The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Denis O. Smith

  ‘How perfectly obvious!’ said I. ‘I believe I was still half asleep when you spoke to me, Holmes; otherwise I am sure I should not have found your remark so surprising.’

  ‘No doubt,’ said he, sounding a little irritated. ‘If so, you are not alone. One might suppose the whole of London to be half asleep, so few have been the calls upon my time in recent days! It is certainly a dull, stale and unprofitable life we lead at present!’ He stepped to the window and drew aside the curtain. Filthy brown drops glistened on the outside of the window-pane. ‘See, Watson, how the fog creeps about the houses and smothers the street lamps! What opportunity for criminal pursuits such conditions present! What a lack-lustre crew our modern criminals must be if they fail to take advantage of it!’

  ‘I doubt if your professional appreciation of the opportunities would be shared by many of your fellow-citizens!’ I had responded with a chuckle, when he held up his hand.

  ‘Here is someone, and in a tearing hurry, too,’ said he sharply, as the muffled clatter of hooves came to my ears. ‘Perhaps our services will be required at last. Yes, by George!’ he cried, as the cab rattled to a halt outside our door. ‘But, wait! The cab is empty! Ah, the jarvey himself springs down, with a letter in his hand! Your boots and your heaviest overcoat, Watson! Unless I am much mistaken, villainy has at last shaken off its torpor and walks abroad in the fog!’

  There came a sharp ring at the door-bell as he spoke and moments later the landlady brought in a letter addressed to Sherlock Holmes. He tore open the buff envelope, glanced at the single sheet it had contained, then passed it to me and I read the following:

  Come at once if at all possible. North Walk, Inner Temple. Most savage and puzzling crime.

  D. STODDARD

  ‘No reply, Mrs Hudson,’ said Holmes in response to the landlady’s query. ‘We shall take the cab which brought the note.’

  A moment later we were ready to leave, when my friend abruptly stopped in the open doorway of our room and stepped back quickly to the long shelf which held the reference volumes he had compiled over the years. He took a volume from the shelf, thumbed through it for a few moments, then tossed it aside and took down another. He turned the pages over rapidly, until with a cry of satisfaction he brought the book across to show me.

  ‘Look at this, Watson! It is as I thought!’ said he, pointing to a yellowing paragraph cut from the Standard and dated ten years previously. It was headed ‘EMINENT BENCHER MURDERED IN TEMPLE’ and ran as follows:

  The murder of Sir John Hawkesworth Q.C., upon the evening before last, at the North Walk Chambers, Inner Temple, seems likely to prove as perplexing as it is shocking. Sir John, one of the most senior benchers of the Inner Temple, and a man as personally popular as he was professionally respected, was bludgeoned to death upon his own doorstep, by an unknown assailant. His door-key was still in his grasp and it is conjectured that he was on the point of entering his chambers when the assault took place, which perhaps indicates that the assailant had been waiting there for him to return. This would increase the likelihood of the criminal’s presence having been witnessed, were it not that the recent very foggy conditions have made it difficult for anyone to see even those who wish to be seen. Who the assailant is, and what the motive for such a terrible crime might be, no one can suggest; and we can only hope that some clue to the matter will quickly be discovered.

  ‘In fact, nothing ever was discovered,’ Holmes remarked as I finished reading, ‘and the case remains open to this day. It was before my own practice was established, but I recall it very well.’

  Beneath the extract from the Standard was a second item, cut from the Pall Mall Gazette of the following evening:

  A correspondent, Dr J. Gibbon of South Norwood, writes to inform us that the spot upon which the shocking murder of Sir John Hawkesworth took place has witnessed once before the spilling of blood. Almost six hundred years ago, on a similarly foggy night in 1285, when the property was still in the hands of the Knights Templar from whom the area takes its name, one Edmund of Essex was found fatally stabbed in the North Walk. Officially, the crime remained a mystery and the spot upon which it occurred was said to have been cursed since ancient times; although most modern authorities concur in regarding the Grand Commander of the Order himself as responsible for at least instigating, if not indeed perpetrating the terrible deed, it being common knowledge at the time that the two men had quarrelled. It was the increasing frequency of such scandals which led to a decline in the reputation of the Knights Templar and, eventually, to the suppression of the Order altogether, less than thirty years later.

