The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Denis O. Smith

  ‘The matter is beyond the realm where it is appropriate to speak of conviction and into that of certainty,’ replied Holmes. ‘I spent some time this afternoon at Somerset House, which was enlightening, and when I read that the man found in the river at Chertsey had carried an old wine cork in his coat, there remained no doubt what was afoot.’

  ‘A wine cork?’

  ‘He would use it to protect the point of the knife and to prevent the blade from slitting the lining of his jacket, which is where the knife would be concealed.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that the knife which killed him was his own?’

  ‘Precisely. He was an assassin, Watson; that is apparent. But he whom he sought to kill has turned his own weapon upon him. You read that all labels had been removed from his clothes? That is a trade-mark of such men: anonymity is the very essence of their work. No connection must ever be traced between the assassin and the organisation which commands him.’

  ‘Such precautions would appear to suggest,’ I remarked after a moment, ‘that the man thought it quite likely that he might, indeed, lose his own life.’

  ‘Well, it is an ever-present hazard for the assassin, as you will imagine. But it is not one upon which he may dwell; for he will be aware that failure to carry out his commission will result in the next such commission having his name upon it, not as agent, but as victim. But come! This is Staines and we must make all haste.’

  A short journey in the station-trap down a sun-baked country road brought us to the gates of Low Meadow, where we paid off the driver and entered on foot. Up the drive we hurried, round the corner of the house and into the rear gardens. Not a breath of wind disturbed the leaves upon the trees and the air was heavy with the scent of flowers. Ahead of us on the lawn, a handsome young woman in a white dress was sitting on a rug, with a sewing-basket beside her. She started up when she saw us, a look of surprise upon her face.

  ‘Mrs Pringle?’ enquired my friend.

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘My name is Sherlock Holmes. Pray forgive this abrupt intrusion into your privacy, but our mission is most urgent.’

  ‘You had best explain yourself,’ said she with some sharpness, rising to her feet.

  ‘There is no time.’

  ‘I insist upon it.’

  ‘Very well. I have been employed by your husband to make inquiries on his behalf into certain matters which have recently perplexed him. All I have learnt convinces me that there is mortal danger here at Low Meadow.’

  ‘Mortal danger?’ she repeated in a tone of disbelief. ‘For my husband?’

  ‘No, for your brother.’

  At this she paused for a moment and took a sharp breath, then threw her head back with a peal of laughter.

  ‘All you have learnt has evidently been nonsense!’ said she. ‘I have neither brother nor sister, so whoever has a brother in mortal danger, it is not I!’

  Holmes remained quite unmoved by this outburst. ‘You cannot afford to play games,’ said he gravely, ‘when it is your brother’s life which may be the forfeit.’

  ‘I tell you I have no—’

  ‘I understand well enough the reasons for your pretence, Mrs Pringle,’ Holmes interrupted her, ‘but believe me when I tell you that the time for such pretence is past. Perhaps if I tell you all I know, it may convince you that I speak the truth.’

  She seemed about to reply, but hesitated, and Holmes hurriedly continued: ‘Your brother, John Aloysius Wadham, was born upon the fifteenth of October in the year 1858, at Gloucester. In 1880 he married Helen Montgomery at Guildford. In 1882, whilst employed at the King William Street branch of the Anglo-Hellenic Bank, he became involved in a massive series of embezzlements, as a result of which, when the matter came to light, he was sentenced to ten years’ penal servitude.’

  ‘It is false!’ she cried out passionately. ‘The conviction was false! He only became involved with Arthur Pendleton in an attempt to save that wretched, ungrateful man, but soon found himself ensnared in the other’s web of deceit, from which, struggle as he might, he could not extricate himself. No thought of personal gain had ever crossed his mind. One word of the truth from that villain might have saved my brother from an unjust fate; but his heart was stone, his friendship hollow.’

  ‘I do not doubt, madam, that what you say is true; however I come not to accuse your brother but to save him. A few weeks ago, having earned the maximum remission from his sentence and being seriously ill, he was released from prison. Shortly before his release, his wife, who had remained loyal and faithful to him through all the long years of his imprisonment, had been to see you to discuss the matter. Your husband, who for some reason knew nothing whatever of your brother, overheard a part of your conversation, but misconstrued it as referring to himself.’

