‘I am sure we should have no objection to that proposal, if you do not,’ said Holmes.
‘Very well, then,’ said Stoddard. ‘I have already cautioned the prisoner that anything which he chooses to say in his statement may be given against him in court.’
The prisoner was brought in then, his wrists manacled together, and, standing before us, made the following voluntary statement. In the interests of clarity, I have made one or two very slight alterations, but otherwise the statement is exactly as Thomas Mason made it to us that night:
‘Yes, I killed Sir Gilbert Cheshire. I see there is no point in denying it now, and I’m not proud of it. But you ought to know that whatever they say about him in the newspapers, and whatever people might think, he weren’t so marvellous, neither.
‘I first met him when I was accused of murdering my wife and he was assigned to defend me. I was in Newgate when he came to see me. “Don’t worry,” says he; “I’ll get you off.” He knew I’d done it, although he never asked me outright. Things was looking black against me and I’d given up thinking about ever getting out; but somehow, in the court, it all came out different. One or two of the witnesses seemed to change their minds about what they were going to say, and Sir Gilbert spoke for such a long time and in such a confusing way, that in the end the jury decided I hadn’t done it after all and I could go free.
‘I was grateful to Sir Gilbert. I didn’t know how he’d done it, but I knew it was him I had to thank for the fact that I wasn’t swinging on the end of a rope. But things wasn’t so rosy with me even if I was free. I was a slater by trade, but now I couldn’t find any work nowhere. The trouble was, a lot of people – all the wife’s relations and half the district – knew that I had done it, really, and they wasn’t likely to employ me, and I couldn’t blame ’em for that. I tried all sorts of different lines, went halfway round the world in a clipper one year, but was still no better off when, about four year on from my trial, I was coming along Carey Street one afternoon, when who should step out of a bookshop in front of me but Sir Gilbert Cheshire.
‘“Hallo, Thomas,” says he, cool as you like. “How are you keeping yourself?”
‘“Not so well as I’d like, sir,” said I. “I haven’t had more than a tanner in my pocket any time in the past four years.”
‘“I’m sorry to hear that, Thomas,” says he, in a thoughtful voice. “You are still grateful for the little favour I did you the other year?” When I said course I was, he says “Then I have a little favour to ask of you in return, Thomas. Be under the Holborn Viaduct at seven o’clock this evening,” says he, “and I’ll tell you what I’d like you to do.” He slipped two bob into my hand then and walked off.
‘When I saw him later, he told me what was in his mind. It seems there was someone standing in his way, professionally speaking, and preventing the light shining on him as he’d like. “If he could be put out of the way for a time,” says Sir Gilbert in that slow cunning way of his, “I might find it convenient. And you might find, Thomas, that there was something in it for you, too.”
‘To make the matter brief: the party’s name was Hawkesworth, Sir Gilbert told me exactly what to do and I done it. He’d given me some money beforehand and told me to lie low for a while afterwards, then come back after a year or so and he’d find me a job. Which I did.
‘That was all ten year ago. Things have been all right since, but I’ve never had much money, and when I asked him, the other week, if he could let me have a bit more, he says I couldn’t have none. Well, I said this and he said that, and it got so we was almost at each other’s throats; and then I said I could stir up plenty of trouble for him if he didn’t do right by me. “Oh? How’s that?” said he in a cool voice; so I told him: I’d saved a note he’d sent to me in connection with the Hawkesworth job, which he’d told me to burn. I’ve always found that when someone tells you to burn something, it generally pays to hang on to it.
‘“That note won’t prove anything,” says he; “I didn’t commit myself in it.”
‘“Perhaps not,” says I, “but it’ll certainly start some rumours off.”
‘“You’ll condemn yourself if you produce that,” says he.
‘“Oh no I won’t, see, ’cause it’s not got my name on it and I’ll send it anonymously to his Honour, the Head of the Bench.”
‘I could see that this had worried him. He bit his lip and thought for a while.