  ‘The North Walk of the Inner Temple certainly has a sinister history,’ said Holmes; ‘and now Stoddard reports another ‘‘savage and puzzling crime’’ there! Come! Let us waste no more time!’

  In a moment we were in the hansom and rattling through the fog.

  ‘You remember Inspector Stoddard?’ queried my friend, as we passed down Regent Street.

  I nodded. Stoddard was one of the senior detectives of the City Police.

  ‘I have been able to help him once or twice recently,’ continued Holmes, ‘and he promised, in return, to keep me informed of any interesting case which came his way. This must be a serious matter indeed, for him to call us out at this hour and on such a night!’

  In the Strand, Holmes called instructions to the driver and we drew to a halt opposite the entrance to a narrow lane. Some distance ahead of us, a police-constable stood on duty by a gateway and before him, motionless upon the pavement, was a large group of people, forming a strange tableau in the drifting fog.

  ‘It is murder, by the size of the crowd,’ remarked Holmes as we stepped from the cab. ‘Come, let us slip in this way.’

  I followed him down the dark, dripping lane, where the muffled ring of our feet upon the wet cobbles was the only sound to be heard. Our route took us by narrow alleys, round abrupt and unlit corners, and through small, hidden courtyards. The fog was even denser here than elsewhere and quite a degree colder, as it rolled across the Temple Gardens from the river and brought the chill reek of the Thames to our nostrils. We could see scarcely five paces ahead of us, but Holmes pressed forward without pause through the murk and I hurried after him. Though I knew we were passing among the jumble of old brick buildings which make up this ancient lawyers’ quarter, so dense was the fog, that save for the occasional fitful glimmer of a lamp in an upstairs window, I could make out nothing at all of our surroundings.

  Abruptly Holmes turned to the left, into a narrow alley-way between two tall buildings. On the right, a door stood open wide, casting a bright rectangle of light across the dark alley.

  ‘The North Walk,’ remarked my companion.

  Just inside the brightly lit doorway stood a tall, thin man with black hair and moustache, whom I recognised as Inspector Stoddard. He was in conversation with a rough-looking man of medium build, with close-cropped ginger hair and beard. The policeman stepped forward as we approached and greeted us warmly.

  ‘I am very glad you were able to come,’ said he, in an agitated voice. ‘Sir Gilbert Cheshire has been murdered. This is Mr Thomas Mason, the gate-keeper of the Fleet Street Gate,’ he continued, indicating the man by his side, ‘who first brought news of the tragedy to the police station. He was also one of the last people to see Sir Gilbert alive in his chambers, when he brought in some coal at about twenty to seven; although Sir Gilbert was seen later by several of his colleagues in the dining-hall, where he dined as usual between seven and eight.’

  ‘The attack occurred on his return from dinner, then?’ queried Holmes.

  ‘Exactly. I can give you the essential details in a few sentences, Mr Holmes. That will be all for the present, Mason. I’ll call you if we have any further questions. Poor fellow!’ Stoddard remarked, when Mason had vanished into the fog. ‘He is terribly affected by what has happened.’

  ‘He appears an unlikely character to find in this quarter,’ observed Holmes.


  ‘There is a story there,’ Stoddard responded as he led us into the building. ‘He was once on trial himself, about fifteen years ago, accused of murdering his wife. He might have found himself on the gallows, but Gilbert Cheshire was the defence counsel and got him acquitted. Since then he’s been as devoted as a dog to him. It was Sir Gilbert who found him the fairly undemanding post of gate-keeper and general factotum, about eight years ago, when he was down on his luck.’

