon us and I was glad to be out of doors on such a lovely evening. As for my misgivings, they proved quite unfounded, for my companion soon showed himself an engaging narrator and his story was indeed one of the very oddest to come my way.

  ‘Before I tell you of my recent experience,’ he began, ‘I must first tell you something of my early life, for it has a decided bearing on the matter.’ He opened his eyes wide and raised his eyebrows quizzically, I murmured some encouragement and he continued.

  ‘I am not a Londoner by birth, although I dare say you would not guess it to hear me speak now. I was born and raised in Preston, in Lancashire, the county of the red rose. However, this is not especially important. What is important is that I received my preparatory education at Whalley Abbey School, not far from my birthplace. Have you ever heard of the Bowland Forest, Dr Watson, or of Pendle Hill? They are high, wild and exposed regions, such as one can hardly imagine when seated here in the soft lowlands of the Thames.’

  ‘That is where your school was situated, then?’

  ‘Indeed it was, and a more remote and inhospitable situation you could not conceive! I was never very happy at the school – I cannot think that anyone was – and was not sorry when I left, at the age of thirteen. That was twenty-two years ago. I went on to a school at Clitheroe, the only one of my form to do so. My classmates proceeded to various other schools, in different parts of the country, and I did not keep up with any of them, although one or two had been my friends.

  ‘The intervening years of my life, up until the recent events, are not especially relevant: I grew up, received an education which consisted largely of learning how to conjugate Latin verbs and decline Latin nouns, and came to work in London. I had always had something of a talent for figures and this enabled me to find myself a suitable berth in the City, with the stockbroking firm of Persquith and Moran, where a talent for adding and subtracting is of somewhat greater value than an ability to entertain those around you with hilarious remarks in Latin. The few friends I have in London are fellow members of my club, where I generally dine in the evenings, the Lancashire and Yorkshire in St James’s Square. It has nothing to do with the railway of the same name,’ added my companion quickly with a broad smile, as if he were used to correcting the misapprehension, or were glad, at least, of the opportunity to unburden himself of a long-cherished witticism for which he had not previously been able to find an audience. ‘It is, rather, a haven for those from the north of England, where we can meet and discuss the things which are of interest to us. London can be a very lonely place for those who are strangers here, Doctor.’

  ‘I am well aware of it, from personal experience,’ I responded. ‘I am no more from these parts than you are.’

  ‘Indeed? Then that is something else we have in common. Now, to come to the crux of the matter: about a week ago I was obliged to travel down to Kent to see old Mr Persquith, the head of our firm. He has practically retired, and no longer takes an active part in the business, but wishes still to be advised of any important developments which might affect our standing. With this trouble over the Argentine Southern Railway about to reach a crisis – as I’m sure you’ve read – I was sent down to inform him of the firm’s present position in the matter. As is his wont, he kept me talking for hours, and then, just as his servant sounded the dinner-gong, declared that he was satisfied with my information and that I could go. I thus found myself, after a fair walk down a dark road, tired and hungry, in an ill-lit waiting-room upon the platform of Little Wickling Halt, which is on the line between Maidstone and Ashford.

  ‘It is a lonely spot, for the station is remote from any houses and is little frequented. It lies down in a cutting, so that there is nothing to be seen from the waiting-room window but the railway track, the empty platforms and the bare embankments which rise up on either side of the line. There
was no one else about and I had fallen into a brown study, the essential subject of which was my own sad plight and empty stomach, when out of the corner of my eye I saw a pale blur appear at the window. I looked up sharply and there behind the dirt-smeared pane was a man’s face, staring in at me, with a look as rigid as a basilisk. My scalp prickled, and for several seconds this apparition and I stared at each other without moving. So still was it that I began to think I was suffering an hallucination. I therefore shut my eyes for a moment, to see if this would drive away the vision. When I opened them again, the face had indeed gone and the window framed nothing but blackness.

  ‘“Well, I never did!” I cried aloud. “Whoever would have thought it!” I began to speculate as to what could have caused the hallucination and had just concluded that the responsibility lay with the toasted cheese I had had for lunch, when the door abruptly opened and a man walked briskly into the room.