  ‘Dearly would I have loved to tell Mark the whole truth,’ Mrs Pringle interrupted, a tear forming in her eye, ‘but John begged and pleaded with me not to do so. He would not, he said, have his shame and disgrace inflicted upon his sister and her fine husband. I told him many times that Mark would welcome him like a true brother and think none the worse of him for what had happened in the past; but he refused absolutely to presume upon Mark’s generosity and I was obliged to keep his existence a secret. I have acted according to his wishes all along.’

  ‘I understand that,’ said Holmes. ‘It was therefore arranged that he would come here, under an assumed name, in the guise of a gardener, in the hope that he might recover his health in the fresh country air. Am I correct?’

  ‘You are,’ said she simply. ‘How you have learnt these things, I do not know, but you appear to know all.’

  ‘Unfortunately, that is not all. There are those whose thirst for vengeance is not satisfied by your brother’s term of imprisonment.’

  ‘Surely you are not serious, Mr Holmes!’ she cried in alarm. ‘My brother has more than paid for his foolishness. Can the law not restrain these people?’

  ‘Nothing can restrain them, Mrs Pringle. They recognise no law but their own. You must get your brother away from here. There has already been one attempt upon his life and I fear that the second may not be long delayed. You look disbelieving! Did you not read of the man found in the river this morning?’

  ‘The police believe he came from Eastern Europe.’

  ‘That is from where the danger comes. You recall the strange hand-print which was found upon the shed wall after your sister-in-law’s visit? That was the work of these men. They were evidently watching her every movement, aware that her husband would shortly be released from prison, and left their mark to give notice of their presence. Later, when your brother and sister-in-law moved into the old cottage, they came again and again left their mark, to announce that retribution was at hand. Last Sunday night, whilst walking in the garden, your husband surprised one of these men, so I believe, and they subsequently sent him a warning note. In the event, of course, the purple hand meant nothing whatever to him; but these men have the arrogance of all who submerge and hide their own identities in that of an anonymous organisation, and clearly believe that there is no one who will not understand, and know fear, upon seeing their sign. Your husband was fortunate, I should say, to escape with his life. Only the fact that the assassin’s work was not completed saved him; for human life is as nothing to these men.’

  ‘But, surely, if the assassin is now dead, we have nothing to fear,’ said Mrs Pringle.

  ‘He will not have come alone to England.’

  For a minute the three of us stood in silence upon that neat and sunny lawn, and these words of Sherlock Holmes seemed like the evil and insane inventions of a madman. Laetitia Pringle shook her head from side to side, over and over again.

  ‘You cannot simply wish these things away,’ said Holmes at length, as if perceiving the poor bewildered woman’s innermost thoughts; ‘you must act, and act swiftly.’

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘You must get your brother out of England – yes, and out of
Europe, too. You must tell your husband everything—’

  His sentence remained unfinished, for with a shrill cry of alarm, a sandy-haired woman burst upon our little gathering from behind a row of laurels.

  ‘Lettie! Lettie!’ she cried; ‘John has vanished.’

  She stopped abruptly as she saw that Mrs Pringle was not alone, swaying from side to side with a wild look in her eye, as if she were upon the verge of fainting. Holmes stepped forward and took her arm gently.

  ‘Do not fear, Mrs Wadham. We come as friends.’

  ‘It is Mr Sherlock Holmes,’ said Mrs Pringle to her sister-in-law.

  ‘Indeed?’ responded the other. ‘Your name is familiar to me, sir, and I have heard that there is no problem you cannot solve; but I fear that in this case your powers are of no avail. My husband seemed so dreadfully ill today that I left him in his bed. Just now I returned from tending the vegetable plot and found him gone, and this note upon the kitchen table.’

  With a shaking hand she offered a slip of paper to my friend, which he unfolded and read aloud.