‘“When I saved you from the gallows,” says he in a quiet voice, “some evidence came my way which ended up locked in my private cupboard. If you threaten me, Mason, that evidence will come back out of my cupboard again and you’ll swing for it.”
‘“I know the law,” says I. “I’ve been tried once and found not guilty. I can’t be tried again, whatever you come up with.”
‘At this he laughed. “Dear me!” says he, cackling like a hen. “Dear me, Thomas! You know the law, do you? Well, let me tell you, my man, that I’m the expert, and I tell you that with the evidence I’ve got hidden away, you could be re-charged, with slightly different words on the indictment, and you’d hang as sure as you’re standing here now! If you give me any more trouble, that evidence comes out of my cupboard!” ’
‘That was a lie,’ Brown interrupted. ‘You could not be charged again with the same crime.’
‘Mebbe it was, but it put the wind up me, anyhow. I didn’t say nothing then, but I made my mind up to break into his blessed cupboard one night when he wasn’t there and see if I couldn’t find his precious evidence. I’ve had a bit of a wait for the right time, ’cause the gentlemen have all been working late recently, but tonight looked a fair chance, so in I went. I thought I’d have plenty of time, but – curse my luck – he came back early from his supper and heard me moving about, so I had to go down and face him out. He got a surprise when I walked into his office.
‘“What the devil are you doing here, Mason!” he cried in a loud, unpleasant tone. “I thought I’d seen the last of you for today!”
‘“I have returned,” I shouted back at him, “to find that evidence you’ve got against me.”
‘“What!” says he in an angry voice. “You’ve been in my private rooms? This is the last straw, Mason! It’s time for you and me to part company altogether.”
‘“Give me some money and I’ll go as fast as you like,” says I, as hot as he was.
‘“Very well.” says he; “and then I never want to see you again as long as I live.”
‘He fetched the big cash-box and opened it up with the key on his watch-chain, but there was little enough in it.
‘“I thought there’d be more than this,” says he.
‘“Oh, did you?” says I, thinking he was trying to play a game, with me as the fool. I had my knife out and at his throat before he could move. “You find some more,” says I, “or you won’t leave this room alive.”
‘“You can’t threaten me,” says he, and made a grab at the knife. But quick as he moved, so did I and the knife went straight into his throat. I didn’t mean to do it, but he brought it on himself, and that’s the Gospel truth, if I have to swing for it.’
We all sat in silence as this remarkable and terrible tale ended with these words, and remained in silence after Stoddard had taken his prisoner away. Then Sherlock Holmes stood up, took his hat and coat, and we prepared to leave.
‘Can all this be true?’ said Brown, in a tone of stupefaction.
‘I rather fancy it is,’ said Holmes, ‘and that Sir Gilbert Cheshire learnt too late that he who conceals a serpent within his bosom will at last feel the serpent’s bite himself.’
_______
The following morning’s newspapers had been printed too early to include news of Mason’s arrest, and it was left to the evening papers to apprise their readers of the latest developments. But by then this remarkable case had produced a further surprise, and I remember vividly the shock with which I read the heading in the St James’s Gazette: ‘TEMPLE MURDER: ESCAPE OF
CHIEF SUSPECT’. It appeared from the account given beneath this heading that very soon after he had left us the night before, Mason had suddenly broken from the grasp of the policemen who held him, dashed away, and vanished into the dense, swirling fog.
For twenty-four hours he was sought in vain. But late the following night, a police-constable saw a man crossing London Bridge whom he recognised from the description as Mason and gave chase across the bridge. Summoned by the first man’s whistle, a second officer made his way on to the bridge from the Southwark side and Mason, seeing that there was no chance of escape in either direction, threw himself from the parapet of the bridge into the blackness of the river below. The River Police were at once notified and an organised search made, but no trace of the fugitive was discovered.