  ‘“Hallo!” said I in surprise, rising quickly to my feet.

  ‘“Good evening,” returned the newcomer, sitting himself down without further ceremony. He was a gentleman of about my own age, tall, slim and well-groomed, with dark hair and moustache

  ‘We sat in silence for some time. To speak frankly, I felt rather foolish at having spoken aloud to myself and deemed it best to preserve silent dignity. Abruptly, however, my companion broke the silence in the most startling manner.

  ‘“Whalley boys forever!” cried he suddenly in a loud voice, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. “I thought as much,” he continued, eyeing me with a smile. “Unless I am very much mistaken, you are Herbert, the boy with the broken desk. You were in Dr Jessop’s class when I was in old Newsome’s. Do you remember Dr Jessop? –‘Stop squirming in your seat, boy! Or I’ll give you something to squirm about!’ ” ’

  ‘“My goodness!” I cried in surprise, laughing at his imitation of the old schoolmaster. “You have an excellent memory! My own, I am afraid, is not so good. Your face, now I look at it, is vaguely familiar, but I fear I cannot recall a name to go with it.”

  ‘He regarded me with an inscrutable expression for a moment, and then smiled.

  ‘“I very much regret,” said he, “that I made less of an impression upon your memory than you did upon mine. You do not recall Stephen Hollingworth?”

  ‘“Why, bless my soul!” said I. “Stephen Hollingworth! I recall the name, of course, now that you mention it. Well, well, well! Who would have thought it!”

  ‘We shook hands warmly, and entered at once into a deep conversation. As might be expected, this largely consisted of reminiscences of our days at Whalley Abbey School, which would be of no interest whatever to anyone else, but at that moment constituted the most interesting subject on earth to us. He asked me how I came to be in the middle of Kent at such an hour and I described the business which had taken me down there.

  ‘“What rotten luck!” cried he, when I told him of the lack of sustenance from which I was suffering. “There I have the advantage of you, Herbert! My family live at Wickling Place, which you probably passed if you walked down the road, and I dined before I left.” He rummaged in his pocket for a moment. “I am afraid I can offer you nothing better than a mint humbug,” said he at last.

  ‘“I usually dine at the Lancashire and Yorkshire Club,” I remarked, taking the proffered sweetmeat. “You are not a member, by any chance?”

  ‘He shook his head. “My sojourn at Whalley Abbey was the only time I spent in the north of England,” he returned with a smile. “Other than that, my life has been passed here in the south. But perhaps I could look you up at your club some day. I have heard that it is a splendid place!”

  ‘“Indeed it is,” said I with enthusiasm. I invited him to dine with me there the following evening, but he declined, pleading a prior engagement. We promised each other, however, that we should certainly dine together in the near future.

  ‘“After all,” said he; “it is not every day that two old school friends meet and in such an oddly out-of-the-way spot, too!”

  ‘We travelled back to town together, chatting animatedly the whole way, and shared a cab from Victoria station. When we reached his house, which lies just north of Oxford Street, he invited me in for a little cold beef and wine, an offer I readily accepted. His house appeared in a state of some disorder, I must say, but he explained to me that he had recently been obliged to dismiss his servants for dishonesty, and had not yet succeeded in finding suitable replacements. I enjoyed his comestibles and his conversation, and returned home with my spirits considerably raised from the depths into which they had sunk earlier in the evening.

  ‘Three days later, I was reading the Standard at breakfast-time when the name ‘‘Wickling Place’’ – my old school friend’s family home – caught my eye.’

  Mr Herbert paused and took out his pocket-book. ‘I have the paragraph here, Doctor,’ said he, extracting a small oblong cut from a newspaper. He passed it to me, and I read the following account:

  SENSATIONAL BURGLARY AT ANCIENT HOUSE

  Wickling Place, the home of Colonel Sir Reginald and Lady Hollingworth was burgled on Tuesday night, several valuable works of art, including an early painting by Titian, being stolen. The thieves apparently entered by a French window, at some time between midnight and 6 a.m, without disturbing the household. They appear to have selected for theft the most precious works of art in the house, leaving untouched the less valuable pieces. How they arrived in and left the district is not known, although it is reported that three strangers were seen by several witnesses earlier in the day, upon the Maidstone road. Sir Reginald Hollingworth, a local Justice of the Peace, is well known and respected in the area. This incident is a further blow to the family, coming so soon after the tragic death of his son, Stephen, who was drowned off the coast of Ireland in May.