  We followed the policeman into a room on the left of the hallway. All the lamps were lit and revealed a shocking scene. In the centre of the square, book-lined room was a large desk, and behind this, in a chair, was the lifeless body of a large, broad-chested man. His head was tilted back, so that his thick, wiry black beard thrust upwards and his eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. On the left side of his neck was a savage wound, which appeared to have bled profusely, and the front of his garments were thick with blood, which was still wet and glistened in the glare of the lamps. The surface of the desk was strewn with bundles of papers, tied up with red tape. Lying amongst them was a large, brass-bound cash-box, its lid hanging open. Beyond the desk, two uniformed policemen were examining the floor by the fireplace.

  Stoddard consulted his note-book. ‘As you’re probably aware,’ he began, ‘King’s Bench Walk, where many of the barristers of the Inner Temple have their chambers, is just round the corner. This is the only set of chambers with its entrance on this side. Sir Gilbert Cheshire has been head of chambers for ten years, since the death of the previous head. He has two junior colleagues here and two clerks – I have already sent messages to them all. The other two barristers share the office directly across the corridor from this one, the clerks’ office is along the corridor to the rear. Upstairs, there are two rooms, Sir Gilbert’s private study and his bedroom, for these chambers were also his residence.

  ‘As far as I have been able to learn, the others all left for home at the usual time, after which Sir Gilbert was working here alone. He went over to the dining-hall as usual, at about ten to seven – dinner is at seven – but did not linger over his brandy and cigar, as was his habit, but excused himself on grounds of work as soon as the plates were cleared from the table and was back here by eight o’clock. At around quarter past eight, a barrister by the name of Philip Ormerod, who has chambers in King’s Bench Walk, was passing the end of the alley outside – the North Walk – on his way to Fleet Street, to get a cab home, when he saw the door standing open and light streaming out. Moments before that, he had heard the sound of running footsteps in the fog, somewhere ahead of him. Concerned that something might be amiss, he had a look in and saw it as you see it now. In a few moments, he had run to the Fleet Street gatehouse, which is only a short distance, and sent the gate-keeper round to Bridewell Place Police Station to get a constable. They communicated with Snow Hill Station, where I happened to be, and I was here within fifteen minutes.’

  ‘There is no sign of a forced entry at the front door,’ remarked Holmes.

  The policeman nodded. ‘It seems probable that the murderer rang at the bell and was admitted by Sir Gilbert himself. The chambers would, of course, have been locked up while he was away at the dining-hall. The only people with a front-door key, other than Sir Gilbert himself, are the two other barristers, the chief clerk and the gate-keeper, who is responsible for attending to the fires and the like. There is much of value here and, of course, many of these papers are of the most confidential nature.’

  ‘From your information it appears that Sir Gilbert was attacked very soon after his return from the dining-hall,’ remarked Holmes. ‘It is possible that someone was waiting for him outside these chambers and entered at the same time as he did. Was he quite dead when this man Ormerod found him?’

  Stoddard hesitated before replying. ‘May I enquire, Mr Holmes, if you recall the Hawkesworth case?’ he responded at length, an odd expression on his face.

  ‘Very clearly.’

  ‘Then you will understand,’ said Stoddard, ‘that Sir John Hawkesworth, who was Sir Gilbert Cheshire’s immediate predecessor as head of these chambers, was also murdered. He was bludgeoned to death on just such a night as this, exactly ten years ago. He was attacked as he stood on the front-door step of these very chambers. His assailant was never discovered. I was a young officer at the time and was not directly involved with the case, but of course I knew all about it, for it was the single topic of conversation for some considerable time. There was much talk then, in certain parts of the press, of an ancient curse which was said to lie upon this part of the Inner Temple and of how a man murdered many centuries ago returned from time to time to exact vengeance for his own death. Now, I’m not, as you know, much taken with such stories generally, but it is not the sort of thing you forget. I suppose I have not thought about it now for seven or eight years, but this business tonight has brought it afresh to my mind.’

  ‘I am aware of the story,’ said Holmes, a trace of impatience in his voice, ‘and was struck by the fact that little had been heard of it before Sir John Hawkesworth’s murder. I do not think we should permit our thoughts to become confused by ancient history, Stoddard.’