Three days later, Sherlock Holmes received a letter by the last post which he read and passed to me without comment. It ran as follows:
MY DEAR MR HOLMES,
This is to inform you that a body was washed up by Wapping Old Stairs early this morning, which has now been identified as that of Thomas Mason. The doctor says that his skull is fractured, which was the cause of death, and it is thought likely that he struck his head on one of the stone piers of the bridge when he jumped. I have now made a full report to my superiors of all the facts of which I am aware, and both the Cheshire case and the Hawkesworth case are now officially closed. Thanking you for your great help in the matter, I remain – Yours very sincerely,
DAVID STODDARD
The Secret of Shoreswood Hall
I: The Strange Story of Amelia Davenoke
Of all the many curious cases to which the singular skills of Mr Sherlock Holmes were applied during the time we shared chambers together, there is none I can recall in which the circumstances were of a more dramatic or surprising character than that which concerned the well-known Suffolk family of Davenoke. The sombre and striking events which followed on so rapidly from the marriage of the Davenoke heir and the death of his father were accorded considerable publicity at the time, so that there will be few among my readers who are entirely ignorant of the matter; but the contemporary accounts all suffered from a want of accuracy, and all too often it was sought to remedy a deficiency of fact with a surfeit of imagination, with the result that a cheap and sensational gloss was put on an affair whose macabre details stood in no need of such adornment. It is with the intention, then, of supplying the first full and accurate account of the matter, and of correcting certain prevalent misapprehensions, that the following narrative is set down.
In the latter part of August, 1887, the bright if uncertain glories of an English summer were succeeded by a period of heavy and stifling weather. With each day that passed the air seemed yet more still and close, until I longed for a fresh breeze to blow away the overpowering heat and stickiness. Throughout the day our windows were thrown open to their widest extent, but it did little to relieve the oppressive airlessness of our rooms.
I had descended to breakfast that morning to find Sherlock Holmes in a morose humour. Without comment, he passed across the table a letter he had received by the first post. It was addressed from Phillimore Gardens, Kensington, and dated the previous evening.
‘Shall call upon you at ten o’clock, tomorrow morning,’ I read. ‘The matter is most urgent and important, and will require your undivided attention.’ No details were given as to the nature of the problem, but the word ‘important’ had been underscored three times, the last one ripping the paper clean through. At the foot of the sheet was the signature ‘Amelia Davenoke’. I looked up to find Holmes’s expressionless grey eyes upon me.
‘The lady is perhaps a trifle imperious in her tone,’ he remarked, ‘but she may be permitted our indulgence, for she is evidently in some distress. The violent underlining has clearly not been done for the reader’s benefit, for her pen has run out of ink halfway through it and she has not troubled to re-ink it. We may take it, then, to be more an expression of her own anguish.’
‘I seem to remember reading that Sir John Davenoke died not long ago,’ I remarked. ‘Your correspondent is probably his widow.’
Holmes shook his head. ‘He himself had been a widower for some time,’ he replied. He took a heavy red-bound volume from his long shelf of reference-books and turned the pages over for a few moments. ‘Here we are,’ said he, seating himself upon an arm of the fireside chair: ‘“John Arthur Cavendish Davenoke: Sixth baronet; Member of Parliament for Shoreswood and Soham, ’84 to ’86. The family has held the manor of Shoreswood in East Suffolk for over five hundred years and was closely allied in the fifteenth century with the Pole family, former Dukes of Suffolk, prior to the downfall of the latter.” – a somewhat ancient claim upon our interest, I am afraid – “Arms: argent, gouttée de sang, a lion vorant sable in a bordure of the same.”’ Holmes shut the book with a bang. ‘There is one son who succeeds him, Edward Hurst Geoffrey. Amelia Davenoke is presumably his wife.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘If her punctuality matches the urgency of her letter, she will be here in ten minutes, Watson, so if you could ring for the maid to clear the breakfast things, I should be most obliged.’