  ‘Why!’ I cried in astonishment. ‘It says here that the man you met is dead!’

  ‘One moment,’ returned Herbert. ‘I will tell you what happened next. All that day I turned the matter over and over in my head, such that I could hardly concentrate upon my work, but I could make nothing of it.

  ‘That evening, I arrived at my club as usual, at about six o’clock, and had my foot upon the doorstep, when the door in front of me was flung open and out stepped Hollingworth. In his hand he carried a small black valise.

  ‘“Thank goodness I have found you!” he cried, his voice throbbing with emotion. “I have been waiting some time, in the hope that you would come.” He glanced quickly up and down the street, with an air of great caution, then stepped back inside the doorway. I followed him, and we sat on a settle in the entrance hall. He seemed terrifically agitated.

  ‘“What is the matter?” I asked. “I read this morning of the burglary at your father’s house.”

  ‘“It is in connection with that business that I wish to speak to you,” he responded, nodding his head.

  ‘“It said in the report I read that you had died some time ago.”

  ‘Again he nodded, the trace of a grim smile upon his face.

  ‘“That,” said he, “was the usual culpable carelessness of the press. They have confused the names: it was my younger brother, Philip – sadly – who drowned. But their carelessness has certainly cost me some trouble – I spent half the morning sending telegrams here, there and everywhere to assure everyone that I am still very much alive. However—” He broke off, and his eyes assumed a faraway look, as if some novel train of thought had occurred to him. “Do you know,” cried he at last; “we may yet be able to use the press’s blundering to our advantage! Yes, by God, we’ll win through yet!”

  ‘“I do not understand,” said I, alarmed at the wild tone of his voice.

  ‘“No, no, of course not. I’m sorry, Herbert. It’s a rather complicated matter. We had to give the newspapermen something to print; but there’s more to this so-called burglary than meets the eye!”

  ‘“Oh?”

  ‘“Yes. The burglars were looking for some
thing, but they didn’t find it – the pieces they got away with are of no consequence in comparison – and they never will, so long as I have anything to do with it!”

  ‘“It all sounds very mysterious, Hollingworth!”

  ‘“I suppose it must, to you, Herbert. Look, old man, I’d love to explain it all to you; indeed, I most certainly will do; but I cannot do so at the moment; the matter is too pressing. It touches upon the honour of the family – nay, upon the very existence of the family! – and concerns particularly my mother, God bless her! Our backs may be against the wall at the present moment, but, by Heavens, they won’t be for long!”

  ‘I knew not what to make of all this and was about to express my bewilderment to him, when he abruptly turned and gripped my arm.

  ‘“Herbert,” said he in a grave tone; “I have come to you because I can think of no one else who can aid me in this dark hour. I regard it as an uncanny piece of good fortune that we should have run across each other in the way we did the other day. It is as if fate had stepped in, to throw a lifeline into my sea of troubles! I have two favours to beg of you, Herbert, both as a man and as an old school friend. Will you help me?”

  ‘“Certainly, if it is in my power,” I returned. “What is it that you wish me to do?”

  ‘For answer he held out his black leather bag, and I took it from his hand.

  ‘“Guard that with your life,” said he in a low tone. “There is no one else in London I can trust, and I believe I am being followed.”

  ‘“What is it?” I enquired, feeling the weight of the bag in my hand. It was heavier than I had expected and clearly contained more than just documents.

  ‘He shook his head.

  ‘“You will see that it is locked,” said he. “It is not that I wish to keep the matter a secret from you, Herbert. Indeed, one day you will know the whole story. But it is better for the present – for your own safety – that you do not know any more than is absolutely necessary.”