  ‘“My dear Helen,”’ he read; ‘“You will remember how often we strengthened each other with the hope that once I had served my sentence, our troubles would be over and we could put the past behind us. Alas! that hope was futile. I have learnt recently that some who lost money in the Anglo-Hellenic fiasco will not rest until those they regard as responsible are dead. As old Pendleton died in prison three years ago, I am the sole focus for their vengeance, unjust as you know that is. It is a turn of events I had always feared, although I prayed constantly that the threat might be lifted from me. Now hopes and fears alike ill become the moment and I must meet my fate with my own hand. Last night, as I sat beside the river shortly before retiring, the first assassin came; but I am not one who surrenders his life without a struggle, despite the weakness of my limbs. He thrust at me with his knife, but I managed to parry the blow and threw him to the ground. For a time we struggled together on the river-bank, then, without any deliberate intention on my part, his own knife pierced his side, his hand still upon the hilt. I cast his lifeless body into the water and determined to say nothing of the incident to you. I have brought enough trouble upon you and upon my dear sister and her husband: it is time for me to go. It is I alone these devils want; if I am not with you, you will be safe. Please forgive this silent way of leaving, but I know you would not let me go if I spoke these words to your face. Your loving husband, John.”’

  ‘What am I to do?’ cried Helen Wadham, her voice suffused with anguish.

  ‘When did you last see your husband?’ enquired Holmes in an urgent tone, handing back the letter to her.

  ‘About an hour ago; but he cannot be long gone, for I was close by the cottage until this past twenty minutes.’

  ‘He has not passed this way, so he has evidently taken the path beside the river,’ cried my friend. ‘Come, Watson; there may yet be time to dissuade him from this foolhardy course of action. Alone he does not stand a chance against these men.’

  We ran down the path towards the river, the women following close behind. At the cottage Holmes darted in, but was out again in a trice, shaking his head in answer to my query. A little further on, we emerged from the wood and came out upon the river-bank, where the bare earth of the riverside path was baked into hard ruts by the summer sun. To left and right we looked, and a grim sight met our eves. About fifty feet upstream, the crumpled figure of a man lay athwart the path, his boots trailing in the water. Holmes hurried forward and I followed at his heels.

  A swift glance told me that the man was beyond all human help. His shirt-front was dark and horrible with blood, and at the very centre of the stain protruded the carved handle of a knife. A torn sheet of paper had been forced over the knife-handle, upon which was the purple print of a human hand. I knew then that the pale, gentle face which gazed unseeing up at me was that of Mark Pringle’s strange gardener and unknown brother-in-law. I pulled the knife from his chest and cast it aside and with Holmes’s help lifted the body upon a grassy bank.

  ‘Keep the women back!’ said Holmes in an urgent tone, as he bent down on all fours and examined the riverside path intently. But it was too late; they ran forward and would not be restrained. What a horrible thing it was for them to see, and how that horror was marked upon their faces!

  I turned as a cry came from somewhere behind us. There, at the foot of the garden path, stood my friend’s client. He hurried forwards, a puzzled look upon his face. ‘The maid told me she had seen you—Why! What melancholy business is this!’ he cried as he caught sight of the grief-stricken faces of the two women.

  Quickly, in a very few sentences, Holmes gave him the gist of all that had passed. I have never in my life seen a man so stricken and mortified in so short a space of time. For a long minute he gazed down at the body of his wife’s brother, a deep and unfathomable expression upon his face. ‘Had he lived I would have loved him,’ he said softly at last. ‘Come,’ he continued, turning to me. ‘Help me bear his body to the house. Though in life he rejected my hospitality, in death shall he have it.’

  At the house Holmes secured a map, which he studied intently for a few moments.

  ‘The river twists and turns here,’ said he at last. ‘If we take the main road we may yet be able to intercept the murderer before he can escape.’

  On this occasion, however, my friend’s resourcefulness proved insufficient and no trace of the assassin could be found in the area. An abandoned skiff was later discovered upon the opposite bank of the river, and inquiries indicated that the fugitive had crossed over to the Surrey side and made his way down to Chertsey, where he had caught a train to London.