  ‘Of course not, Mr Holmes,’ the policeman returned, ‘but I thought I had best mention the matter to you. In most ways this appears a brutal but unremarkable crime and I should not have sent for you were it not that it has a couple of unusual features. The eminence of the victim, for one thing—’

  ‘The victim’s station in life is not in itself of any interest to me,’ interrupted Holmes. ‘What was the other unusual feature?’

  ‘When Mr Ormerod entered these chambers and discovered what had happened,’ Stoddard explained, ‘he thought at first that Sir Gilbert Cheshire was dead. But as he mastered his horror, he heard a slight murmur escape the poor man’s lips. He raised Sir Gilbert’s head a little and bent closer to listen. He says that Sir Gilbert coughed and spluttered a little, then murmured “It was he—” followed by more coughing and attempts to speak, then “—Sir John Hawkesworth.” A moment later, all life had passed from him.’

  Stoddard pursed his lips and regarded Holmes with a querying look, as if wondering what the other would make of this strange information.

  ‘What a very singular pronouncement!’ said Holmes at length. ‘Is Mr Ormerod absolutely certain on the point?’

  ‘He says he would take his oath on the matter.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘I sent him home in a cab. He was very badly shaken up, as you can imagine. I have his address – Montpelier Square, in Knightsbridge – if we need to speak to him again.’

  Holmes nodded. ‘You are not aware of any other Hawkesworth?’ he queried. ‘No brother or cousin of the late Sir John, who might bear the same name?’

  ‘None but the man murdered ten years ago. His nephew, oddly enough, is a member of these same chambers, but his name is not Hawkesworth, but Lewis. He is the son of Sir John Hawkesworth’s sister, who married Sir George Lewis, the well-known society solicitor. He is here now, in the other office.’

  Holmes’s features expressed surprise.

  ‘He must have answered your summons with great dispatch,’ he remarked.

  ‘I had no need to summon him, Mr Holmes. He was here before we were. Just after Sir Gilbert breathed his last, but before Ormerod had left the room to summon help, in walked Mr Lewis through the front door of the chambers.’

  ‘I understood that everyone had left some hours previously,’ said Holmes. ‘What is his explanation for his reappearance?’

  ‘He left just before six o’clock,’ said Stoddard, ‘had a bite to eat in a tavern in Fleet Street and set out on foot to pay a call on a friend of his who lives at Brixton. This friend turned out not to be at home, however, so Lewis walked all the way back to town again and was on his way back to his lodgings in Bedford Place, near Bloomsbury Square, when he passed this way and saw the door open.’

  ‘It is a dreary evening on which to undertake su
ch long walks,’ remarked Holmes. ‘He might have saved himself trouble by taking a train back from Brixton to, say, Ludgate Hill station, and arrived back in town somewhat earlier.’

  ‘He says he felt in need of physical exercise. Do you wish to speak to him now, Mr Holmes?’

  ‘His testimony will keep for a few moments,’ returned Holmes. ‘I should prefer to have a look round while evidence of the crime is still fresh.’

  He took off his overcoat, laid it carefully over the back of a chair and began a methodical examination of the fatal chamber. For some time, he examined closely the dead man, the desk and the chairs, then squatted down to examine the carpet. After a few minutes, he rose to his feet and stood a moment, his chin in his hand.

  ‘The artery has been severed,’ he remarked at length. ‘There are two chairs behind the desk, the second of which was moved to its present position beside that of the dead man from its usual place at the far side of the room. There is one clear impression of a footprint and traces of several others, not so complete. As they all appear to have been made after a copious amount of blood had flowed, they were probably made by Mr Ormerod. As he has now gone home, however, and taken his shoes with him, we are unable to confirm the matter.’

  Stoddard conceded the point in an apologetic tone. ‘I had thought we had learnt all we could from Mr Ormerod,’ he said. ‘It is fairly certain they are his prints, though,’ he added. ‘As I see it, the assailant was probably on the far side of the desk from Sir Gilbert and leaned across it to stab him. From the position of the wound, it is clear he is right-handed.’