I was seated by the window, reading The Times, when our visitor arrived. She was a slight, pretty, almost elfin young woman, with very thick hair of a reddish, copper colour, and seemed as she entered our little room, looking hesitantly this way and that, like an angel from a Renaissance painting. Her appearance would have been striking upon any occasion, but was the more remarkable now for the deadly pallor of her face and the dark, almost black shadows which surrounded her restless, haunted eyes, all of which bespoke some grave anxiety. Beneath the light grey cloak which she handed me, she wore a simple dress of plain moss-green, relieved only by a touch of butter-coloured lace about the neck and wrists. She took the chair which my friend offered her and sat a few moments in silence, her fingers nervously twining and untwining.
‘Well, well, Lady Davenoke,’ said Holmes at length; ‘I understand from your note that you wish to consult me upon a matter of some urgency.’
‘That is true,’ returned our visitor quickly, raising her watery green eyes to meet my friend’s steady gaze. I was surprised to hear that her accent was of the very richest North American. ‘Your name was mentioned to me last night by Lady Congrave,’ she continued, ‘who said she could not speak too highly of you. I gathered that you performed some service for her.’
‘A trifling affair, as I recall it, involving a little missing jewellery.’
‘I fancy that Lady Congrave herself would not dismiss the matter so lightly,’ Lady Davenoke replied with some emphasis. ‘I have come to you because I, too, have lost something.’
‘Jewellery?’
‘My husband.’
Holmes’s eyebrows went up in surprise. ‘Perhaps you could enlarge upon the matter,’ said he.
‘Do not misunderstand me, Mr Holmes, if I say that I have come to you as a last resort. My meaning is simply this: that if you fail, then all further hope is useless, for I fear that no one else can help me. Alone I can do nothing. My husband has vanished and left me in dread, surrounded by mysterious forces against which I am powerless to defend myself.’
‘My dear madam,’ interjected my friend in his most soothing tones; ‘it is plain to see that you have been under some great strain lately; but whatever can have occurred to cause you to speak in this fashion?’
She did not reply at once, but passed her hand across her face, as if in an effort to clear her troubled brow. ‘Mr Holmes,’ said she at length, her voice low and tremulous, ‘I have entered the realm of fear and horror, and it seems I may never return. I have, all unwitting, become party to some dark and hidden transaction, some hideous and nameless menace, which surrounds me even now as I speak to you.’ She put her hand abruptly to her throat and her eyes darted nervously round the room.
‘Lady Davenoke,’ began Holmes in a tone of mild reproof. But even as he spoke, her eyes rolled up to the ceiling, a faint gasp
escaped her lips and she pitched forward upon the hearth-rug in a dead faint.
We bore her swiftly to the sofa, where I placed a pillow beneath her head. Her pulse was faint, her brow horribly cold and clammy, and for a moment I feared that she would require greater medical attention than could be provided in our small sitting-room. An application of brandy to the lips brought some colour to her cheek, however, and her eyelids flickered and indicated returning consciousness. Then, suddenly, with a startling abruptness, her eyes opened wide and she cried out in a terrible wailing voice.
‘The window!’ she cried. ‘There is something there, outside! Oh, close the window, for the love of God!’ Her cries ended in a dreadful, piteous sob and she sank back into unconsciousness.
‘Her eyes were not seeing us,’ remarked Holmes softly.
I nodded. ‘She was undergoing some strange delusion, but it appears to have passed now; her face is relaxed once more.’
We covered her with a blanket and rang for some hot tea. Our landlady was most concerned at the state of the poor young woman, for she had heard her terrible cries and she insisted upon sitting with her until she was fully recovered. Her pulse was steady now and her breathing smooth and regular, and after a short while she opened her eyes again and gazed weakly at us, a look of incomprehension upon her face.
‘You’ve had a faint, my dear,’ said Mrs Hudson in a kindly voice, taking the other’s hand in hers; ‘but you will be all right in a moment, when you’ve got some hot tea inside you.’
‘You are among friends, Lady Davenoke,’ said Holmes. ‘You have nothing to fear.’
‘Oh, if only that were true, Mr Holmes; if only that were true!’
The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes Page 36