  _______

  Acting upon certain information provided by Sherlock Holmes, the police later arrested a Serbian who was staying at Green’s Hotel in the West End. No effective case could be made out against him, however, and when diplomatic protests threatened to make an international incident of the affair, the police were obliged to let him go. ‘There goes a certain murderer!’ said Holmes with bitterness, when he read in the paper one morning that the man had been put upon the Calais packet, with the formal warning that he should never again set foot in England.

  As for Mark Pringle and his wife, I heard later that he had overcome his illness, and that they had returned to Ceylon and taken with them Helen Wadham, in the hope that a new life amid fresh surroundings might help to erase from their hearts and minds the painful memory of the tragedy which had fallen so heavily upon them at Low Meadow.

  The North Walk Mystery

  Violent murder will always excite both horror and fascination in the public mind. When the victim of the crime is a well-known public figure, the case becomes a sensation and leaves little space in the newspapers of the day for any other subject. Such was the mysterious death of Sir Gilbert Cheshire Q.C., senior bencher of the Inner Temple and the most eminent criminal lawyer of his day. But the matter never came to trial and those involved were reluctant to discuss it, so that despite the many newspaper columns devoted to it at the time, and the countless number of articles written since, there are some facts in connection with the case which have never been fully reported and I have even seen it described as an ‘unsolved mystery’. Having been privileged to be present during the investigation of the crime, I can state categorically that this description is false and it is my hope that the following account will clear the matter up once and for all.

  It was a dark evening, late in the year. The morning had provided a brief glimpse of watery sunshine, but the weather had taken a turn for the worse about lunch-time and a dense fog had rolled across the city, filling every street and alley-way with its thick, greasy coils. I was glad on such an evening to be in the warm seclusion of our sitting-room, where a fire blazed merrily in the grate.

  Sherlock Holmes had been seated at the table for several hours, occupied in pasting newspaper extracts into his commonplace books and carefully cross-indexing each ent
ry. Eventually, as the clock was striking nine, he put down his pasting-brush with a weary sigh, stood up from the table and stretched himself.

  ‘So,’ said he after a moment, turning to me, as he rubbed his hands together before the fire; ‘you have seen your friend, Anstruther, and he has told you that he is postponing his holiday until the spring.’

  ‘He hopes for better weather then,’ I replied. ‘But I do not recall mentioning the matter to you, Holmes.’

  ‘Indeed you did not, Watson, but it is clear, nonetheless.’

  ‘I cannot imagine how that can be, for he only informed me of his decision this afternoon – unless, of course, you heard it from someone else.’

  Holmes chuckled. ‘I have not left these rooms all day,’ said he. ‘Fortunately, the materials for a simple little deduction lie conveniently upon the table by your elbow.’

  I glanced at the table. An empty glass, a saucer, my pipe and a book I had been reading were all I could see there. My face must have betrayed the puzzlement I felt, for my friend chuckled anew.

  ‘In the saucer is the end of a cigar,’ said he, ‘and by the side of it lies your old copy of Clarendon’s History of the Great Rebellion. To anyone familiar with your habits, the inference is plain.’

  ‘I cannot see it.’

  ‘No? You went out at lunch-time and returned a while later, smoking a Havana cigar. You do not generally permit yourself such extravagance, save on your visits to the American Bar at the Criterion, and you do not frequent the Criterion these days, save to meet your friend, Anstruther. I therefore feel on reasonably safe ground in inferring that such was your occupation this lunch-time. You mentioned to me some time ago that he had received an invitation to stay with relations of his near Hastings, either later this month, or in the spring, and you had agreed that, in that event, you would attend to his medical duties for a week, as you did for a few days earlier this year. Today is the twenty-sixth: the last week-end of the month is almost upon us and thus the last likely opportunity for Anstruther to begin his holiday. When you returned today, however, you gave no sign of any impending change in your circumstances, nor of any preparations for imminent medical duties. Unlike the previous occasion when Anstruther called upon your professional assistance, you did not immerse yourself in your old medical text-books, but in your old friend, Clarendon, in whose company you proceeded to fall asleep. I could only conclude, then, that your assistance was not, for the present, required and that Anstruther had postponed his visit to the Sussex coast until the spring.’